Maybe it is an inherent feature of a season’s end, but it seems no one has much to celebrate today. Liverpool’s disappointment may be the most acute, yet there is plenty to go around; Chelsea, Arsenal, and Everton all had much higher aspirations. With the exception of Vincent Kompany, City’s squad didn’t even appear enthused to lift the trophy. We were promised more.
Then, of course, Spurs. It is difficult to imagine how this season will be remembered—most likely Tottenham supporters will refer back to the managerial shift, while other parties will necessarily remember a raft of four, five, and six goal thrashings. We sold Elvis, and bought the Beatles. We axed the sophist, and signed up the gym teacher. Indeed the sale of Gareth Bale, like the exile of Coriolanus, may have begun our dissent, but the lack of certainty at the helm has steered the club further off course.
Today, while Villas Boas was breaking up fistfights in Saint Petersburg, Sherwood was summoning fans into the dugout. Sherwood’s antics, meant to invert the heckler, heckled configuration, bore some unintended symbolic weight. The display was a pantomime of Sherwood five months ago; the gileted fanboy thrust into a role for which he lacked qualification. If Sherwood’s reign (and short may it last) accomplishes anything, it may be the complete death of the armchair manager. To be fair, Sherwood has provided some quality wins, and higher quality banter, but he’ll leave behind a team confused. The squad is split between the youngsters who have found success in the exposure provided by Sherwood, and the high price imports who find themselves in the cold. Now, as they go their separate ways to Brazil, it’s hard to say what the Tottenham team sheet will look like next season.
Lloris, Paulhino, and Verthongen have all been linked with moves to Champions League clubs; these would be grave losses. Obviously, the World Cup complicates these moves, but it is in the club’s best interest to solidify the managerial post sooner rather than later.