IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO look down to the sideline, at the man standing alone, squinting out at the field with his default look of irritation and disgust, and not wonder what he's doing there. He looks at the papers he's holding, squinting harder, and jots down something with the pencil stub in his right hand before peering back onto the field as if he's trying to figure out what, exactly, is taking place in front of him.

He's 73 years old, the hair under and inside his visor showing signs of early comb-over. There is a berth around him, a wide one, and it's rare that he approaches anyone or anyone approaches him. An assistant runs over every so often and hands him a tablet that he jabs with his finger a few times before handing it back. He occasionally barks at an official. He walks to one en

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