Another Asian campaign for the Red Giants has just collapsed in a glorious, predictable mess. I’m talking about a defeat so humiliating, it should have come with a parental guidance warning. And naturally, the pitchforks are out. The mob is baying for blood, and their chosen sacrifice, the visible villain of the piece, CEO Dr. Johan Kamal Hamidon.

This is the great, recurring tragedy of Malaysian football fandom: They’ve decided to commit financial suicide to protest a football result. Seriously, look at the demand. “Fire the CEO!” This is of course an act of passion; but it’s also an act of profound, self-defeating stupidity. The people screaming the loudest are demanding the immediate execution of the only person who’s demonstrably keeping the lights on and ensuring they have a stadium to shout in next year. This is akin to protesting a bad meal by firing the waiter. It’s glorious, nostalgic rubbish that the modern game has rendered utterly, hilariously obsolete.

Let’s discuss the difference between the boring world of business and the emotional circus of football, shall we? Because clearly, the fans haven’t grasped it.

Imagine you go to a fancy restaurant. The soup tastes like regret, the steak is cooked to the consistency of an old rubber slipper, and the dessert is offensive. Now, who do you demand to speak to? The Chef, obviously. The person responsible for the actual product.

In Selangor FC, the fans are demanding the removal of the General Manager or the Front-of-House Manager—the person who manages all the service staff, handles the reservations, and makes sure the rent gets paid. As CEO, Dr. Johan Kamal Hamidon has a job that is utterly tedious: revenue, sustainability, risk assessment, and ensuring the youth academy can afford new light bulbs. He is accountable for the club’s existence in the long-run.

The Director of Football or Technical Director, conversely, is the Chef. Their job is volatile, glamorous, and often quite inviting: transfers, tactics, and ensuring the team doesn’t concede a goal that looks like it was choreographed by the bookies. They are accountable for the next game.

The hilarious irony is that while supporters throw a tantrum over a dish that belongs in a bin, they are calling for the sacking of the man who has successfully negotiated multi-million-ringgit sponsorships for the club. They demand the execution of the General Manager because the Chef made a dreadful mess with the main course. The fans’ demand implicitly asks him to violate his own mandate and take the blame for decisions made in the sporting vertical – a vertical he exists purely to fund. Targeting him is just giving the real culprits a temporary, undeserved holiday.

Let’s get specific about the “Chef” who deserve the pitchforks. It’s about the sporting vertical. That’s where the magic happens, or in Selangor’s case, where the absolute horror show took place.

The desk of the Director of Football / Technical Director should be under siege, not the CEO. They are responsible for signing off on the transfer budget, scouted the players, and crucially, appointed the head coach whose tactics appear to be generated by a rusty random number generator. The CEO can give them RM10 million or RM20 million, but if they spend it on a striker who plays like he’s wearing lead boots, the sporting failure is entirely theirs. They are accountable for delivering the winning product, and clearly, they’ve delivered a sack of regrets. The CEO only pays for the ingredients. If the Chef burns the steak, you don’t fire the cashier.

Let’s imagine Dr. Johan being shoved out the door. The momentary burst of fan satisfaction is a two-day dopamine hit, but the resulting financial instability will be a two-year hangover. The message sent to sponsors is toxic: “We are an unstable, emotionally driven operation that prioritises mob rule over corporate sense.”

Why would any serious, multinational corporation sign a multi-year strategic partnership when the entire executive suite is a few bad results away from being completely restructured by a group of people whose primary qualification is owning a very loud scarf? They won’t. They’ll take their money to the club across the street.

This isn’t just about a name on a shirt. This is about the lifeblood of the club. When the money man vanishes, so does the money. Suddenly, that RM10 million transfer budget disappears. Stadium maintenance stops, meaning your beloved ground begins to look like something out of a post-apocalyptic film. You won’t be able to buy quality players; you’ll be scraping the barrel, signing rejects and loan players whose careers are currently on life support. You guarantee a smaller, poorer, and less ambitious future for the Red Giants. All for the catharsis of firing a perfectly competent CEO.

The fans are confusing passion with arson. They are demanding the removal of a competent executive to soothe their wounded pride. If they succeed, they’ll get their momentary catharsis, but they’ll likely wake up to find their future is broke.

To protest is to be passionate. But be smart. Instead of storming the CEO’s office, demand governance reform in the sporting department. Hold up banners demanding transparency on the scouting report. Demand for a clear, written tactical philosophy from the Technical Director. Organise a non-attendance protest that hits the match-day revenue—a financial hit that specifically targets the product they sell, not the financial framework that pays for everything.

What is happening is a tragic, self-defeating act of love. The path to being a successful, modern football club isn’t paved with hysterical overreactions. It’s paved with sound financial management and demanding accountability from the people paid to deliver results on the pitch. Now put down the pitchforks, turn around, and go find the real Chef. And for crying out loud, don’t burn him alive.