Pep Guardiola’s list of symptoms is long and unsettling. He has trouble sleeping. He can only take light meals in the evening. On some days, he does not eat at all. He finds it difficult to read, because his mind keeps wandering. He feels, at times, intensely lonely. Things can get so bad that they begin to take on a physical form: bouts of back pain, breakouts on his skin. 

They are not isolated to moments like the one in which the Manchester City manager currently finds himself trapped, when his team are locked in a tailspin he has spent the better part of two months trying and failing to halt. By his own admission, he is always like that. Guardiola cannot sleep, or eat, or relax even when things are going well at work.

Manel Estiarte, perhaps Guardiola’s most trusted confidant, used to call it the “Law of 32 minutes.” Estiarte had spent enough time with Guardiola to calculate precisely how long his friend might last talking about another subject — literally any other subject — before his mind started to wander back to football. 

That image has long since been folded into Guardiola’s mythology. He is the obsessional genius, his brain forever fizzing and whirring, a synapse permanently set to fire. His teams at Barcelona, Bayern Munich and then City represent his ideas made flesh, given perfect form. His brilliance has been constrained only by the limits of his imagination.

The cost of that dedication, though, has been laid bare over the last couple of months. As City’s form has slumped, Guardiola has given at least two unusually bleak interviews: first to the Spanish chef Dani Garcia, and then to his former team-mate, and longstanding friend, Luca Toni on Prime Video Sport. He told the former of the “loneliness of the football manager,” how he found that – in defeat – there is “no consolation” once “you close that bedroom door and turn off the light.” 

To Toni, meanwhile, he detailed the impact on his health: the skin problem he has been dealing with for “two [or] three years;” the problems with sleeping and eating. “I don’t digest food properly now,” he said, as if the metabolic shift is permanent. Sometimes, he said, he “loses his mind.”

That he was so matter-of-fact about it — that he could insist he was “fine” just a few days later — may well be because none of it is new, not really. He struggled to sleep in his final year at Barcelona. In 2019, when City beat Liverpool to the Premier League title, he had long since stopped eating on matchdays. He said in 2018 while speaking at Liverpool University that he could not read books to relax because “I start reading and before I know it I am reading about Jurgen Klopp.” 

It may also, though, be because it has become the standard reality of those in his profession. Management has, of course, always been stressful. Many of Guardiola’s most famous antecedents — Bill Shankly, Arrigo Sacchi — either resigned or retired because of the strain the job placed on them. (The man he identified as the greatest opponent he had faced, Klopp, stepped away from Liverpool less than a year ago for much the same reason.) 

It has, too, always been a vocation largely reserved for the single-minded, the pathological, the fanatical. And yet even those who choose to do it, again and again, would acknowledge that it appears to be extremely bad for you.

Richie Wellens, the Leyton Orient manager, told The Athletic earlier this year that he can no longer grow a beard because of the stress of the job; Nathan Jones, once of Stoke and Southampton, used to bite his nails so feverishly that he drew blood. As far back as 2002, (vaguely unscientific) experiments showed that some managers were under such stress during games that they suffered irregular heartbeats.

“I definitely didn’t feel healthy at the end of my time at Chelsea,” Emma Hayes, now in charge of the United States’ women’s team, said last month. “I don’t want to say it’s pressure. I just think it’s the stress, the toll it took on me.” 

It is tempting to say that is inevitable, of course, given the scale of the football industry, the money at stake, the unwavering scrutiny of both the traditional and the digital media. And yet, in some senses, management should be less, rather than more, stressful now. 

Hayes walks away after an altercation with the then Arsenal Women manager Jonas Eidevall in March (Marc Atkins/Getty Images)

The vast majority of clubs have stripped back the burden of the post: technical or sporting directors take care of recruitment; chief executives handle contract negotiations; whole departments exist to analyse games and coordinate scouting. Shankly could not call on a psychologist, or a specialist set piece coach, or a nutritionist.

