Watching a present-day coach in action is much the same as one of those choreographed martial arts stage performances.
I will always mildly appreciate the skill and precision displayed in the routines of their respective crafts, but I’ll only feel like I’ve really got my money’s worth if there’s a part of the show where they scream and then punch some timber in two.
If you’re like me and you enjoy seeing something slowly descend in to beast mode inside a glass box, then you must surely acknowledge that we exist in the rich age of a tantrum gold rush.
Footy’s highly-paid head honchos go feral regularly in the modern game, and provided you aren’t a piece of load-bearing timber or the bloke with the shredded ears on the other end of the phone, I’m sure you too will have enjoyed many a cheeky snigger as the lava has spouted skyward.
Putting our own personal amusement aside, we must think of the health of these deranged fellows. What makes coaches so tightly wound?
Hastily convened studies have determined it’s a deadly combo of two that’s to blame for this culture of abstract interior decorating and spiking headset sales.
Firstly, by and large, coaches in all football codes traditionally are grumpy sods who endure a daily battle with the crippling haemorrhoid that is their unrelenting ambition for success.
Some hide this discomfort well, under the guise of a contrived smile and a respectable suit, whereas others look like they need a good bath, a donut cushion and some electroshock therapy. However it shows on the surface, you can be assured they’re all tracksuit-wearing Gargamels.
Secondly, there’s the evil shrew of modern professional sport, that all-consuming leviathan that demonically laughs while it chews back on human beings’ sanity like a hungry stallion hoes in to its feedbag.
Try babying the New Zealand Warriors or the Melbourne Demons with a constant pain in your arse and then deal with the extras on top like media pressure, job speculation, long hours and Gen Y. Add in a rogue supplements department and one too many cups of Nescafe and you’ve got yourself a throbbing, balding, sweat-patched stress-cube replete with a facial twitch that will bust at any moment.
Amazingly, despite this powder keg of potential Prozac prescriptions, most coaches actually know their thermostat quite well. Many have the ability to show the restraint to keep their eruptions to concise verbal hosings, saving the lion’s share to be meted out fairly between journalists and road rage.
On the other hand, there are some who have shown they can’t, and as we know, sometimes it’s been known to get physical.
I’m talking about people such as Des Hasler, a man so surly that even if I was slowly searing to death after being covered by a vat of boiling chicken fat in a KFC, I wouldn’t bother approaching him for his unused moist towelette. I’ll just take the third degree burns, thanks.
The now-Doggies boss is a classic loose cannon, and his legend peaked in 2010 after his then-Manly team blew a 20-0 lead at Parramatta Stadium to eventually be overrun by the Eels.
Slightly miffed by his team’s inability to close the deal against comp fodder, the infuriated coach decided a lengthy delivery of bile was not enough to convey his message, so he promptly ripped the change-room door off it’s hinges and only narrowly missed clobbering the oversized bonce of Jamie Lyon in the process.
Rumour has it that Hasler’s offer to replace the door with a 1970’s-style curtain of beads was publicly refused by Parramatta, but if he still has it hanging in his man cave at home, perhaps he could send it over to a mad mongrel like Michael Cheika?
The Waratahs boss is another unhinged lunatic revered in the Aussie glazier’s community after taking out his emotions on a door at Canberra Stadium.
Some blame referee Jaco Peyper, whereas others say it was the crippling boredom of a night spent in the nation’s capital, but either way the NSW coach had left some spectacular glass art in the coaches’ box come full-time.
And finally, who could forget Hawthorn coach Alastair Clarkson? Apparently this bloke is okay to be around provided he’s picking up premierships and provided ‘around’ isn’t anywhere near semi-pro Saturday footy.
Once an angry ant on the field who loved nothing more than riling opponents twice his size, Clarkson took this mantra with him in to the coaches’ box in 2012 when he punctured the midriff of a two-metre high wall of fibro.
The catalyst? His Hawks conceding a late first-quarter goal to Collingwood that closed his team’s lead to 16 points.
It was hardly having someone knock over his bourbon in a nightclub, but this is what a paid job in sports does to grown-up men with clipboards.
So carn Roarers, fling away that walkie-talkie and help a brother out. Do you get your money’s worth out of loco coaches? And what’s your favourite memory of a mangled phone or a cowering assistant?
It was like a blast from the past with the Broncos not only dominating on the scoreboard, but shades of past legends.
He wasn't expecting it to get that messy.
Ricky Stuart would be pulling his hair out after a mistake like this.
It had all been going so well. Canberra were by far the better side for ten minutes, with Jamal Fogarty giving the Brisbane back…
Simi Sasagi couldn't believe his luck as he strolled straight past Jaiyden Hunt, who should have made a better attempt at a tackle.
In wet conditions, the Broncos were making it extremely tough for 18-year-old Chevy Stewart in just his second game.
