No centre-forward = no goals

"You do not take a man who for years has been hobbled by chains, liberate him, bring him to the starting line of a race, saying, 'You are free to compete with all the others'." Lyndon B Johnson,1965

From 1996 to 2009, Arsene Wenger played four-four-two, with two strikers. This season, he’s played four-five-one, with one striker. Today, he played four-five-none. Arsenal had no striker.

Eduardo was lost, like a student who’d turned up in the wrong class. After five minutes, he didn’t want to play. He wanted to make his excuses, put his books in his bag, and leave. He knew he wasn’t ready.

Before his leg was snapped, Eduardo was sharp. He wasn’t quick over 100 yards, but his feet, and brain, worked quickly. Like the best strikers, he saw five seconds into the future, and cashed in his own prophecies.

Today, he played in the semi-conscious, fuzzy-eyed state of a man waking from a long, deep sleep. His touch was poor. His speed - of feet and brain - was non-existent.

After 56 minutes, before he was subbed, Eduardo had the ball 18 yards from goal. John Terry, chasing back, slid in and took the ball.

Had that been Robin van Persie with the ball, or Eduardo in 2007, Terry wouldn’t have slid. He wouldn’t have risked it. One touch from the striker, and Terry would have missed the ball, and taken the man.

But Terry had seen Eduardo limp, like a lost lamb, for 56 minutes. He knew he’d get the ball. He knew that touch wasn’t coming, and Eduardo did too.

The headlines will say it was men against boys; millionaires v paupers; six-footers v five-footers. All that, of course, is true.

But tight football matches, between two good teams, are decided in moments. When Arsenal’s moments came, their centre-forward froze, and the moment passed. It’s hard to be incisive when your cutting edge was blunted, two years ago, in Birmingham.

Chelsea will finish above Arsenal because, in any argument, their goalkeeper is better, their defence more organised, and their attack more ruthless. But they could have lost to Arsenal.

They didn’t, because Arsenal couldn’t turn possession - and possibility - into reality. If van Persie had played, they might - just might - have done so.

Of course, even if Arsenal scored one, or two, Chelsea may still have scored three. Manuel Almunia, after all, would still have been in goal.

But, by playing without a centre-forward, Arsenal had no chance. A team that relies on five-pass moves needs someone to finish them.

Now, Eduardo needs games. He needs to re-discover his speed, touch, and perception. But Arsenal need a centre-forward. Carlos Vela must start against Stoke, on Saturday.

Fabregas must seek the ball less, not more

One day, in the next three seasons, Arsenal will put four past Chelsea. The five-foot European orchestra, conducted by Cesc Fagregas, will play the perfect symphony.

John Terry will look old, and Frank Lampard will think Serie A’s not so bad, after all. Arsene Wenger’s great vision - for 90 minutes at least - will come into gleaming, gold-framed focus.

That day might be Sunday. Wenger believes it, and, in his dreamy moments, pictures the headlines. They might – might – arrive on Monday. But, to have any chance, the captain must perform.

Fabregas, who can find a square mile of space in a square metre, must remember what he told Arsenal.com in October. While talking about his new position, he said: “I don't touch the ball as often as I used to. I have to be patient.”

And if he doesn’t touch the ball often against Wolves, or Wigan, he certainly won’t against Chelsea. If, in desperation, he drops deep to find it, Arsenal won’t win.

Firstly, he’ll get suck in Michael Essien’s non-stop, solid-oak shadow. Secondly, if Fabregas does search for the ball, he’ll be eighty yards from goal when he finds it.

The reason Arsenal have scored 36 goals this season is that Fabregas, in his new position, has played eight-yard passes, rather than eighty-yeard passes. They slide, rather than soar. He has ten assists.

When he hits long balls, there’s a huge margin for error: their centre-half might read it; his centre-forward might not. Too much can go wrong.

