Forlorn, fatalistic, farewell. Just the one hand raised –
splayed fingers, flat palm facing camera – says all of these. A gallery of many, further images shows
him variously driven, distraught, rueful, resourceful, far-sighted, near-sighted.
Clear blue eyes surely clouded with regret? Doesn’t show;
you wouldn’t know. No mean face – Glasgow-born; leafy suburb – labour
aristocracy. Built to take hard knocks and stay in shape (composure’s for
keeping not losing). Regular features; teeth now more regular than they ought
to be, going by early photos from playing days. Winning smile – that’s a laugh
– may always have lacked conviction; or this may be reading history backwards.
Was there a moment when you lost them; more accurately, when
you lost yourself and couldn’t keep hold of the squad? I know nothing of your
sort of dressing room. Showers and towels and all kinds of shenanigans back in
the 1970s – stock pictures are all I’ve got to go on. On stage I know it can
happen in the space of a drum beat, all because you didn’t leave enough space between
one beat and the next. But even the instant – the moment of failure – is not
simply instantaneous. Ever the before and after: continuously unfolding; never predetermined.
None of them pre-set, a series of defeats beat David
Moyes, former Manchester United manager as of 8.30am Tues 22 April 2014.
No comments:
Post a Comment