He was Fergie;
You are merely David Moyes.
How can you follow an act like that?
As Fergie leaves the stage to the grandest of applause
You’re standing anxious, nearby in the darkened corridor.
And now the crowd waits for you:
Up the tunnel you go;
Your stadium’s not just any stage, it’s the Theatre of Dreams
But how can you match what Scottish gods have long since achieved?
All football managers are actors,
But you’re afraid you won’t convince;
You’re scared you are the penalty-taker
Who is doomed to miss.
It is over from the first day that you walk through the door
And sit on Fergie’s throne
To find your feet don’t touch the floor.
Every day in training you are greeted by your fear
And the eyes of Fergie’s soldiers, asking:
“Why have you come here?”
Rival armies, sensing weakness, gather at your gates;
Your crowd cheers through its horror as your teams are left in flames.
The worst thing is, that while you’re sinking at Usain Bolt’s pace
You see a gleeful Liverpool
Rising to take your place.
Your back four was a fortress, and now it’s yielding goals
And your players, who were stallions once
Stumble like newborn foals.
You are a good, good man, and you work daily at your lines
But you’ve not worked under such bright lights,
And they bite you like knives.
When the end comes, there will be those who say it was wrong
That you ever took this role, that you never belonged:
And maybe you believe them -
That only special ones should claim this seat -
Yet as you leave, beneath your pain,
You may feel some relief.