Well, it only took _just under two decades_, but Tottenham Hotspur have finally lifted a trophy again, and not just any old bit of tin—we’ve gone and won the Europa League. Yes, it was Brennan Johnson of all people who bundled home the only goal of the game in Bilbao to see us past Manchester United. Scruffy, awkward, probably off three shins and a knee, but we are absolutely not complaining.
For Ange Postecoglou, who’s been weathering more storms than a Thames barge recently, it was vindication. The Aussie, ever the straight talker, promised silverware in his second season, and now he’s delivered, joining the rather exclusive club of Spurs bosses who’ve brought home European honours—alongside proper legends like Bill Nicholson and Keith Burkinshaw. Not bad company, that.
In a stadium packed with 15,000 official and possibly another 15,000 “creative” ticket holders in Spurs shirts, the mood was euphoric. Somewhere between disbelief and uncontainable joy, we remembered what it’s like to feel proud without caveats.
Whether this keeps Ange in the job beyond the summer is another matter entirely—Spurs doing something sensible with their managerial future would be an even bigger fairytale—but if he does go, he’ll leave as a hero, not a meme. And, to sweeten the deal, there’s a cool £100m coming our way with a return to the Champions League next season. It’s enough to make you believe Daniel Levy might even smile. Maybe.
This was, let’s not forget, a final between two clubs having less-than-vintage seasons. A bit like a heavyweight bout between two lads who’d clearly been at the pub all day. But while United dithered and made peculiar decisions—like benching Garnacho for Mount—we clung on with that uniquely Spursy blend of panic and poise.
United did have their chances. Guglielmo Vicario nearly handed them one with a spill, only for Micky van de Ven to perform a goal-line clearance that might as well be bronzed and displayed next to our long-lost 2008 League Cup. Vicario made amends with a fine save from Luke Shaw late on, reminding us that even our more chaotic moments can be salvaged.
But the goal—ah yes, the goal. Pape Matar Sarr sent in a hopeful cross that Brennan Johnson got a toe to. It looked like a passback until it ricocheted off Shaw and then Johnson might’ve touched it again—who really knows. What mattered was the net bulged and the Spurs end exploded. Our first shot on target. Our last shot on target. Our name on the trophy. No notes.
In his 100th game in charge, Postecoglou has added Spurs to his list of clubs with whom he’s won trophies in his second season. From South Melbourne to North London—it’s quite the journey. And poetic, too, that Spurs, the first English club to win a European trophy back in 1963, are once again continental kings. Second English side we’ve beaten in a European final too, after that little dust-up with Wolves in ‘72.
Meanwhile, United looked every inch the club in crisis. Their fans might have clung to dreams of another stoppage-time miracle, à la ‘99, but that lot couldn’t summon a dramatic equaliser if their lives depended on it. Yoro took it upon himself to launch one from 25 yards instead of feeding Fernandes or Amad. Spoiler: it wasn’t great.
As the minutes ticked away, you sensed even the United faithful weren’t buying it anymore. Garnacho’s side-netter at the death summed it all up—plenty of motion, precious little meaning.
And now, while we look ahead to the Champions League, United are heading for a season without European football for only the second time since 1990. There’s always the Carabao Cup, lads.
So there it is. We’ve finally done it. Not in the swashbuckling, Angeball way many of us had envisioned—but in the end, the manner doesn’t matter. We’ve got the medal. We’ve got the memories. And we’ve got the hope (oh no, not that again).
Now, about that open-top bus parade down Tottenham High Road…