Right call, wrong call

So what, you might justifiably wonder, do Doug Partridge and Judy Manning have in common?

Not a great deal, at first glance: Manning a politician, Partridge a basketball coach. Certainly two professions you’d never think to mention in the same breath.

But Manning and Partridge shared something last week: they were both fired.

Only one, however, deserved to be axed. The other got screwed.

Manning is the easier, more straightforward story because, as just about everybody and his dog in Newfoundland has been aware since last fall, Manning has personified the embarrassment that is the Paul Davis administration.

Plucked from near anonymity to be a non-elected cabinet minister, Manning was the first sign that Davis was in way over his head, a police constable most of his life, a talking head for the Constabulary, suddenly finding himself in the Premier’s Office, an “oh my God, what do I do now?” moment.

The ascent to the eighth floor of Confederation Building was brought about (again, as the entire province is aware, but should be reminded whenever possible) by a farce of a leadership race initially starring Frank Who and da b’ys, and culminating in that you kiss my ass/I’ll kiss yours arrangement on a convention floor, the smooch prompting deeply thoughtful souls to decide that Premier Paul was their boy.

Davis was in defensive mode right from the outset with the Manning appointment; both he and his haughty minister disingenuously and foolishly played the sexist card when questions were naturally asked about (1) the fact that her partner was a political ally of the convention-elected premier, and (2) her arrogant decision to ignore by-elections that could have put her where any cabinet minister should be: in the House of Assembly, not the legislative public gallery.

Fortunately for Davis, he was given a chance to dump Manning last week when he decided to cut his cheek-by-jowl, inner circle numbers, thus bringing to an end one of the briefest and most ignominious stints in cabinet in recent Newfoundland history.

About all a sheepish Davis could offer in his critique of her performance was that she had been “good.” Most of the province was also muttering “good,” as well, as in “good riddance.”

But not so with Doug Partridge, a firing that seems, by all accounts, to be patently unfair.

Partridge was not a household name — far from it — although he deserved to be, given his incredible record as coach of the Memorial University women’s basketball team, the “Lady Seahawks,” as dubbed by their followers and sportswriters: seven Atlantic Championships over a 22-year career, several Atlantic Coach of the Year awards and one national Coach of the Year award.

Partridge’s name, of course, was very familiar to those inside the relatively small but loyal and passionate group that bonded over the years with women’s basketball; ironically, it took two suspensions this year, and his firing last week, to bring his amazing record to the attention of people outside that university basketball world.

One of his crimes was complaining to an Atlantic University Sport official about a referee’s performance (in the not-so-gentle, politically incorrect language, I’m quite sure, you’d associate with most coaches working at a highly competitive level).

Just imagine! A coach crapping on a referee. Have you ever heard of the like? Bring on the handcuffs.

Partridge was also suspended for touching one of his Seahawks during a game, grabbing her by the chin to make a point, an inappropriate move, obviously, but an aberration — there was nothing in Partridge’s history to indicate that he was physically abusive towards his players.

I had an opportunity to see Partridge in action for several years when my wife and I proudly followed our niece, Erica Coultas, when she was a star player for the MUN basketball team.

The old MUN gym, in particular, provided an intimate setting for fans, so we sat feet away from Partridge, game in and game out, season in and season out, and I recall observing an obviously talented coach, an emotional and volatile coach, an intense coach, demanding perfection from each and every one of his players.

Partridge was anything but laid-back, and there were times I thought his head might explode out of pure anger and frustration. (I can now safely confess that I felt like jumping over the bench and grabbing Partridge by the throat on the rare occasion when he felt the need to berate Erica, an absolutely unseemly notion on my part, one that, if carried to fruition, would have put me in Erica’s bad books for eternity.)

But I tell you what else I sensed in those close quarters: this was a group of young women who had a deep respect for Partridge.

And a profound fondness, as well.

He was their mentor, their teacher, their leader, with no motive except to make them better players, to make the MUN women’s basketball team the very best it could be. And they trusted their coach. Perhaps more important than helping them achieve success on the basketball court, Partridge — from what I’ve gathered — helped prepare the girls, the young women, for life after university.

MUN has overreacted, big time.

Partridge deserves much better. And I’m sure his players, past and present, would agree.

But the ivory tower crowd has brought down the axe and, predictably, has refused to discuss its decision, a star chamber at work.

As for Judy Manning, we don’t need any further explanation. We get it. Boy, do we get it.