Fire within has burnt out hope of a return to Paradise
AN internal fire, flickering behind the eyes and never entirely far from view, propelled Neil Lennon here. As did his refusal to back down no matter what. It built him a strong career in the most ruthless of trades. Made him a Premier League performer in England. Made him captain and later manager of Celtic. Took him to the top of the mountain in the knockout stages of the Champions League on the field and in the dugout.
It also, through the excellent work performed in driving a newly promoted Hibernian into the joust for second place in the Premiership last season, made him an outstanding candidate for a return to Celtic when Brendan Rodgers moves on from the manager’s office.
Yet, here we are. So quickly. Looking over the scorched earth left behind by fires that burn out of control.
In a week where the other domestic frontrunner to replace Rodgers, Kilmarnock’s Steve Clarke, took hold of a heated situation with Jordan Jones and turned it into a winning goal against the Rangers team with whom the Northern Ireland winger has signed a pre-contract, Lennon lost everything. Including, it appears, his temper. Again.
Celtic no longer seems even an appropriate conversation topic with him under suspension at Easter Road and halfway out the door, Hibs eighth in the table and all manner of speculation circulating over Friday’s explosive events.
Whatever the reality of his downfall, one thing is clear: Lennon has to be smart enough to avoid situations escalating to the degree where he ends up being barred from his own club. No matter what he thinks of the board’s transfer policy. No matter what he thinks about the fact Florian Kamberi has looked a shadow of the striker who first arrived in January.
It’s what management is about in the modern world. Not just football management. All management. Suck it up or walk away. Rules are rules. Accept them or accept this is not for you.
Plenty of trades used to operate in an arena of rows, fist fights and teeth-baring. For better or worse, they no longer do. And football is one of them.
Yes, it is a very particular business built on being combative and ultra-competitive, but it is also driven by employment law, directors who no longer see the dressing room as something outwith their domain and HR departments that do not take kindly to internal conflict.
You have to fall in line with budgets you do not dictate nor approve of. You have to cajole and encourage staff rather than scream at them no matter what you may think of their application. You have to deal with the idiocy of your superiors with diplomacy. You have to temper your wilder edges while accepting the failings of others less committed will leave your neck on the block.
It is a nightmare, really. If you are compelled to change the world rather than feather your nest and stay under the radar — and there is no question Lennon’s heart is in the right place on that score — you do have to leave a piece of your soul at the front door every day.
For an Alpha male, as Lennon is, that’s hard. Particularly in a testosterone-driven environment. But there is no other way to survive and stay sane.
In truth, there were signs early on that the Northern Irishman’s reign was not one to be built on group hugs. As his team stumbled towards the Championship, there was one afternoon at Morton, shortly after his infamous touchline set-to with Jim Duffy, in which he barracked his men relentlessly before storming onto the field — ignoring at least one handshake from a home player — to get at the referee. Standing outside the away dressing room in the aftermath almost required earplugs. Yet, despite taking the whip out, as he puts it, he got Hibs over the line and turned them into an exciting, exhilarating Premiership side.
You felt that, amid the explosions of temper, Lennon had found a way to use the undoubted intelligence and warmth of his complex character to really get his players playing for him.
Until now, that is. Hibs, stripped of their better players, have been poor and the whippings appear to have bred resentment rather than respect. Tensions may also have played into the hands of club management that possibly prefer their head coach to be a little more acquiescent.
Lennon and Hibs always seemed an odd mix. One a firebrand, an open book, a man of confrontation, talent, honesty and demons. The other, a staid club that wouldn’t show you a bird’s nest, its more modern approach of late still underpinned by the fact it still has a wet fish in Rod Petrie, the game’s grey man, at the top of the powerbase.
Lennon is certainly the type of guy supporters want as their figurehead. He fights your corner, tells it as it is, buys into football as entertainment. He is human. Undoubtedly flawed. He acts like a fan. Relates to them. Even drinks with them.
His character was built in a different age and is still imbued with its values, its working-class ambition and, clearly, much of its approach to conflict resolution.
The unholy mess that has unfolded at Hibs will, however, colour the views of the corporate types who do the hiring at clubs. It is certainly impossible to see him in the frame for the Celtic job now.
Lennon, always quick to defend himself, must accept he has to change. The anger that has fuelled his success needs to be better channelled.
In modern workplace culture, it can easily reduce a career to ashes. And that would be football’s loss as much as his.