Mick Malthouse's valedictory was messy, abrupt and undignified, but in a perverse way was also a final backhanded tribute. From the moment a coach walks in the door of a club, he is on a journey to the moment when he is escorted back out of it. Malthouse's single most monumental achievement was to outrun that day for more than 30 years. He left Footscray, so long ago that it was still Footscray (abandoned them, said his assistant and successor, Terry Wheeler), ran his course at West coast and was squeezed out by a too-cute-by-half succession plan at Collingwood. Finally at Carlton, he was definitively sacked – and for good measure, in miserable mid-season.

Malthouse did not play for any of the four clubs he coached, and so in an ill-defined way was something of an outsider at them all. This is true of many coaches, and is a function of that fact that on any given day, they might not be there tomorrow. They are only ever as good as their last season, as safe as their contract is long, and often not even that long.

To survive, a coach needs resources, talent, slavish dedication and a certain cunning. Malthouse's vocation for coaching was never in doubt, and at West Coast and Collingwood, he had lavish resources, and at West Coast certainly, sublime talent. These were where he won his premierships. Three in 30 years does not sound like many, but in the meantime, dozens of other men tried and did not come close to winning even one. Twenty times in the finals is a more realistic measure, even if the 20th was by Essendon's infamous default.

Duly, the Carlton years will go down as a mistake – his and theirs – but not the only one at a club where things have clearly, fundamentally and grieviously broken down. The Blues ought to know now that there is no such thing as a quick fix. Nor, as the last fortnight has shown, is there a slow and noble rending. To hint at one is to precipitate it; it becomes self-fulfilling prophecy.

An introvert, Malthouse did not handle the ever-more public side of the job well. Though he sometimes spoke in circumlocutions, he was no-one's idea of a diplomat. To say that rebuilding had unsettled the players, that other players did not want to come to Carlton, and on Tuesday morning, that there was nothing the Blues could learn about him in two weeks that they did not know after 30 years: these were all self-evident truths that were probably best left unsaid as Carlton's crisis deepened. The figurative page that both he and Carlton were on was no more than a blank sheet, a prop. But far be it from a media man to carry a torch for double-speak.

Gruff Malthouse inspired little warmth from public or their media conduit. He didn't bestride the game, like Ron Barassi. He did not do homespun philosophy, like Kevin Sheedy. His only trick was his longevity, but it was deceptively difficult. His televised post-match briefings latterly grew into a macabre spectacle, more compelling, some said, than Carlton's games. They were nothing new. One day at Princes Park, when West Coast under Malthouse had been well-beaten by Carlton, he strode into the (much smaller) press conference, uttered two lines to the effect that it had not been a performance worthy of the Eagles jumper, then stalked out again, leaving stunned assistants to pick up the pieces. If he ever relaxed, you imagined it was by sticking hot needles in his eyes. Friends and colleagues averred that there was a calmer, funnier man inside, but he rarely emerged in public.

Against all that, and countervailing it, Malthouse inspired fierce loyalty from the players at all his clubs, and fervour for their shared cause. He had 30 years in the sort of artificially intense environment in which relationships grow quickly, but just a quickly break down, but few of his charges speak ill of him, and most even from 30 years ago can still quote him. On his last day as the Eagles' coach, Glen Jakovich cried and Guy McKenna almost did. When he left Collingwood, Dale Thomas as good as tagged along with him to Carlton. On Tuesday, there was no suggestion Malthouse had lost the Carlton players, only the board. Tactically, he kept up with the times, and at Collingwood briefly was ahead of them. His latter-day gameplan was defensive and mean, but it was easy to follow and it ultimately worked, in a way it hasn't yet for Ross Lyon, for instance.

And still it all ended in figurative tears. On the day Malthouse equalled Jock McHale's record for games coached, he was in New Zealand. On the night he broke it, Carlton lost by 75 points – to Collingwood. Within a month, he was sacked – an ignominious end to a grand career. It was football's version of ashes to ashes.