My enduring image of Claudio Ranieri at Leicester is not of the silver fox, giddy as a schoolboy after winning the title, nor of him barking orders in his immaculate Italian suit.
My enduring image of the now former manager of the formerly fantastic, but now fickle Foxes is of Ranieri trying to calm the King Power Stadium crowd down during last May’s coronation.
He was shushing them because he had called in a favour from a pal...
Andrea Bocelli, a name not all of Leicester’s proletariat may have been familiar with, had come to serenade them, bringing a touch of sophistication to a whirlpool of wild emotion.
Bocelli, blind from a young age, yet able to paint such vivid images of rapture and beauty through songs that he made grown men cry, sported a Leicester jersey, and belted out a classic, from Nessun Dorma, from the opera Turandot.
That was the height of Ranieri’s delirium, as he stood clapping - indeed, almost clasping - his joy beside one of his all-time favourites. It was always the small touches with Ranieri.
They were heady days, and the world watched and revelled in the beautiful madness of little Leicester doing the unthinkable.
Even fans of rivals were swept up in the fantasy of it all; this charming, eccentric Italian, cajoling the season of many lifetimes from a bunch of nobodies, and stealing the most coveted league title in the world.
Men have been knighted for less, but all Ranieri wanted was love and loyalty.
Dilly ding, dilly dong, he sang. ‘We are in the Champions League, man!’, he crowed, oblivious to the pressures of the title run-in.
Of course, they are still in the Champions League. But, Ranieri is no more, after the most despicable treachery from his players, who requested he be shown the door. They squealed like spoilt brats to their paymasters, when a sharper look into their gold-rimmed mirrors would have revealed that they had fallen disgustingly short of the standards he set this term.
Ranieri deserved infinitely better, from all concerned with the club. He gave them their greatest day, and they have shown him the door.
He gave them Bocelli, and they told him it was Time To Say Goodbye.
This latest, ridiculous episode just emphasises how fickle football really is.
Many neutrals wept with awkward pride as Leicester were confirmed as champions. Heck, I shed a happy tear when Bocelli soared, the crowd roared, and the camera panned over the city of Leicester, who were kings for a day.
Don’t expect a single crocodile drop if they get the chop from the top table come May.
Because they have exposed themselves to be as cold and calculating as the Chelseas and Manchesters of this world.
Indeed, some will say good riddance, and Messrs Vardy, King, Simpson and Drinkwater will slink back into the oblivion they inhabited before Signor Ranieri arrived with a smile and a plan.
Claudio deserved better than this, infinitely so.
He will be remembered long after those same players have become trick questions in pub quizzes and crossword puzzles.
Ciao, Papa Claudio. And thanks for Bocelli, the happy tears and the sincerity.
To the bitter end.