Oh Michael, what have you done? Glenn Hoddle, Ossie Ardiles, Jurgen Klinsmann, David Ginola, in fact just about every former Spurs grandee other than Tim Sherwood, will be on high alert for a call from HQ, ready to do a Carrick at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.
In fact, send for the lot. In the hearts and minds of long-suffering Spurs fans any one of them is a better option than the endlessly dull Thomas Frank. The Carrick resurrection at Manchester United is the kind of topical arrow that can pierce armour, making it even harder for Frank to defy gravity now.
A sixth home defeat of the season to West Ham, incredibly a club in deeper turmoil than his own, was bad enough. That it coincided with the red rising at Old Trafford, where by some act of alchemy United pummelled Manchester City with historic commitment and flair, will have left an already twitchy Tottenham hierarchy believing something similar might be possible in N17.
Like Ruben Amorim’s record at United, Frank’s numbers are unsustainable. The premise when he was plucked from Brentford in the summer was to bring light and excitement to the spectacle, to make matchday fun again after the dispiriting truculence of Ange Postecoglou.
Spurs are out of both domestic cups and on Saturday notched their ninth Premier League defeat of the season. In January. Should they continue with Frank, Big Ange’s 22 losses in a season may not be out of reach. An apocalyptic dread fuelled the howls of protest as West Ham bundled the winner over the line in added time. It’s always added time. Spurs couldn’t even hang on for the draw.
Eleven weeks have elapsed since that mutinous moment when Djed Spence and Micky van de Ven flat out snubbed the appeals of Frank after the home defeat to Chelsea. Not unreasonably, neither felt it appropriate to make faux gestures of gratitude to supporters after rolling over without a fight in 90 minutes against a bitter rival.
Frank’s brand of Scandinavian minimalism that worked so well at Brentford has proven a disaster at a club founded on more expansive ideals. Arthur Rowe’s push-and-run innovations of the 50s, that provided the template for England’s maiden domestic double in 1961 and a first European trophy for an English club two years later, set in train a tradition that endures today, at least in the imagination.
This is not to froth with bogus claims about DNA but to cling to a vision that aspires to expansive, attractive, and – above all – watchable football. There is a place for Frank’s utility and organisation but not at the expense of enjoyment and fulfilment.
The environment at Brentford was far easier to control. In scale and ambition it is a different universe to Tottenham, where mid-table consolidation represents failure not success. Frank is an excellent technician but has found N17 wholly inhospitable, the elite hair of a 19th century London dandy unable to camouflage his Danish nuts and bolts.
The example at United shows that doubling down does not make a failing coach any less of a failing coach. United sacrificed another season on the altar of Amorim when the evidence for termination was written in the final league table of last term.
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Carrick did not have to do too much to enter fable, other than select players in familiar positions and add defensive rigour. Arguably his most significant contribution has been to give the players a sense of time and place, to return them to themselves by reminding the group of the privilege and responsibility of playing for one of the world’s great clubs.
It was this injection of self-esteem and unity that emboldened them in the Manchester derby, a feeling that they were every bit as worthy of the setting as City. There is no sense of belonging and mission developing at Spurs. Frank is nowhere near understanding the requirement. He never generated any real momentum and has lost what goodwill he had.
The fans have turned against him. The players are clearly powerless to stop the bleeding, leaving the owners with a straightforward decision to make.
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