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June 2004 | |
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Interview: The New Democrat Bad Boss: The Ugly Australian Unions: Free Spirits and Slaves Industrial: National Focus History: A Class Act International: Across the Ditch Economics: Home Truths Review: No Time Like Tomorrow Poetry: Silent Note
The Soapbox The Soapbox The Locker Room Politics
Last Year’s Model
 Liberal Laugh
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The Locker Room Sack ‘Em All!
***** "There are two sorts of coaches; those that have been sacked, and those that are about to be sacked." It's sacking season in the winter codes. A time for the sort of white-knuckle fear and loathing that makes grown men shake and weep, plot, gnash teeth and generally become an emotional puddle. Why can't they just quit with the sort of grace and poise that Cathy Freeman brought to leaving the athletics caper? Mind you, she's always seemed to bring a more level-headed and poignant attitude to the hype and hoo-hah that surrounds elite sport in this country. At first glance none of this unseemly "support of the Board" palaver that leaves coaches, players, administrators and yes, even video based officials feel a knotting emptiness yawning in their nether regions appears to make much sense. Neither does it at the second or third glance, or even after a good hard stare. As in the workplace the sacking is the quick fix that seldom works. It all degenerates into some sad doppelganger of an Oscar speech, with the sacked party blaming everyone else, including their mother, at some fearful Lear-like press conference that has all the ghoulish intensity of a slow motion car crash, but more on that later. The winter codes have never been associated with poise and grace. The analogy can be drawn to Motor Sport (which is actually) neither, where it makes as much sense as a racing driver sacking his car. It's not hard to have sympathy for the coach, who is inevitably the sacrificial lamb. A cursory observation of Rugby League's Canterbury Bulldogs would leave any reasonable person wondering what a player would have to do to get the arse. What the hell can the character with the clipboard and whistle do from the sidelines if the players don't pull their fingers out? We've seen it with Langmack at Souths in the League. He's not the first and won't be the last. In the Australian game it appears that the knives are drawn for Richmond's amiable Danny Frawley; although what he is supposed to do when he's lumbered with that tantrum with a bad haircut, Mathew Richardson, is anyone's guess. It usually follows that the ex-coach has the compounded indignity of watching his former charges pull off some unlikely win the week after the club has discharged their one time mentor. Yes it has all the grace and poise of a car wreck, and is just as popular. The punters love it. Tut-tutting as they crane their necks for a better view. It's unlikely there will ever be anything approaching job security for coaches in this corporate age with everyone's baying for instant success and the media has the attention span of a gnat on amphetamines. Sacking got so out of hand at Carlton a few seasons back it was suggested that an appropriate sponsor for the club would be Centrelink. This column believes that the solution lies further back in the mists of time, back to a golden age before we needed these strategic groupies we call coaches. The winter codes would probably be better off without coaches at all, as it did for decades until some bright spark came up with the idea of putting someone off field in charge. Some would suggest that at an elite level the best thing a coach could do is make sure the players get to the right hotel and go to bed on time, but during the State of Origin even the great Rugby League coach Phil Gould couldn't even do that. So what did he do? He sacked himself. Phil Doyle - launching a towering punt deep into the half forward line.
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