When Fabregas is near goal, the variables, like in a science experiment, are removed. There’s less chance of the centre-half nicking it; less chance that the centre-forward’s dozing.

Near goal, he’s teeing off on par-threes. In the centre-circle, he’s driving on gusty, gaping par-fives.

On Sunday, Fabregas can create five chances with five ten-yard passes. He can give Arshavin and Samir Nasri melt-in-the mouth, too-good-to-miss chances. But only if he’s prepared to touch the ball 15 times, or less, all game. The ball must find him, not vice-versa.

John Terry - like Nemanja Vidic, and Tony Adams, and every other six-foot-two centre-half - worries about little ‘uns buzzing round his ankles. He worries about Arsenal, in his half, playing four passes in four seconds; he worries about red shirts criss-crossing behind him.

He doesn’t worry about long balls. Those passes give him a day off; an afternoon to head the ball, and look tough, and stay clean.

Whatever happens, Sunday’s game will define Arsenal’s season. Lose, and they’ll lose another four this season. Win, and they’ll lose another two. And that, in this year’s Premier League, might be enough.

Will the Emirates hear the perfect symphony? Doubtful. Chelsea will start sliding soon, but not yet.

But, if Fabregas concentrates on his job – and not Denilson’s, or Abou Diaby’s – Arsenal can win by one goal. Less than 48 hours to go.

Gibbs will return. Clichy will be sold

Gael Clichy: you owe Eliaqium Mangala a thank-you. Last night, his stretched, spiteful right foot saved your first-team spot.

In the 93rd minute of last night’s game, Mangala sprinted towards Kieran Gibbs, and lunged. There was, of course, nothing to achieve: seconds remained, and Standard Liege had lost. There was even less to achieve once Gibbs, aware of the danger, kicked the ball clear.

But Mangala, an 18-year-old from Paris, kept going, spurred on by immature spite. His right boot arrowed into Gibbs’ left toe, and snapped the metatarsal.

Gibbs will be injured for three months. He’ll arrive back in Arsenal’s squad at the same time as Clichy, who’s also injured. Arsene Wenger, who demands - and therefore provides - loyalty, will keep Clichy as first choice left-back.

But if Gibbs had played until February, he’d be first choice. Why? Because, since the start of last season, he’s the most improved full-back in England. And Clichy has got worse, worse, and worse.

Gibbs used to be a left-winger, and not a very good one. He didn’t threaten Arsenal’s first team the way, say, Jack Wilshere does, or even David Bentley did. In the second half of 2007 / 2008, Gibbs went to Norwich on loan, and started six games in three months, without scoring.

But the experience wasn’t wasted. As Barack Obama’s community work in Illinois informs his character, and presidency, Gibbs’ days on the left-wing are evident when he plays left-back.

His defending, helped by ten engines’ worth of pace, is sound. Unlike some left-backs - Stuart Pearce, for example, or Paolo Maldini - Gibbs hasn’t the nous, or build, to play centre-back. But he’s no worse than a 20-year-old Ashley Cole.

Going forward, though, is Gibbs' strength. In the opposition half, he plays like a left-winger. He wants to hit the byline and pull balls back; he wants to play one-twos; he wants to dart into the box.

Clichy, on the other hand, is happy to stay 30 or 40 yards from goal; a left-back in strange territory. He’s happy to be an auxiliary body, rather than an attacker. He doesn’t enter the box and, therefore, has scored one goal in almost 200 games: a deflected shot against Stoke.

Clichy’s crossing, like Theo Walcott’s, has the slap-dash nature of homework finished on the school bus. It’s half-hearted, hit and hope. There are, honestly, left-backs with better crossing in non-league football.

Clichy’s lazy side-footers wouldn’t work with Les Ferdinand and Alan Shearer up front. They certainly won’t with Robin van Persie.

If Real Madrid offer 20 million Euros for Clichy this summer, Wenger will accept, and feign their-chequebook’s-bigger-than-ours acceptance. But, as when Emmanuel Adebayor and Kolo Toure left, he’ll be delighted.

