Steve Clarke has solved the great mystery that has plagued football for centuries: how to find a head coach for Scotland. The answer, he has determined through rigorous self-assessment, is that there is no one else. Not in Scotland. Not in Europe. Not on Earth, presumably, unless we’re counting dolphins or that one guy who can train pigeons.

After a brief flirtation with the idea of stepping away—a moment of weakness, clearly—Clarke has recommitted to the job with the conviction of a man who has consulted the oracle and received a single-word prophecy: himself.

“I’m the best man for the job,” he announced, and you have to admire the economy of that statement. Not “I think I can do good work.” Not “I believe in the project.” Not even “I’ve got unfinished business.” Just a flat declaration of cosmic inevitability. The Scottish Football Association presumably nodded along, relieved that the search committee could disband immediately. Why bother interviewing candidates when the universe has already spoken?

This is the logic that keeps football managers employed in their own minds: the belief that they, personally, are the load-bearing wall of the entire structure. Remove them, and everything collapses. The stadium crumbles. The grass dies. Civilization ends. It’s not that they’re good at their job—it’s that they’re the only job that exists.

The beauty of Clarke’s position is its unfalsifiability. If Scotland plays well, it proves he’s essential. If Scotland plays poorly, it proves he’s the only one who understands how to fix it. If Scotland plays medium, it proves he’s the only one with the patience to endure it. He has created a logical fortress from which no criticism can penetrate, because any alternative to him must first explain where this mythical other person would come from. And where would they come from? Mars? The Scottish Championship? A podcast?

This is not unique to Clarke, of course. Every manager who has ever clung to a job has deployed this same argument. It’s the professional equivalent of telling your partner that you’re leaving, then, after three days, returning to announce that you’ve thought about it and actually no one else would understand your quirks. The relief is palpable. The logic is unassailable. The truth is considerably messier.

What Clarke has done is make explicit what most managers whisper only to themselves in the shower. He has said the quiet part loud: I am irreplaceable. Not because I’ve won everything. Not because I’ve stabilized the team. Not because there’s a long queue of better options who would refuse the job. But because I have looked into my own eyes and seen destiny staring back.

The SFA, faced with this statement, had two options. They could either find another coach—an exercise in believing that qualified people exist outside Clarke’s head—or they could accept the inevitable. They chose acceptance. Why wouldn’t they? Clarke has presented them with a philosophical problem disguised as job security. To hire someone else would be to argue that someone else exists. And who wants that argument?

Scotland’s football fans, meanwhile, are left with a coach who has essentially told them: “I’m staying because I’m the only one who could possibly do this, and if you doubt me, you’re doubting the laws of physics.” It’s a bold negotiating position. It’s also the kind of thing that makes you wonder if maybe—just maybe—the search committee should have been a bit more thorough.

But then again, where would they even look? Clarke has already checked everywhere. He’s looked in the mirror, consulted his own conviction, and found the answer. The job is his. Not because he’s earned it, necessarily. Not because he’s the best available option in any objective sense. But because the alternative—that someone else might actually be qualified—is simply too absurd to contemplate.

And really, when you think about it that way, he might be right.