And yet it appears to have had little effect; management has not become more manageable. Ange Postecoglou, the Tottenham Hotspur manager, might have been exaggerating just a touch when he suggested it was the “hardest job in any walk of life,” but it was not difficult to follow his reasoning.

“You can say politics, but this is harder,” he said. “The tenure and longevity of this role now means you go into it and very few are going to come out without any scars.” Asked to compare it to being the Prime Minister of an actual country, he said: “How many times does he have an election? I have one every weekend, mate. We have an election and we either get voted in or out.”

In part, that can be attributed to the fact that while football has delegated responsibility behind the scenes, it has not done so in front of the cameras. The manager, particularly in England, more often than not remains the only public face of the club. 

“They have to comment on everything,” Michael Caulfield, a sports psychologist who works with Brentford, among other clubs, told BBC Radio 5 Live last week. “From Covid to Brexit to anything you care to mention: potholes, traffic, the price of hamburgers. Football is not good at sharing that workload. It is too much for one person.” 

The Brighton head coach Hurzeler is 31 (Steven Paston/PA Images via Getty Images)

That anachronism has practical benefits — as an executive at one club has noted, privately, it makes life easier if certain questions are asked of a manager who can legitimately say they do not know the answer — but it creates the impression that the absolute responsibility for the wellbeing of a club rests on one person’s shoulders.

But far more significant is the fact that football, essentially, actively discourages managers to switch off. Guardiola might be seen as an exception, but he is also presented as a model; the obsessiveness that has been central to his legend for the last decade and a half has created a blueprint for how a manager is supposed to be. 

It is telling, for example, that Fabian Hurzeler — the young head coach at Brighton — does not watch television or movies but does read books about “mindset”.

“What is the mindset from high performance people? People like Elon Musk, Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg. I like to understand how they behave, how they get so successful,” he said earlier this season. Fabian Hurzeler’s reading materials are his own business, but this does not sound like switching off.

Indeed, most Premier League managers struggle to describe how they relax. Many exercise, of course — a notable percentage are very fond of padel, with Hurzeler one of several currently lobbying his club to build a court at their training facility — but genuine outside interests appear to be scarce.

Nuno Espirito Santo likes to “go to the window and look at the River Trent.” The night before he was summarily dismissed by Wolves, Gary O’Neil had allotted time to finish watching the film Wonka with his children. He knew it was “important to switch the brain off.” But he also knew exactly how long he had left. “I will try to switch off for an hour and six minutes,” he said.

The River Trent running by Forest’s ground. Their manager Nuno finds solace in watching the river (Michael Regan/Getty Images)

Caulfield described Thomas Frank, his manager at Brentford, as being unusually well-balanced for a manager — he plays padel (obviously), he skis, he spends time at his house in Spain, he has friends who have nothing to do with football — but even he has admitted his “brain is thinking about the next game” in almost every waking moment during the season.

He sometimes, he said, watches interior design programs on television with his wife. But only because she “forces” him to do it. Roberto Martínez, now managing Portugal, once revealed that he had designed his living room so it could contain one sofa and two televisions: one for his wife to watch normal television, and the other for him to watch football matches.

None of this, of course, is healthy. The League Managers’ Association, the umbrella body that lobbies on behalf of both current and former managers in England, has published a handbook to encourage its members to find some form of work-life balance; it is at pains to point out that they cannot function to their utmost if they are drained and fatigued.

“That is the biggest problem,” said Caulfield. “Football is exhausting. That culture of ‘be there seven days a week’ has to stop at some point. Managers have to manage their own energy as much as their players. We are not designed to work seven days a week, 24 hours a day, under that pressure and scrutiny.” 

Guardiola would, it seems, be proof of that. The symptoms of what it is to be a manager are worse now, of course. He always suffers more after defeats. But it is not so different when things are good; he has been dealing with them for years. “I think stopping would do me good,” he told Garcia, the chef, in one of those stark interviews.

He knows that, and yet he will not. He will, like so many of his peers, keep coming back for more.

(Photos: Getty Images)