Before anyone, in the light of the title, anticipates an article climaxing with clumsy, bike shed jokes about our new manager's hair gel...it's not. There's something about Mixu, alright. It's class.
Not since the dark days of the Williamson wilderness had so many Hibs fans felt so disengaged from their club and it's on-field performances. This last few weeks, nay months, have been something of an Easter Road equivalent to Chinese water torture. Never have so many navels been gazed at inside or outside the club. Never have so many morals, credentials and loyalties been questioned. (Well, not since the infamous undermining of Franck Sauzee anyway...)
It seemed 9 years since we won the CIS Cup and not a mere 9 months. The warm glow of the best cup final of the century faded faster than a Calderwood tan in power strike. How could that be?
5-1 destruction of one of our truly long term nemeses, Jim Jeffries and his team. A fast flowing, free scoring demolition on the biggest stage of all. The (widely acknowledged) best ever party to be held after a cup final that Mount Florida has known. JC casting touching eyes to the skies. Wee Zoomer in his fez. Beuzy boozy...
Again, how could it be that we found ourselves in the disillusioned state we were in the run up to the New Year?
Indeed, only days ago such was the malaise that it was hard to see where any enthusiasm could come from for tomorrow's match against some-time bogey side, Inverness CT. The players certainly hadn't looked up for anything for some weeks. The fans were in a dismal, dark place that had them dissecting everything about the club from the Boardroom to the washroom and back again.
On Thursday morning there was almost a resignation to going into this match like lemmings, destined to be thrown off the Brewster cliff (again) with no inspired thoughts as to how the depression hovering over Easter Road (and all who failed in her) could be lifted in time for Saturday. Worse still, it was the Scottish Cup.
What were the Board playing at? What mess had we been left in? Which players were suddenly not good enough, or worse than we had previously thought? Happy clappers up against snappy trappers. Petrie protagonists versus Farmer's boys. The only thing stopping us from simply sliding into a full blown implosion, the absolute FARCE of a situation at a Big Pink Bus Shelter coming to you very soon. Dear Vlad, Gaun yersel son, Love Rodders.
By 11am on Thursday, however, someone switched on the floodlight of renewed positivity.
Bold, beaming. Inspiring, infectious. He back flipped, hand sprung and barged his way back into our lives - and for many Hibs fans brought an immediate smile to their faces that had been missing for months. Our Seasonal Adjustment Disorder had found a possible cure - and certainly, temporary respite as we enjoyed once more the warmth of the smile, the passion of the rhetoric and the memories. Oh, yes, the memories.
There's something about Mixu.
If you could bottle it, you'd make a fortune. If you could put it concisely and accurately enough into words so as to do it justice you'd be Pulitzer precious. You cannot help but like the man. Enigmatic, articulate and intelligent - yet raw, bold and primitive. A warrior who you would want in the trenches with you. A man you could listen to for hours on end. A born leader of men.
He may or may not be the answer to Hibernian's needs. We cannot tell whether he will be afforded the resources or use them wisely enough to begin an exciting new era at the club. However, there are few other candidates who could have enthused the support in such a way that there were suddenly QUEUES outside the ticket office again today. Unthinkable only 48 hours previously...
The very sight of his beaming face on television or newspapers stirred thoughts of handstands, three fingered salutes to Sky Camera s, silly dances with Dieu, shaved heads with Ulrik and Mathias...hairs on neck standing to salute this juggernaut of drive and passion. Smiles creeping on faces...
Mika-Matti Paatelainen may well have been born 40 years ago in the Finnish capital of Helsinki - but he came home this week. His spiritual home - and for many years his family home.
We hark on about dyed in the wool Hibbyness. We're guilty of letting romantic guff get in the way of pragmatism - for that is what essentially MAKES us Hibbies. Stanton - he knew what it was to be one of US. Keef, oh yes, a much loved son. Kano, Geebsie, Deeks and Ian. Oh yes, we loved them being one of us (until some of them behaved in a way we could not rationalise in our romantic notions of what it is to be a Hibee).
Mika-Matti Paatelainen never kicked a ball around the playing fields of Craigmillar...or Granton...or Musselburgh...or Niddrie. He had no concept of Tornadoes, Fives, God or Baker Boys as a boy. He knew nothing of gash, minging, stoatirs or beezers. And yet he bought into being one of us more naturally than many a birthright Hibee. With more dignity, class and desire.
This may be the dawning of a new era. It may not. This may be an appointment to please many, if not all - but none will judge unfairly. One of our own has come home. Perhaps the only one of our own who could have united the fans, excited the fans and put smiles on faces so quickly, so unequivocally. And this energy will be invaluable tomorrow.
There's something about Mixu.
Mixu. 6-2.
Welcome home.
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Article by SKII
on 11 January 2OO8