Jose Mourinho is sick. Read that
sentence with whatever inflection best pleases you – your own take
on the pliability of the English language may subconsciously reveal
much about just how special you think The Special One really is.
Rarely
has one man been so equally lusted after and despised (apart from
David Cameron, apparently).
Mourinho truly provides that rare, heady cocktail of desire and
disgust. On the surface he's still the same old charmer he's always
been – the brooding, exotic provocateur; a sharp mouth in an even
sharper suit. He remains the pouting embodiment of an age-old maxim
with a decidedly modern twist – women want to be with him; men want
to be him, and can do so via the medium of Football
Manager.
And as surely as the waves will
rise and fall, so Jose will occupy our hearts and minds. He is the
perpetual centre of attention, the spinning top that won't fall
unless wrestled to the ground. I pretend not to care, but I do. I
love his presence, but pine for the day his oligarch overlord sends
him for the long walk once more. The press are as obsessed as before.
My friends are too. He makes for great copy – reams and reams of
copy (look, I'm adding more this very second!). He is, in the
parlance of these lesser times, 'box office'.
But
recently we've been offered a glimpse of something rotten at the core
of the nation’s favourite exotic one-man show. The season's opening
day saw Mourinho raging very publicly against his own medical stuff,
who, as their match with Swansea drew to a close, rushed the pitch to
help a stricken Eden Hazard. Despite learning post-match that referee
Michael Oliver had
waved his medics on to the field,
Mourinho refused to move on, using the press to admonish his staff
and subsequently exiling first team doctor Eva Carneiro and
physiotherapist Jon Fearn to the stands for his side's ensuing
ransacking at Manchester City eight days later. It's true that
Mourinho has always trodden a fine line when in comes to matters of
in-house discipline, at times almost daring his players to crack and
break ranks. But there's something about his most recent fit of pique
which has been bothering me, both as a football fan and on a more
personal level too.
To
begin with, the vitriol tossed at his own medical staff undermines a
key component of his managerial armoury, one which, for me, always
elevated him above his peers. As a Manchester United fan I naturally
compare all mangers to Sir Alex Ferguson, for whom one particular
aspect of his career always pleased me more than any other, namely
his determination to defend his players in public. Whatever their
discretions, Ferguson remained steadfast in his refusal to hang his
players out to dry. Of course there were moments when things crept
out of his control (David Beckham's infamous
boot wound
springs to mind) but when the narrative remained his to shape, he
would keep things tightly scripted. When Eric Cantona picked a fight
with a full back, or Roy Keane with an empty room, the message was
always the same – we'll deal with it internally. The press and the
public hated him for it, painting him as a myopic champion of a brand
of ill-discipline which occasionally toppled over the line.
But
that would be misreading the point. Fergie couldn't have cared less,
because his determination to keep such matters in the bedroom –
even if he'd privately decided to end the affair – did what he
needed it to do: produce a winning team. This stance has admittedly
been a little posthumously soured by subsequent
autobiography 'revelations',
but for Ferguson the job was done years ago. And the books wouldn't
have made the shelves without him doing it pretty bloody well.
Mourinho has – or perhaps 'had' – always been good at this style
of man-management. There are many players out there who would happily
give him five knuckles to the face if offered the chance, but there
are at least as many more who would die for him. It's the latter
which he keeps close; it's the latter for whom he professes undying
love and defends to the hilt. It's the latter which keep him winning.
But the more nagging part of all
this is decidedly closer to my heart. As someone responsible for a
small but loyal band of employees, the very idea of feeding a member
or two to the hounds after a (supposed) error would be viewed as an
awful act of betrayal. It would undermine the trust of my staff and
those who gave me such responsibility in the first place. Who would
want to work for someone content to offer you up as a sacrifice? A
vorarephile perhaps, but that's beside the point (editor's note:
don't Google that at work. Or ever.)
I
mentioned earlier how Mourinho is prone to pushing his players
perilously close to the edge, attempting to provoke a positive
response or a bite, which will either way tell him something about
that player, however risky such a tactic might be. But non-playing
staff are different. And whilst ignoring injuries is pretty
trendy these days,
Mourinho would do well to remember that these aren't gazillionaire
playboys, pampered mega stars buying
their agents Greek islands
and strutting about the place like a cross between Thriller-era Michael Jackson and a randy bellboy.
These are the unsung pillars of football clubs, the humble cogs in
the machine, sheltering from the limelight amidst a choking cloud of
Deep Heat and magic spray. These are highly qualified medical
professionals; folk who have elected to spend their days massaging
John Terry's groin so that we don't have to. These people deserve our
respect. As someone who works alongside doctors and nurses every day,
seeing a man in a position of such adoration calling
medical professionals “naïve”
for attending to an injured individual because it might hinder his
team's chances of scoring strikes me as quite the galling act of
hypocrisy. Better to be naïve to the ways of football than to the
ways of human health, even if it might cost you two points. The
sickness here is Jose's alone.
Perhaps
Mourinho is again falling victim to his curious susceptibility to
what we might term 'third season strain'. The third term of his first
spell at Stamford Bridge was the only time he didn't bring home the
title come May. He didn't make it to October. At Real Madrid his
third and final season (which he entered as reigning champion, much
as he does now) was a passive-aggressive clusterfuck of press
baitings, club
legend humiliations,
face-pokings (not
like that),
and rumoured dressing room tête-à-têtes.
At one point he even challenged the club's notoriously fickle
supporters to
love him more.
That takes some ego. And the bigger they come, the more spectacularly
they burst. He'd probably need a doctor for his.
~ Matt
@mattawaynow