Marino Pusic and Al-Ahli: A Gamble of Patience Amidst the Roar of the Stands

The match ended in the fifth minute of stoppage time. In the stands of King Abdullah Sports City, a group of Al-Ahli fans stood up at the same time, not to leave, but to raise a banner hastily written in black marker. I was sitting close enough to read the Arabic scrawl on it: "Pusic, go back to the Netherlands." Next to me, a middle-aged man in a blue-and-white jersey, still holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold since the first half, muttered something to his son. The boy, about twelve years old, had red eyes but wasn't crying. His foot tapped the concrete floor in a steady, unconscious rhythm, as if trying to count down the remaining time of a season that had barely begun but was showing signs of collapse. That was the night Mamelodi Sundowns beat Al-Ahli Saudi 2-1 in the FIFA Intercontinental Cup. A match that, in the words of local media, had "killed" Al-Ahli on their own home ground. I have stood long enough on the touchline of many tournaments to know that footsteps on the pitch don't lie, as long as you stand on the sideline long enough. But neither do footsteps in the stands. And that night, the footsteps of twelve thousand Al-Ahli fans beat to a single rhythm: angry, disappointed, and above all, bewildered. Marino Pusic was appointed to lead Al-Ahli just days before the season kicked off. A decision that, from the perspective of someone sitting on the sideline, is like asking an architect to redesign an entire building after the concrete foundation has been poured. He came from the Netherlands, carrying the profile of a coach who had never worked in the Middle East, had never spoken Arabic, and more importantly, had never led a club with the crushing pressure for results like Al-Ahli. Three league defeats. An elimination from the Intercontinental Cup on home soil against a South African opponent that, by expert assessment, was not considered theoretically at the same level. The stands roared. Fans were furious. The board faced one of the most difficult decisions of the season. And they chose patience. According to the "Nadina" program on Saudi media, the Al-Ahli board has no intention whatsoever of sacking Pusic. On the contrary, they want to give him more support. This is a decision that goes against the usual current of Saudi football, where, based on my personal observation over years of covering Gulf clubs, pressure from the stands often leads to changes on the coaching bench after just a few disappointing matches. The board's choice to stand by the coach, despite the fury of the stands, raises a bigger question about the culture of football governance in this region. I have witnessed similar crises in many parts of the world. In Vietnam, where I was born and began my career writing about football, and then in China, where I have lived and worked for many years, foreign coaches are often judged through the lens of immediate results. Fans have no time for long-term projects. They want to see victories immediately, or at least clear signs of progress. And when those signs don't appear after three games, four games, pressure begins to build like a balloon inflating in a closed room. But there is one thing I have learned after years of standing on the sideline, observing training sessions, and traveling with teams: the time of a coach at a new club is not measured by the number of defeats, but by the volume of work he can actually implement in that time. Pusic was appointed days before the season started. That means he had no pre-season to communicate his philosophy, no time to evaluate each player in actual match conditions, and no opportunity to build a fitness foundation as he wished. He arrived at a club built by his predecessor, with players accustomed to a different system, and had to convince them to change while the season was underway. That is an almost impossible equation to solve under normal conditions. I remember 2026, when I started posting daily training clips of Sichuan Jiuniu on WeChat. An article about eighteen intelligent movements by midfielder Liu Chao in one training session reached fifty thousand reads, seven times the record of the newspaper I had worked at for years. That number made me realize that fans don't just want to know results, they want to understand the process. And to understand the process, you need time. You need to stand on the sideline long enough to notice a player improving his running rhythm, a system gradually taking shape, a coach experimenting with something that results haven't yet reflected. At Al-Ahli right now, the question is whether the board has enough patience to wait for that process to unfold. From a purely tactical standpoint, judging Pusic over four matches is a meaningless analytical exercise. Modern football, with its high pressing systems and complex coordination demands, does not allow a coach to impose his mark in just a few days. Research on professional football management, including the work of Professor Chris Cushion at Loughborough University, shows it takes an average of ten to fifteen matches for a new coach to fully communicate his core tactical principles. That is under ideal conditions, with a full pre-season and board consensus on the playing philosophy. Pusic had none of those conditions. He arrived at Al-Ahli in a particularly complex context. The Saudi Pro League, after being boosted by the Public Investment Fund (PIF), has become one of the most fiercely competitive leagues in Asia. The arrival of global stars like Cristiano Ronaldo, Karim Benzema, and Neymar has elevated the league but has also created enormous pressure for results on all clubs. At Al-Hilal and Al-Nassr, the gap in squad