José Mourinho and the winnowing balls

Hello, and welcome to Tactically Naive, SB Nation’s soccer column. This week, for one last time, we turn our attention to José Mourinho: Manchester United manager. Goodbye, José. It’s been emotional.

Sing to me, O muse, of a complicated manager. One who lived and fought not quite three unhappy years in Manchester, and who fell there outside the gates of Old Trafford. Tell me of his time after his defeat, and his journey to be free from the curse laid on him by the Over-god Narrative. And tell me at last if he came to know peace.

So José Mourinho turned his face away from Old Trafford, and went in search of a place to rest. And he met a blind man, who told him that he would never truly be free of the club until he could find a place where nobody knew football, and nobody knew United. And that he would have to wander until he found such a place, for this was the curse of the gods: he might lose his job, but he would not so easily escape the attentions of Narrative.

On hearing this, Mourinho hoisted a sack of footballs onto his shoulder. All were branded with the crest of the club that had cursed him. And he set out to walk until he should find the place where nobody knew what he carried.

So he began. He walked until the streets of Manchester were far behind him, and he came to another city, where they spoke another language and cut their clothes by different rules. And he went into a tavern there, and covered his face, and sat with his head bowed and his bag of footballs at his feet. Yet no sooner had he settled, then the conversation turned: “Did you see the game?”

Another replied “Oh yes. Looks like getting rid of Mourinho has really lifted the whole place. Five goals!” “When was the last time they scored five?” asked another. “Not since Fergie’s day,” came the reply. “They looked a whole different team. Hey, are those United footballs you’ve got there?”

So Mourinho took up his burden again and walked on, out of the city and into the fields. He walked until he found some farmers arranged around a campfire, and he sat down with them. And for a while he knew peace, until one of them turned and asked him: “United fan, then?”

Another chimed in: “Did you see Pogba against Cardiff? Looked almost back to his old self. Running the midfield, trying things—” “Not sitting on the bench,” added another, to general laughter. So Mourinho stood and thanked his hosts, and picked up his footballs, and moved on again.

He walked away from the fertile fields and into the desert, and the sand blew around his face and the heat bore down upon him. And he came at last to an oasis, and took his ease there with the travelers, and shared their food. And for a while his burden passed unremarked, until eventually one said.

”You know, it’s weird. Not much difference in the line-up, or the system, and yet United suddenly went from one of the flattest teams in the league to one of the busiest.” “Shows what actually wanting to turn up to work can do,” said another. A third joined the discussion: “How good is Anthony Martial going to be? Now that he’s got a team actually running around him, not just standing and watching. Hey, you a coach, mate?”

So Mourinho stood, tears filling his eyes, and moved on. He left the heat of the desert behind and went to the cold places of the earth. And he walked through the snow-blasted lands of the Antarctic and saw no other humans, and knew that his travels were at an end.

Until one day he saw two penguins playing in the snow. One took a position between two blocks of ice, while another placed a fish head a few yards away, and shuffled back. Then the second penguin took one tiny step towards the fish head. Then another. And another. And so on, gradually picking up speed, until eventually he was charging toward the fish head. It kicked it high in the air. The first penguin dived, but it flew too high, and vanished into the whirling snow. And both penguins fell to the ground and rolled around, and looked just like they were laughing.

So Mourinho stood for the last time, and took up his bag of balls, and walked on. He walked right off the planet and into the space between the stars. He passed out beyond our solar system, and on into the great silent places of the galaxy. And he rested there for a time, until time lost all meaning, and he felt himself thin and stretch and disperse, and become one with the clouds of dust and light.

Until one day he heard two asteroids chatting among themselves. “Did you see Matic? Roaming around, passing through the lines. Even Mourinho’s favourites are glad he’s gone.” “Oh yeah. And good to see Fred back in the picture as well. Hopefully he’s about to get a manager that isn’t too afraid to try him. There’s a proper player there.”

And Mourinho’s salt tears drifted out into the uncaring silence of the universe, and he knew, at last, that he would never be free. And the Over-god Narrative heard his crying, and laughed, for he knows neither mercy nor pity.

Then the Oort cloud added his thoughts to the matter: “Did you see how high the full-backs where? Did you see how knackered Ashley Young looked at the end? Finally, some proper ambition. ”