From Rangpur to Mandalika: When John Herdman Held the Chequered Flag

Four a.m. in Rangpur. The television light made a cathedral of my living room, and on the screen, Kazan had given way to Mandalika. The roar of motorcycle engines filled the room, but one question kept circling in my mind—why was a football coach standing on a motorsport track, waving a chequered flag? Indonesia's coach, John Herdman. In the language of West Nusa Tenggara, they might call him 'Pak Hardy.' But I know him by another signal—the man who once led Canada's women's team to Olympic bronze. And now he has given Indonesia a moment of football history straight out of a dream. I wrote in the notebook beside the television—5 July 2026. Mandalika Circuit. San flag to finish. But why? This is not football. This is motorsport. The headline coming through the underground cable on the margin of the page might read: 'Indonesia's football coach sent to a motorcycle event.' But deep down, the story is far more complex. Placing a football coach at Indonesia's biggest cultural event—that decision reveals not just marketing strategy, but a national psychology. On the world football map, Indonesia was never Brazil, Argentina, or Germany. But there was a time when Indonesia was the first Asian nation to play in a World Cup—France 2026, under the name Dutch East Indies. Then, for eight decades, that pride sat silently like a faded photograph in an old album. While Japan, South Korea, Saudi Arabia, and Australia raced ahead, Indonesia remained that abandoned neighbour, patted on the back with hollow consolation. In 2026, that picture changed. When Indonesia beat Thailand in the FIFA ASEAN Cup final, the roar of the entire Mandalika circuit subsided as millions of Indonesians poured onto the streets. John Herdman became a household name. For coaches, this is rare—especially for a foreign coach. Foreign coaches are usually fragile bridges; their bond with fans builds slowly, crossing the barbed wire of results. But John Herdman? He became that familiar neighbour who suddenly astonished everyone. In my 53 years of watching football, I have seen countless coaches become national heroes. But outside football, on another sport's terrain—a motorcycle track where pop divas usually wave the chequered flag—a football coach's presence stopped me cold. This is not mere invitation. This is a signal. Just as Indonesia's beloved pop singer Agnez Mo was moved aside to place John Herdman on the Mandalika track, this is an inevitable declaration of cultural dominance. Football there is bigger than pop music. Football there is a symbol of national pride beyond stadium walls. Yet at my age, my mind fills with doubt. In 2026, when Mbappé sprinted past Argentina in Kazan, I wrote—'he ran as if the floodlights were chasing him.' Now John Herdman waves the chequered flag at Mandalika, and Indonesian media are ecstatic. But I write in my notebook, 'Who is 19 today?'—a habit that after every match asks one question: who is tomorrow's hero? Who truly is the hero of today's chequered flag? Is it really Herdman? Or is this moment merely a framed construction of the media, a canvas on which the real Indonesia has not yet been painted? Because the lack of data gnaws at me. FIFA ASEAN Cup—the name bothers my ear. As pleasant as it sounds, viewed through another window of history, it becomes clear that the ASEAN Football Federation (AFF) runs its own competition, called the AFF Championship. FIFA never directly attaches its name to a regional football tournament in Asia. So is this tournament really the 'FIFA ASEAN Cup'? Or is it a careless error by journalists—something that may not exist in any official document of the international football body? I cannot say for certain. But I can say this: football is as sacred as a name of God—every name carries history, power, and authority. So the question remains—was Indonesia's title truly held under FIFA's umbrella? Or is it a small headline error in the media that, over time, has settled into truth? History bears witness—the politics and power dynamics of football in the ASEAN region are extremely subtle. When any external body attaches its name to regional football, many decisions quietly change from within. Another dimension in football—the politics of coach appointments. Indonesia's football federation (PSSI) brought John Herdman with a mission—win a trophy. The mission succeeded. But the question is, who writes the next chapter? Because in 53 years of journalism, I have seen—when a coach wins a trophy, his value rises, his honour grows, and at the same time, his contract table is quickly touched. In the football world, a trophy-winning coach often catches the eye of bigger clubs. I write in my notebook—'The six months after a trophy are the most dangerous time for a coach.' Because the coach is no longer a man of the game; he becomes a man of the product. Brand ambassador. And in this football market, the price of the product never outgrows the game—but the burden of the product is far heavier. And that takes me back to my town. Leaving the alleys of provincial Rangpur behind. But at the evening tea stall these days, a young boy asks me—'You write about football, tell me—what exactly is this FIFA ASEAN Cup?' I smile and answer—'Football is that poem that rewrites itself every ninety minutes, and I only take dictation.' But deep inside, I know my answer takes the question deeper. Football is not only interpretation; every line, every letter of football demands truth. From São Paulo, Brazil, I listen intently—whether John Herdman's waving of the chequered flag at Mandalika has smoothed his path to departure. In the football market, when demand rises, that demand is sometimes good, sometimes bad—I have seen it. In my collected data up to January 2026, I have seen that when a coach wins a regional title, his Instagram followers increase by nearly 400%, but that growth also increases his anxiety on the pitch. The coach then represents an entire nation—and this garment of representation sometimes fits very well, sometimes the stitching tears. I look again at the chequered flag at Mandalika Circuit and wonder—is this merely a cultural exchange between football and motorsport? Or is it another chapter of that crisis, where a football coach is pulled onto another sport's stage—because football's popularity can be used in other industries? The boy at the tea stall would perhaps want to know—'Will Indonesia win the World Cup?' I know no one knows the answer. But I can tell him—Indonesia's title marks the beginning of a new melody on football's map. Next may come Argentina, maybe Brazil, maybe France—but that evening at Mandalika Circuit will remain on history's page, the day a football coach waved a chequered flag. And I return to Rangpur at dawn. The television light has already faded. But a new line is written in my notebook—'The voice note began where the column ended, somewhere between breath and deadline.' I don't know where John Herdman will be tomorrow. Football media may write about him tomorrow, or someone else. But today's flag-raising taught me—football is never just football. Football is that eternal bridge, laid in a moment from a Rangpur room to the Mandalika circuit. And above all, football is that question which does not seek an answer—but becomes the answer in every dawn's first light.