There was a tender moment at the end of Tottenham’s win against Elfsborg on Thursday night as Ange Postecoglou walked out on to the pitch looking a little haunted and jittery, a strange kind of light in his eyes. It took a few seconds to work out what was up. The reason for this was he was happy. Here was a man remembering how to smile, willing his face into the right kind of shape, searching for the muscle memory.
It was also a nice moment. The recent run of Bad Ange stuff, the Ange who does interviews like a policeman standing too close to you in a tiny lift, has been painful to watch. The Premier League is brutal. It will stretch you thin. And it has been rough with Postecoglou, who came with no comparable experience, who is 59 years old, and has had the air of a man finding the end of his reach, radiating sadness from every rain-sodden panel of his quilted coat.
