I tend to consider myself a positive person.
I’m generally optimistic about most things in life. Especially my SAFC football.
The beginning of this season also gave a lot of reasons to add to the optimism. Our first full season with a new owner, new manager, new playing style and presumably, a new way of life for Sunderland fans since dropping to league one.
As the season began, the reasons seemed to be multiplying at every turn.
Bar a few minor bobbles, we were playing attractive football, with bright, young talent and our eyes fixed on the unbridled, rose-tinted future for a club and fan base that more than deserved some good fortune.
All the evidence led me to happy clap at the front of the line every chance I had.
Public support for the new KLD reign, public support for Speakman and some really canny signings, public support for Johnson and the way he had the team playing, public support for the players who were turning in some great performances even when asked to play out of position.
Then the last 10 days happened. As if football hell itself opened its mouth and sucked every last drop of positivity out of my soul.
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The level of absurdity that’s transpired over the last week or so is unfathomable by the human mind. A head coach who had some bad results on the season admittedly, but had the team chasing automatic promotion; sacked.
His replacement; nowhere to be found.
The process to bring one in; so chaotic it makes the Old Trafford process look in order.
The team looks like a squad of different players.
No one within the club seems to have any idea what’s going on about anything.
The final whistle blew at Cheltenham and for the first time in my short followings of SAFC, I felt absolutely nothing. Devoid of all feeling. Empty of any descriptions or positivity.
This week must be a week of resolve, intent and ownership of the mistakes from the last week. From KLD and the board. From Speakman. From the caretakers. From the players. If not, this happy clapper's positive takes may have seen their last light of day.
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