Nine years after Arsenal produced one English left-back, whose career was rescued after a spell in the league below, they’ve done it again. And the new model’s an improvement on the last.

Mangala has delayed Gibbs’ first-team place, not cancelled it. Clichy’s future is elsewhere.

Walcott can't cross. But he should play

Sixteen years ago, Ryan Giggs was a speedy, blurred-frame winger. He took on full-backs like an Intercity 225 passing the slow train to Sale. Now, with loud knees and hard-worn hamstrings, he is that slow train to Sale. His pace has gone. Any full-back - or cameraman - could catch him.

But Giggs, now 36 - 36! - doesn’t need speed. Gone are the foot-races; gone are the cul-de-sacs between full-back and advertising board. Instead, he plays in midfield, where the pitch is biggest. He can, for the first time in his career, pass the ball left, right, or forward. And he does. He finds angles from straight-lines. He's intelligent.

Theo Walcott is 16 years younger than Giggs. But, even in 2025, could Walcott convert to midfield? With his touch? Giving him multiple choice - left, right, or forward - would baffle him. Walcott needs one box to tick, marked - clearly - kick-it-and-run.

Nine years ago, England’s right winger thought football was boring. This quotation is from an interview in The Observer: “I wasn't even interested in football. The first time I played I was nine. I volunteered to go in goal, thinking it would be exciting to save penalties.”

So Walcott didn’t play football until he was nine. It shows. His crosses, four times out of five, are woeful. One effort, against Sunderland, was a prime example of what’s known as the Arsenal Cross (other exponents: Clichy, G; Eboue, E).

There’d been six passes, maybe seven, each slower than the last. The opposition had ten players in position, behind the ball. The game was paused. No-one moved, but instead watched Walcott, out wide, with the ball. Did he go forward? Did he go back? Did he pass, then dart forward for the return?

No. He looked up, lazily, and took the easy option: a slow, side-foot cross, with the precision of a tee-shot into the ocean.

Arsenal haven’t had a centre-forward who made those crosses look good since Alan Smith. You know, Theo: the Sky commentator. So why hit them? If Arsene Wenger can make Kolo Toure a league-winning centre half, and Emmanuel Adebayor a £16million striker, can’t he teach Walcott wing-play?

In 66 Premier League games, Walcott has nine assists. One every seven games? Even Nani (11 assists in 47 games) has one every four.

And it’s not just crossing. If Walcott receives the ball with his back to goal, it’s bad news. If he takes more than two touches, it’s bad news. His short-game, with scalped midfielders prowling, is abject. Andrei Arshavin, who could dribble a ball through an 8am commuter train, must despair.

Yet Walcott, if fit, and in 4-5-1, should start every game. Why? Because he isn’t Arshavin, Samir Nasri, Tomas Rosicky, or Fran Merida, Those four, no doubt, have kicked balls since they could walk. While Walcott went skateboarding, they perfected stepovers. In five-a-side, those four would beat five Walcotts. Easily. But, though skilful, they’re similar.

Walcott, on the other hand, has something no Arsenal forwards have: Olympic speed. Sheer, frame-blurring speed. It’s not clever - Walcott owes his living to his fast-twitch fibres, rather than his slow-twitch skills - but it’s effective. Would Merida, Rosicky, Nasri, or even Arshavin, have scored three against Croatia? No. Walcott is Arsenal’s Intercity 225; the player who leaves defenders in his vapour trail.

Arsenal are accused, rightly, of over-elaboration. Walcott, the Berkshire Bullet, will never be elaborate. He wants fewer touches, not more. He wants to knock-and-run. But that, in a league of ponderous full-backs, can work.

Arsenal’s Plan A is a concerto, with Cesc Fabregas conducting a five-foot-nothing European orchestra. Plan B - kick it to the quick lad - isn’t artistic. Art alone, though, doesn’t win matches.