Ode to Pardew’s 2011

Why am I here?
I wonder as the curly haired Argentine slips over for the fifth time, completely missing the ball
 
Why am I here?
I write on the notepad that never leaves my hand.
 
Why am I here?
I think as my captain and his scouse mate tell me who should be in the team this Saturday.
 
Why am I here?
Is a thought that’s forming as another stray shot from my striker hits me in the side of the head.
 
Why am I here?
Is what I ask when our goalscoring prodigy is sold without my knowledge.
 
Why am I here?
I cry when I’m alone at home after another day of being picked apart by the press.
 
Why am I here?
When none of the fans like me.
 
Why am I here?
I shout as I launch that same pad at the other Argentine who’s just tripped over his own feet.
 
Why am I here?
Is what the players ask me when I convene a meeting to watch my painstaking tactical analysis of our next opponent.
 
Why am I here?
I ask my assistant as we concede yet another sloppy set-piece.
 
—
 
Why I am here.
Is to make the curly haired one into the defender he’s always threatened to be.
 
Why I am here.
When the players shout out at half time at least five of the dozen notes on the opposition I’ve made.
 
Why I am here.
To run this club properly, and coach these players within an inch of their lives.
 
Why I am here.
Is to play this slick, possession football.
 
Why I am here.
I tell myself as we sign a French midfield maestro.
 
Why I am here.
I remember following another successful press conference and yet another win in our unbeaten run.
 
Why I am here.
As the Gallowgate chants my name.
 
Why I am here.
When the other Argentine tracks back to help out the left-back, the only scouser to have survived my cull.
 
Why I am here.
I know, as my players sit rapt at constant replays of some striker’s off the ball runs.
 
Why I am here.
I think after another clean sheet.