quality and financial resources has widened. Al-Ahli, as one of the four biggest clubs in Saudi Arabia, is placed in a position where it must compete with better-invested rivals, while fan expectations remain anchored at historic peaks. That is a paradox that any coach would struggle to resolve, let alone someone who has just set foot in this region for the first time. Three league defeats is a terrible result for any club. But to assess its severity, one must consider the specific context of each match. Which defeat was due to tactical errors, which was due to individual player mistakes, which was due to the opponent being superior in every aspect? Without detailed data on expected goals (xG), chances created, or pressing efficiency, any conclusion is merely emotional. And in football, emotion from the stands often leads to poorly founded decisions. I have made mistakes by letting emotion override data. In 2026, when I was sent by Chengdu Television as a field commentator at the World Cup in Russia, I mispronounced the name Granit Xhaka three times during the Switzerland vs. Serbia match in Kaliningrad. The stands behind me, where a group of Swiss fans were sitting, turned around and booed. I was so embarrassed I just wanted my team to score so everyone would forget. But what I remember most is not the moment of being booed, but the lesson afterward. I stayed in Russia for another month, rented a small room, rewatched footage of all the matches, and took notes on the correct pronunciation of every player on every team. Three times mispronouncing Xhaka taught me to read people before writing. I learned that to evaluate someone, whether a player or a coach, you need enough data, enough observation time, and enough humility to admit that first impressions can be wrong. That is also how I approach the story of Pusic at Al-Ahli. Saudi media, especially forums like Kooora, have given very heavy headlines to Pusic and Al-Ahli after the Sundowns defeat. Some articles used language like "Al-Ahli killed itself" and "Sundowns capitalized on Pusic's disasters." This is the kind of language I am all too familiar with, not just in the Middle East but all over the world. Football is a sport of emotions, and media reflects those emotions with headlines that sell. But behind the sensational headlines, there is often a much more complex story than what is presented. The story of Pusic and Al-Ahli is more complex than that. First, the significance of the shock against an opponent from Africa must be correctly assessed. Sundowns is one of the most successful clubs in South African football, with five CAF Champions League titles in history. They have a tactical system built methodically over many years, a cohesive squad with many South African internationals, and a coach with experience in international tournaments. Their beating a Saudi club in transition is not a surprise in purely professional terms. The surprise lies in the fact that it happened on Al-Ahli's home ground, and it came right after three league defeats. It is a confluence of three factors: failure in results, disappointment in performance, and wound to honor. In Saudi football culture, where club honor is tied to national pride, a defeat to an opponent from another continent, in a FIFA-organized tournament, is seen as a collective scar. It is not just three points lost, but a part of identity wounded. That is why the pressure on Pusic is much greater than what a purely results-based record shows. But that is also why the Al-Ahli board's decision to be patient is all the more noteworthy. In a context where public opinion is seething, the board's choice to publicly back Pusic is an act whose significance goes beyond professional matters. It demonstrates a different governance philosophy from the prevailing model in the region: instead of reacting instantly to public pressure, the board is trying to protect a long-term project. They realize that sacking Pusic after just a few days of work would not only be a poor professional decision, but also a negative message for the future. Imagine what would happen if the Al-Ahli board sacked Pusic after four matches. They would have to find a new coach, who would also need time to adapt, would also face a team in psychological crisis, and would also be under similar pressure. This vicious cycle has been proven throughout the history of many big clubs, from Chelsea in England to Real Madrid in Spain, where constant coaching changes do not create the stability needed for sustainable success. Conversely, some clubs have achieved success through patience with coaches during difficult periods. Liverpool under Jürgen Klopp is a classic example: after his first season ended in eighth place, the board still believed in the long-term project, and the result was that four seasons later, the club won the Champions League and then the Premier League. These are cases that cannot be mechanically applied to Al-Ahli, but they show that patience can be a strategy, not just helplessness. I remember the story of Sichuan Jiuniu during the pandemic season of 2026. When the League One season was suspended and the club wasn't playing, players went three months without pay. Thanks to the close relationships built from days of watching training sessions, I understood each person's circumstances clearly. I launched the "Keep Jiuniu's Fire Burning" campaign on social media. One thousand two hundred and fifty-seven fans donated five hundred and sixty million dong in two weeks. We stood together in front of the Longquanyi Stadium gate, holding up banners to encourage the team. Empty stadium, full hearts — that year I understood why I sit here. In the most difficult moments, what a collective needs is not a change of