Over the past year, the footballing world has received a taste of Ange Postecoglou to the extent it never had before. He has been around for quite a while as a manager, but honestly, how many of us have actually been paying attention to the Scottish Premiership or the A League?.
This is an era where success on the pitch is governed by heavily-mechanised tactics. These are carried to fruition by players brought in through intricate scouting processes to weed out any and all unknown variables. This is matched by an even duller off-pitch discourse featuring bland-beyond-hope repetitive questions, which then receive the same vapid, sanitised answers. So it is hard to not be enchanted by the avuncular energy of the man from down under, every syllable of whom is a Turkish delight to savour.
In a career that has brought him to the top relatively late, Postecoglou’s success has arrived on the back of some really rigid moral dictums. High-octane movement, ceaseless forays into the enemy territory, and a Spartan vigour to not give up against any outnumbering Persian horde makes for a blend of football that is hard to look away from, orchestrated by a man who cannot be ignored, operating at an institution that, for the better part of the season, has been looked at with envy.

The human mind yearns to cheer for zeal in the face of logical step-backs, for flawed, limited Davids against inevitable, omnipotent Goliaths. There are two kinds of people: those who like romance, and those who lie. There are also those who get into social media player debates comparing trophy cabinets, but they don’t warrant being taken too seriously.