When I first reached XLRI, the only game I could genuinely play well was basketball. Football wasn’t my thing. But college has a way of dragging you into new worlds, mostly because of the people you live with.
My roommate happened to be a state level football goalkeeper. Ironically, he didn’t want to keep goal in our games. So he decided I would do it instead. That’s how I became a goalkeeper—less by choice, more by roommate-led training. Even today, I joke that my throw travels farther than my kick, which tells you everything about how my football skills developed.
After graduating, I played the odd game here and there, but football wasn’t a constant in my life. What did change things was watching. About 20 years ago, I started following the EPL properly—around the same time José Mourinho took over at Chelsea.
Mourinho arrived with a reputation, a big personality, and the full backing of Roman Abramovich. The expectations were huge, and to be fair, he delivered. He was competing in an era that also had Arsène Wenger and Alex Ferguson—two managers who shaped the league in their own ways. Mourinho had his highs, he moved on, and somewhere along the way my interest dipped too.
I still watched games over weekends, but I never got pulled into the Barcelona versus Real Madrid obsession. Not because it’s not great football, but because it’s a different kind of sport. The EPL has its own rhythm—more direct, more physical, more chaotic—and that’s what I enjoy.
Then Jürgen Klopp took over at Liverpool and pulled me back in. Klopp is one of the few managers who has consistently had the better of Guardiola, even going back to his Dortmund days. What made Liverpool exciting wasn’t just that they were winning—it was how they were built.
Klopp’s Liverpool felt designed with intent. It was stylized, aggressive, and you could see the identity clearly. And he built it within means, especially when you compare it to the unlimited financial firepower some clubs have had. Watching that team wasn’t just about results; it was about enjoying a system that made sense.
Of course, they won big trophies—the Champions League, the Premier League, and more. And when Klopp eventually left a couple of years back, what stood out was the foundation he left behind. The idea was that the structure he created would keep Liverpool competitive even after him.
Arne Slot came in and won the Premier League in his first year, which is a dream start for any new manager. But after that, things didn’t go as smoothly as people predicted. And that’s the thing with football: success isn’t always linear, and a strong inheritance doesn’t automatically guarantee a strong future.
My own experience with football is that I’m drawn to coaches more than clubs. The best ones have personas. They have a point of view. And over time, their teams start to reflect them—how they play, how they react under pressure, how they win, and even how they lose.
Mourinho and Klopp are perfect examples. With Mourinho, you might not like the “park the bus” philosophy, but it worked. It was calculated, pragmatic, and built around control. With Klopp, it was intensity, belief, and a system that allowed certain players to become more than what they might have been elsewhere.
Take Trent Alexander-Arnold, for example. In Klopp’s system, he flourished—his strengths were amplified and his weaknesses were covered. Put the same player into a different setup, and suddenly the conversation becomes more complicated, as you can see when he’s discussed in the context of Real Madrid.
On the other hand, there are teams I personally don’t enjoy watching. I find Arsenal boring. Guardiola’s teams can be fascinating, but there’s always a financial asterisk in my head. When you have that much money and you’ve outspent everyone, it would be more surprising if you didn’t do well.
And football keeps proving that money alone isn’t enough. PSG is the obvious example. For years, they had all the spending power in the world, yet the Champions League didn’t come easily. When they finally won it last year, it wasn’t just because of money—it was because they got the coaching and the structure right. They moved pieces around, made tough calls, and still found a way to succeed.
That’s what brings me to the bigger point: coaching is a critical part of life. And I don’t just mean outcomes—though winning matters. I mean personality, culture, the way people work together, and how a group becomes a team.
A football coach has to do far more than most modern-day “management coaches” or “gurus” who sell advice as a service. A football coach has to understand individuals deeply, manage egos, manage minutes, handle injuries, read opponents, plan schedules, and adjust tactics on the fly. They’re shaping both performance and identity in real time.
These days there’s even debate in the UK about whether the coach is a manager or the manager is a coach. Titles aside, the impact is obvious. When a coach is good, you don’t just see it on the points table—you see it in how the team carries itself.
If there’s one lesson modern leadership thinkers should take from football, it’s this: real coaching is messy, human, and high-accountability. It’s not about delivering nice frameworks. It’s about understanding people, making hard decisions, and creating a system where individuals don’t just perform—they belong, they grow, and they play for something bigger than themselves.
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