And perhaps this, too, was the history of Tottenham. As Son Heung-min stole in at the far post to tap in Harry Kane’s cross and complete the unlikeliest of comebacks, it was possible to sense the collective exhalation, not so much a euphoria as a relief. Perhaps, despite all outward appearances, this cause is not quite as unsalvageable as it seems. Perhaps, despite everything, there remains something here worth saving.
It was somehow fitting, too, that it should be Son to provide Tottenham with their life raft. More than anyone it is Son who has managed to encapsulate the sheer dolour of being Spurs this season: their mood ring, their doleful minor-key soundtrack. When Son is sad, it feels inconceivable that anybody else could possibly be happy. And so in his fitful return to form in recent weeks – six goals in nine games for club and country – there is perhaps an augury of better times ahead.
