Golden Balls: heir to the throne?
Tuesday, November 17th, 2009
He’s pacing up and down, prowling the touchline like an over zealous father on sports day. An apoplectic scream, his arms fling upwards, and the ball clatters into the advertising board just shy of the post. Then he’s pacing again, back and forth, wearing a rut into the soft blades of grass. “Boydy, for f*cks sake”, he bellows, “…get back on side”.
Father time ticks, but the shell suit won’t yield, and he’s back stalking every loose pass and mistimed tackle. His face sweaty and red, a supernova of burst capillaries, his thighs like two redwoods caught in a storm. Suddenly a raking pass and Boyd bursts clear, “Come on”, he yells, “F*cking, come on”, a flash of studs, a burst of dirt and the ball flies into the bottom corner. He’s jumping, screaming, laughing, punching – a blue blur of delirium. The stands erupt, a cacophony of cold joy. Then slowly, after an eternity of boos and jeers, the tin whistle peeps, the supporters trickle home, and an exhausted Ally McCoist trudges over to shake his opposite numbers hand. For the Rangers’ number two it’s just another quite day at the office.
There’s no doubting Super Ally’s passion for, and commitment to, Rangers. His relinquishment of lucrative TV contracts, to work as assistant manager at Ibrox, is proof of his unconditional love for the club. Especially considering Rangers were, at that point, in a moribund state – enduring their worst start in the league since 1978 and having just been trounced by Dunfermline in the Scottish Cup. He chose personal fulfilment over monetary recompense, a rare display of integrity in today’s climate of financial gluttony.
Being number two plays to his strengths: enthusiasm, motivation and man management. So it unsurprising that he has excelled as an understudy with Rangers and formerly Scotland. But, financial straight jacket aside, does he possess the myriad of talents required to manage the Govan behemoth? It’s debatable. Certainly his charisma and affability would buy him time with the fans and media, but style cannot masquerade as substance indefinitely. Tactical nous, transfer shrewdness and ultimately results would determine his long-term fate. A slew of heavy defeats and, not only his job but, his mythical reputation as an Ibrox talisman maybe in jeopardy. Remember when the storm clouds gathered above John Greig in the dug out?
The problem is that he is an unproven gaffer. His managerial track record is vaporous, and his first team experience with Rangers has been limited to a management cameo in the Scottish Cup. Even in that arena, Watty raced down from the stands to fire fight when the battle plan went awry. So his promotion to the Ibrox hot seat would be a high stakes gamble: would Rangers’ buyer be willing to plough millions into a club with a fledgling manager at the helm? I doubt it.
So what does the future hold for Alistair McCoist? Well it depends entirely on the new owners to be at Ibrox. If they share David Murray’s vision of McCoist being heir to the Teddy Bear’s throne, then he’s laughing. Otherwise it maybe a furtive retreat to the world of stage makeup, studio lights and Sue Barker - “Ally: Home or away?”
Whatever fate the footballing Gods have in store for Golden Balls, the one time womaniser and court jester has matured into an irreplaceable cog in the Rangers machine. He is part of the clubs bricks and mortar - blue blood coursing through his turgid thighs, bald spot glistening in the apricot sun, willing his team onto victory with every sinion of his stocky frame.
He may never manage Rangers but, like Ray Wilkins at Chelsea, provide a perennial link between the clubs illustrious past and it’s vagarious future. Whatever transpires with buyers and managers, let’s hope that ‘Coisty, in one form or another, is here to stay. As, in this period of turmoil, Rangers need all the true blues they can muster to man the pumps.