There was a time, not so long ago, when watching Celtic felt like standing in the eye of a beautiful storm. Goals rained down, wave after wave, relentless and intoxicating. Yet behind it all there was steel. Control. Assurance.

Last season, Celtic didn’t just score for fun. We devoured teams. Over 100 league goals, a century of attacking brilliance that made the rest of the league look like spectators rather than competitors. What made it truly special, what made me believe we were building something formidable, was this: we also conceded the least.

That balance, that ruthless harmony between attack and defence, was our edge. That was Celtic at our most complete. And now?

I sit here watching it unravel, bit by bit, and I can’t shake the feeling that something fundamental has been lost.

Everyone wants to talk about the goals we’ve lost out of this team. Rightly so. You don’t replace that kind of firepower overnight. Goals win games, lift crowds, define seasons. But the conversation has become too narrow, because while we focus on one end of the pitch, the other has quietly started to crack.

We’ve not only lost goals. We’ve lost control.

This season,...