The only coronation which ought to have mattered last week was that of Barry Robson as Aberdeen manager.
He may have waited dutifully in line for his chance at the job, but at least when it arrived he earned it with his own deeds rather than some arcane supposition of the supremacy of his Inverurie genes.
It is extraordinary to think that Robson is now nearing a whole decade on Aberdeen’s payroll, as most of it has been away from centre stage. That is testament to his uncommon determination and patience.
In an era when renowned players barely have time to hang up their boots before being thrown into the deep end by clubs desperately seeking either magic or publicity, Robson has taken care to ensure that he is as ready for this moment as he could ever be by putting in the hard yards in his own development; perhaps even a lap or two more than he might personally have felt was justified.
His customary ‘thank you’ sign-off at the end of interviews – delivered in a tone which will be familiar to anyone who grew up with a Doric dad and ever required to remove their feet from the furniture – is fast becoming a meme, but its register is of someone dealing with people who are coming late to the realisation that he is an operator of substance, fully deserving of the position he finally holds.
The lack of fanfare accompanying the announcement of Robson’s confirmation in the permanent post was entirely in keeping with his personality, and with the matter-of-fact fashion in which he has thus far approached a job in which many end up outsmarting themselves.
If anything truly warranted saving round here it was Aberdeen’s season. Consider Barry Robson divine intervention.
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