Moshe Gariani
Well-known member
- Mar 10, 2005
- 12,350
This clip was used in one of the Leeds Poly MSc sessions on handling negative emotions.
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[Football] Love This. Suck sh*t Potter
- Thread starter nickjhs
- Start date
Silverhatch
Well-known member
Being calm and measured enabled them to extract a world record compensation fee for a managerial appointment. They were f***ed off though at having to recruit a new coach just six games into the season.
- Thread starter
- #183
What else do you expect from a world class poker player?
ExmouthExile
Well-known member
- Feb 11, 2005
- 1,810
Brighton brought the best out of Potter, not the other way around. Average manager, League One level at best. Looks like he’s beginning to realise this.
Pevenseagull
meh
- Jul 20, 2003
- 21,521
I reckon Watford
- Thread starter
- #186
I don't fully agree. Sure it took time for his style to mature and gel with the players but by the time he pissed off we were in excellent form and the talk of the pundits. What is very clear from the form of players when they leave us, and Potter, is that the club clearly has a very symbiotic approach; it takes time for these players to find the form they had playing for us. Potter is no exception. As much as I dislike him for his complete and utter lack of respect for the opportunity and patience afforded to him, I still think if WH gives him time and space, he will get results.
Uh_huh_him
Well-known member
- Sep 28, 2011
- 13,986
Absolutely this. I can’t really blame him. Unlike most top coaches his route to the promised land was to make the family endure eight years on a frozen tundra where it’s dark for six months of the year. Now he’s got a nice house in one of the best cities in England, kids settled in school, wife likely has a fulfilling life with some good local friends and, thanks to Chelsea’s financial incompetence, it was all getting funded.
A more ambitious coach would have tried to get back in the game asap. He’s taken what suits him once he’s had to. His LinkedIn probably says “open to opportunities in the Brighton and London areas”.
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stewart12
Well-known member
- Jan 16, 2019
- 2,164
Graham Potter’s muscles ached as he pedaled away on his Peloton bike, the digital display in front of him counting down the seconds of his latest futile attempt to outpace his lingering regret. The West Ham training ground loomed in the distance, but Graham had no urgency to head there. He’d been avoiding the place for hours, just as he’d been avoiding eye contact with himself in the mirror lately. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the salty tears that streaked his face.
He wasn’t even sure when the tears had started. Perhaps it was when he caught sight of the Peloton instructor’s overly cheery encouragement, so at odds with his inner monologue. Perhaps it was earlier, when he’d scrolled through his phone during his warm-up and seen, once again, the endless stream of unanswered texts he’d sent to Tony Bloom.
Tony. The man who’d believed in him when no one else had, who’d stood by him when Brighton was floundering. The man who’d given him the chance to carve his name into Premier League history. “Good luck at Chelsea,” Tony had said the last time they’d spoken. The words weren’t bitter, but the unspoken disappointment behind them had been deafening.
Graham had typed out apologies a hundred times since leaving Brighton, but the words never seemed enough. Even now, he stared at his phone screen, the last message he’d sent glaring back at him: "I’m sorry, Tony. I should have stayed." No reply. Of course not. What was there to say? He’d made his choice.
The bike beeped, signaling the end of his session. He slowed his pedaling to a stop and stepped off, his legs trembling as he staggered to the kitchen. A single bottle of Huel sat on the counter, its beige contents a dismal reminder of his new life. He cracked it open and took a long, bitter swig, grimacing at the taste. It was supposed to be efficient, nutritious—everything he’d told himself he wanted. But it was joyless, just like everything else these days.
He slumped onto the couch, the half-empty bottle dangling from his hand. Memories of his time at Brighton flooded his mind. He saw the Amex Stadium bathed in evening sunlight, the cheers of the fans after a hard-fought win, the camaraderie of his players. He remembered the way the city had embraced him, how he’d felt like he belonged there, like he was building something meaningful.
And then he saw the headlines from his time at Chelsea. The articles dissecting his every decision, the relentless scrutiny, the impatience. He’d thought it was the big leagues, the pinnacle of his career, but it had chewed him up and spit him out. And now? West Ham. A club that tolerated him but didn’t love him. A far cry from the warmth he’d left behind.
His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts. For a brief, foolish moment, he hoped it was Tony. But it was just another reminder for tomorrow’s press conference. He tossed the phone onto the coffee table and rubbed his temples. The loneliness was unbearable. He wanted to call someone, anyone, but who would answer? The bridges he’d burned felt irreparable.
As the evening stretched on, Graham found himself back on the Peloton, the monotony of the pedaling his only solace. The tears came again, unbidden and unrelenting, as he thought about everything he’d lost. He’d traded loyalty for ambition, stability for a fleeting dream, and he’d ended up with nothing but regret.
“Tony,” he whispered into the empty room, his voice cracking. But there was no one to hear him, no one to forgive him. Just the soft hum of the Peloton and the distant echoes of a life he’d left behind.
He wasn’t even sure when the tears had started. Perhaps it was when he caught sight of the Peloton instructor’s overly cheery encouragement, so at odds with his inner monologue. Perhaps it was earlier, when he’d scrolled through his phone during his warm-up and seen, once again, the endless stream of unanswered texts he’d sent to Tony Bloom.
Tony. The man who’d believed in him when no one else had, who’d stood by him when Brighton was floundering. The man who’d given him the chance to carve his name into Premier League history. “Good luck at Chelsea,” Tony had said the last time they’d spoken. The words weren’t bitter, but the unspoken disappointment behind them had been deafening.
Graham had typed out apologies a hundred times since leaving Brighton, but the words never seemed enough. Even now, he stared at his phone screen, the last message he’d sent glaring back at him: "I’m sorry, Tony. I should have stayed." No reply. Of course not. What was there to say? He’d made his choice.
The bike beeped, signaling the end of his session. He slowed his pedaling to a stop and stepped off, his legs trembling as he staggered to the kitchen. A single bottle of Huel sat on the counter, its beige contents a dismal reminder of his new life. He cracked it open and took a long, bitter swig, grimacing at the taste. It was supposed to be efficient, nutritious—everything he’d told himself he wanted. But it was joyless, just like everything else these days.
He slumped onto the couch, the half-empty bottle dangling from his hand. Memories of his time at Brighton flooded his mind. He saw the Amex Stadium bathed in evening sunlight, the cheers of the fans after a hard-fought win, the camaraderie of his players. He remembered the way the city had embraced him, how he’d felt like he belonged there, like he was building something meaningful.
And then he saw the headlines from his time at Chelsea. The articles dissecting his every decision, the relentless scrutiny, the impatience. He’d thought it was the big leagues, the pinnacle of his career, but it had chewed him up and spit him out. And now? West Ham. A club that tolerated him but didn’t love him. A far cry from the warmth he’d left behind.
His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts. For a brief, foolish moment, he hoped it was Tony. But it was just another reminder for tomorrow’s press conference. He tossed the phone onto the coffee table and rubbed his temples. The loneliness was unbearable. He wanted to call someone, anyone, but who would answer? The bridges he’d burned felt irreparable.
As the evening stretched on, Graham found himself back on the Peloton, the monotony of the pedaling his only solace. The tears came again, unbidden and unrelenting, as he thought about everything he’d lost. He’d traded loyalty for ambition, stability for a fleeting dream, and he’d ended up with nothing but regret.
“Tony,” he whispered into the empty room, his voice cracking. But there was no one to hear him, no one to forgive him. Just the soft hum of the Peloton and the distant echoes of a life he’d left behind.