In the midst of Blackburn Rovers' defeat to Bolton Wanderers last week, a tall unkempt man strode along the front of the stand toward the home dugout. Steve Kean, wisely, was standing at the front of his technical area, barking instructions and waving his arms to offer a simulacrum of control, as far from the fans as is possible under Premier League regulations. The man stood, unmolested by stewards, just behind the perimeter advertising hoarding.
Slowly, he raised his left arm and, with a dramatic flourish, pointed off to his left."Kean out!" he bellowed, his eyes wild, his straggly beard trembling with vehemence.
Then he did it again.
And again.
And again, each time emphasizing his point with a thrust of his long bony finger.
He started to turn away, then checked back. "Kean out!" he shouted again.
And again.
When he did finally walk away, it was with a sad shake of the head, but the eyes still burned with fury. It was like witnessing the prophet Elijah confronting Ahab.
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