This. Board let FF carry on for a full season when clearly a lost cause so let’s hope the second year of Coricas contract is conditional. Based on past experience we are in for a full year of Corica at least.
Here’s a wild thought.
As Victory are holding up the table and Popovic probably could get the sack any time now, you think our board are potentially watching this situation, and maybe bring him back to Sydney for a coaching gig to replace Corica?
It’s entirely possible, but I can’t see it sitting well with the fans.
Given Australia’s Shame’s issues off the field, let alone on it, I can’t see their board sacking Popovic this season, regardless of results. The club as a whole is in a state of chaos, and it would just honestly throw more fuel on what is a dumpster fire down there currently.
Popovic is also not the sort of manager we want. I would honestly rather go with an up and coming Aussie manager, or go foreign.
The only Aussie manager I would take at the moment would be Monty, but the Mariners would be stupid to let him go. Perhaps Stajic, but I don’t see that happening. Arnie coming back would be nice but I think his A-League days are in his rear view mirror, and is set to continue with the Socceroos gig, or take a lucrative gig in Asia/Europe.
Given his A-League trajectory where each job has fared slightly worse than the previous, the inevitable outcome if we got him would be scraping into the finals next season.
And then, given he is always worse in his second season, we’d slide to bottom six the season after.
Half Time. We’re down 2-0 in the derby. We haven’t played well. We’ve barely had a shot on goal, let alone on target and two silly defensive mistakes have allowed the Wanderers to score twice in the space of 5 minutes. We trudge off the field, amble down the tunnel and walk into the sheds. The players strip off their sweaty jerseys, and plonk themselves down in the plastic seats in front of the managers white boards. A few of the players are frustrated, they throw their Gatorade bottles towards a distant wall in frustration. There’s a few “For fucks sake lads” thrown around. The mood is tense, almost electric like.
Manager Stephan Keller hasn’t said a word. In fact he hasn’t even acknowledged the players entering the dressing rooms. His back is turned to the playing group as he stands in front of the whiteboard, clicking the lid of the whiteboard marker in his right hand. The room falls silent. The only noise is the sound of fans clambering up the steps and throughout the concourse of the stadium above them, heading to long lines for the toilets and to re-supply with cold mid-strength beer and luke warm pies, chips, and whatever fancy-pants offering Mr. Justin Hemmes has deemed worthy of the occasion. That, and the soft slapping of flesh as James Donachie gets a working over on the physio bench.
A player coughs. There’s an uncomfortable tension in the room. Slowly he turns, and faces the team who are all looking at him.
Stephan Keller doesn’t say anything. There’s no flailing of arms, there’s no berating of players for silly mistakes, there’s no outbursts of expletives that his predecessor was famous for. He just gives them the look.
