When you lose two battles, for you the war is over.
Gordon Strachan had no chance of carrying on at Celtic . He had already lost huge swathes of the club's support.
Two falls, a submission or a knock-out will do it every time.
In truth, he was a heartbeat from chucking it all in 12 months earlier amid the frenzy of clinching his third consecutive title.
By the time Celtic had floor on a winter's night in the Danish town of Aalborg, I suspect he was already regretting his decision not to head over the horizon in a blaze of summer glory.
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So what happens next? Don't ask me. I've been so far off the mark I couldn't tell you what day Christmas is this year.
The championship lead has been tossed about like seagulls in a storm. But it's going to find a haven this Sunday one way or another.
You can't say that the football provided by the this season has been , but it has been a ripping yarn. Never mind the quality, feel the thrill.
Before a ball was kicked, I tipped to win it and to be relegated.
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Henry McLeish might want to prepare for the job ahead by changing into his working clothes in a phone box and making sure there is no nearby kryptonite.
Although this is the mission even might have body-swerved.
Until we can persuade Clark Kent to take a wee look at our dilemma we have turned to the former First Minister to - Save Our Soccer.
We know what the prognosis is. Ailing attendances, television revenue in freefall, clubs walking in the shadow of the Grim Reaper, no pyramid system, no winter break and three bodies who couldn't work hand in hand with the help of soft music and a romantic table in the corner of the restaurant.
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High noon at Ibrox on a summer afternoon - but it will be early dark for the losers as the clear their throats for the season's last song together.
Let's not mince words. It's winner takes all. The balance of power could swing in a heartbeat.
I still think Celtic will win the championship, not because I said so before a ball was kicked and I'm not for u-turning, but because they embrace a single, precious point of advantage.
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"Tell them who you are and what you are about," they said. To be honest, there are days when I struggle to remember myself. Forty years toiling at the coalface of football journalism does that to you. But I have reason to believe that I have reached the heady heights of the title of Football Correspondent of Â鶹Éç Scotland which gives me a renown, in Scottish terms, of somewhere between Alex Salmond and the deep fried Mars Bar.
