Those who can do, those who can't teach.

An unkind epithet and not entirely true. And what is a coach, if not a teacher?

Applied to football, it might run along the lines of:
Those who can coach, those who can't, coach.

For success in that caper is not only a harsh mistress, but an ill wind blowing no news is good news.

Put simply, keep your head down, keep winning, keep out of sight,

Keep your job.

And while that looks easy on paper, paper tigers may be all a4 and no roar.

Although a conceptually correct credo, a cardboard crow may be all Manila and no gorilla.

A papyrus raptor may be all squawk and no hawk.

In other words, it's not only the one man who went to mow a meadow, but many minions and silent soldiers who along the way get lost in the whispering grass.

Criminy, who'd want to be a league coach?

Footy's fall-guy, who in a week can go from axes to orchids, boiled lollies to chocolates, or bouquets to brickbats.

Copping it sweet on behalf of the muscle-bound knuckleheads piddling about on the paddock, giddily garroting game-plans and snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.
Poor old coachy.

(Facing a force feeding of humble pie from the scribes after a savaging would certainly put the press in depressing.)

And while the players prance and ponce at the after-party poor old Johnny Coach is left counting his grey hairs, teetering on the edge of a precipice, in a white room with no curtains, except the ones for himself.
Players!

No wonder they march them into the bay on a Sunday.

I'd be yelling out "no, a little further, touch launceston and come back!"

And make sure king Canute was waiting for them when they did.

Come on players! Get behind the man behind the plan!

Those who can do, those who can't coast. Cut the cost of coaching-cut the costly coasting

There's only so many times you can coach a falling star and put him in the pocket.

I'm Billy and I'm boiling.