For Ange Postecoglou and Tottenham Hotspur, this was never just a football match—it was an exorcism. A reckoning. A night when a club that has become synonymous with near-misses and gallows humour finally shrugged off its past and, for the first time in 17 years, grasped silverware.
The UEFA Europa League final in Bilbao may not have been a
classic in footballing terms, but try telling that to the thousands clad in
white, weeping and roaring in equal measure as the final whistle pierced the
Spanish night. For them, it wasn’t about style. It was about winning—at last.
The Moment: Brennan
Johnson, Fate, and a Scrappy Redemption
As the clock ticked toward halftime, the match had been a
tense, error-strewn affair—two teams ranked 16th and 17th in the Premier League
playing like they knew it. Then came a chaotic flash of fortune and instinct.
Pape Sarr’s whipped inswinging cross from the left wreaked havoc, Brennan
Johnson ghosted in, barely made contact, and Luke Shaw, caught in the wrong
place at the wrong time, unwittingly helped the ball spin across the line.
It was Johnson’s 18th goal of the season, his fifth in the
Europa League—making him the most prolific Welshman in the competition since
Craig Bellamy in 2003–04. A fitting touch of history for a night steeped in it.
A Match Won with the
Sword of Defence
Postecoglou’s men would not register another shot on target.
In the second half, their expected goals? 0.00. No matter. Spurs didn’t need to
attack—they simply needed to endure.
Cristian Romero, wearing the captain’s armband with Son
Heung-min benched, was a wall of Argentine granite. Micky van de Ven, whose
desperate acrobatic clearance of a Rasmus Højlund header on the goal line will
live long in the annals of Spurs’ folklore, epitomized sacrifice. Every block,
every clearance, every inch clawed back in defence was a declaration: this
would not be another Tottenham collapse.
Sarr, operating in an unfamiliar No. 10 role, was
relentless. Yves Bissouma snapped at heels. Destiny Udogie took risks, drove
forward, and still found the legs to track back. It was not beautiful—but it
was brave.
United’s Familiar
Failings
For Manchester United, this was a grimly familiar script.
This was the fourth defeat to Spurs in as many meetings this season. Again,
they conceded first. Again, they could not respond.
Alejandro Garnacho and Bruno Fernandes added spark in the
dying embers, but it was too little. Too late. Højlund’s effort cleared off the
line. Fernandes headed wide. Shaw forced a late save from Guglielmo Vicario.
The goalkeeper had earlier nearly gifted United a goal with a fumble, but Spurs
survived. The gaps that have gaped open all season in this United team yawned
wider than ever on the European stage.
Ange the Alchemist:
Delivering in the Second Season, Again
If this final represented a fork in the road for Spurs—a
shot at salvaging pride from the wreckage of a dismal league season—it also
cemented a truth about Postecoglou: he wins in year two.
He did it with South Melbourne. Then Brisbane Roar. Then
Yokohama F. Marinos. Then Celtic. Now Tottenham.
This was not the cavalier, possession-obsessed football he
had promised when he arrived in North London. This was not “Angeball.” But it
was adaptive, pragmatic, and effective. And it brought a trophy—something
Pochettino, Mourinho, Conte, and a carousel of others could not deliver.
Even in the press conference build-up, when a journalist
warned he’d look a clown if Spurs failed, Postecoglou didn’t flinch. “I’m no
clown,” he retorted. “And I never will be, mate.” He wasn’t. But as full-time
arrived, the man from Melbourne had the last laugh.
History Written in
White
The statistics are staggering. This was Tottenham’s first
major trophy since the League Cup in 2008. Their only shot on target won the
match. They completed just 100 passes in 70 minutes. And yet, they became the
lowest-placed team in English top-flight history to win a major European title.
And with it comes Champions League football. On the back of
perhaps the club’s worst domestic league campaign in over a century, they have
secured a place at Europe’s top table.
The Parade, the
Tears, the Turning Point?
Son cried. The fans danced. The open-top bus parade is
planned. Spurs fans will now gleefully argue they’ve lifted more European
silverware in the last five years than Arsenal.
But beyond bragging rights lies something deeper. This felt
like more than a win. It felt like a pivot point. A symbolic severing from the
decades-long label of “nearly men.”
Postecoglou did not just change the narrative—he rewrote it.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
