These have been challenging, heavy times for Malaysians. Too much has been reported about events that have befallen our youth. I will not dignify the wretched criminals by spotlighting them any further, and we all stand in support and solidarity for all those who have been impacted.

What didn’t hold back was a showtime for a particular set of bureaucratic theatricals, headlined by men in expensive suits, desperately tossing around notes and awkwardness in what can only be described as a frontrunner for this year’s Razzies in the Press Conference category. Rarely is there such a wide chasm between synopsis and delivery, though there’s always a first for anything. And to think that they had built the stage themselves.

Opening with a chronology of events is part of the playbook in attempting to sound authoritative, without contributing much in consequence or relevance. This was not a room of amateurs. Amongst them, those who breathed, bled, and lived the sport, who were not to be subjected to PR tomfoolery. Yes, there were some twists: a sudden suspension (ooh…), the formation of an independent committee (ahh…) … and that was it. Audiences sat on the edges of their seats, waiting for the cliffhanger that was never to be. Nothing else was offered.

Between all this mess lay something more, more sinister than whatever was on display. In a context where proper documentation is a privilege rather than a right for many, it seemingly only took four months between application and approval. Should we script this as impressive efficiency or strategic expediency? Let’s leave this to perspective. However, the dimensionality of the issue transcends from sports governance into a referendum on who matters and who doesn’t. Who is determined to receive institutional backing, and who is destined to be crushed beneath it? Let’s also leave this to perspective.

Both are clear as glass (Clear or frosted, you might ask?). I digress.

Well, what of the next chapter?

“Just be patient.”

Patience was demanded of the public, though preparedness, apparently, was optional. There was an attempt at demonstrating decisiveness: remove one man, maintain the system, and hope that the symbolism buys enough goodwill. Again, this was not that crowd, and there was no market for such a theatre of accountability. At least Ted Lasso was explicit in their parodying of the beautiful game and its inner workings. This was a comical mimicry of that, if not a collectively misplaced mockery of us all.

Explanation was promised. What was delivered, spectacle. Only this time, Malaysians had not subscribed for theatre, but rather, the truth.

Injury time. Full-time. Extra time. Penalties. Borrowed time? The timeline for patience was already thin, and ironically expedited after the press conference proceedings.

Friday’s events were frustratingly expected, yet, somehow, infuriatingly funny. It was a masterpiece of the genre, and a chimera of the very two things that unite the nation: our love for football and our disdain for those in power. Every question fielded on integrity, on transparency, on process, on clarity, met with the most advanced in corporate Tiki-Taka. Or was it a parked bus? Each line of journalistic interrogation met the twin-headed phantom of both Pep and Jose in this witless opera hall. Finally, a Malaysian adaptation worthy of international appeal. Gaston Leroux would smile.