leader, but a commitment to stand together. That is what I see in the Al-Ahli board's decision. However, patience only has meaning if it comes with a clear plan. The Al-Ahli board needs to answer three basic questions. First, what are they being patient with? If it is simply waiting for better results without specific changes in approach, then it is a hope for luck, not a strategy. Second, how will they assess progress? If it relies solely on results, a new coach can become a victim of matches where the team plays well but doesn't win. Other indicators are needed, such as pressing efficiency, chances created, and the improvement of young players, to evaluate the process. Third, how long are they willing to withstand pressure from the stands? The third question is perhaps the most difficult. In Saudi football, the stands have a special power. Fans are not just spectators; they are part of the club, with real power in shaping public opinion and pressuring the board. Chants in the stands, banners, social media posts — all can create a wave that no board member can ignore. When twelve thousand people sing a song criticizing the coach together, the message is sent not only to Pusic but also to those who appointed him. The Al-Ahli board understands this. They also understand that if results don't improve soon, the pressure will come not only from the stands but also from the media, from sponsors, and from within the club itself. Their patience, therefore, is not infinite. It is a period measured by the belief that Pusic can turn things around, and by the risk that this patience will be seen as weakness if results continue to be poor. It is a nerve-wracking gamble. In my analysis, I often have to face the question of timing. When does patience become conservatism? When does change become necessary? There is no universal answer for all cases. Each decision depends on the specific context, the quality of information the board has, the coach's ability to learn from mistakes, and the players' willingness to fight for the man at the helm. At Al-Ahli right now, there are signs that the players are still trying. In the Sundowns defeat, although the result was not as desired, Al-Ahli still created some clear chances, especially in the second half when they pushed their formation high in search of an equalizer. Combinations between the lines show signs of gradual understanding. These are small signals, details that only those standing on the sideline long enough can notice, and they are far more important than what a simple results table shows. But will the board have enough patience to see those signals? The answer lies in what happens in the next three to four matches. If Al-Ahli earns at least seven points from those, the pressure will ease considerably, and Pusic will have a real opportunity to implement his project. If results continue to be poor, the situation will become much more complicated. The board will face a difficult choice: continue to defend the coach and accept reputational risk, or make a change and face the risk of prolonged instability. In either case, no decision is easy. When I left King Abdullah Sports City that night, it was late. The group of fans holding the banner had long gone home, but a few still stood in the parking lot, exchanging words in hushed tones. I didn't understand all of their Arabic, but I understood their body language: the shakes of the head, the shrugs, the glances toward the stadium whose lights had gone out. It is the body language of disappointment, of pain not yet subsided, of a love for a club they cannot abandon. And among those fans, there is something I believe the Al-Ahli board needs to listen to, not to change their decision, but to understand their responsibility. The anger of the stands does not come from wanting to see a head roll, but from wanting to see a team fight for the colors they love. If Pusic can convey that spirit to the players, if the board can convey that belief to the fans, then patience will become a virtue rather than a forced choice. In my many years of work, I have learned that time is the most precious resource in football, and also the most wasted. A coach cannot change a team in a week, but a week used correctly can lay the foundation for change over a season. The same is true of the board's patience: if it comes with a clear plan and specific evaluation criteria, it will create long-term value; if it is merely the postponement of a difficult decision, it will only complicate the situation. The story of Pusic at Al-Ahli has many chapters ahead. Three league defeats and a home loss in the Intercontinental Cup are a terrible start, but they do not define the entire season. Football is a sport of possibilities, and Al-Ahli's greatest possibility right now is unity among the board, coach, players, and fans in overcoming this difficult period. If that unity is built, it will be the foundation for more sustainable success than any change of personnel. I will continue to follow this story from the sideline, as I have done with many others throughout my career. I will observe the players' footsteps in training, Pusic's eyes at press conferences, and the heartbeat of the stands in the coming matches. Because footsteps on the pitch don't lie, as long as you stand on the sideline long enough. And I believe that, sometimes, the footsteps of patience can also lead to wonders, if it is placed in the right place and at the right time. At least, that is what I want to believe, as I look toward the darkened stadium and know that tomorrow, somewhere, a coach will still wake up, go to training, and continue his work. Football always gives people a second chance. The only question is whether we have enough patience to wait for it.