The Unforgiving Mic: What really makes a great commentator?

The backlash against Oliseh’s Tanzania match commentary was swift and pointed

The experience of watching a football match is a sacred ritual for millions.

The visuals provide the drama, but the voice guiding the experience—the commentator—can either elevate it to an epic or render it an endurance test.

This duality was on full display this past Wednesday during Nigeria’s match against Tanzania, where the commentary by former Super Eagles captain and coach, Sunday Oliseh, became a louder talking point than the on-pitch action for many viewers.

Faced with his delivery, I found myself in a familiar viewer’s dilemma: mute the television or switch channels entirely. I opted to reduce the volume to a whisper, choosing the crowd’s murmur over a commentary that distracted from, rather than enhanced, the game.

A post-match visit to X confirmed I was not alone. The platform was alight with fervent debate, with a significant portion expressing sheer exasperation.

Oliseh, a figure who has long divided Nigerian football opinion, had again struck a nerve. Yet, he is neither the first nor will he be the last commentator to polarise an audience.

His performance, however, begs a fundamental question: what exactly do we, the audience, expect from the voice in our ear?

According to insights from the AI platform DeepSeek, the role transcends mere narration. The best commentators are “knowledgeable guides who enhance understanding” and “compelling storytellers who provide context.”

They are not cheerleaders but “skilled conversationalists” who are “prepared, passionate, and professional,” ultimately serving one master: “the viewer’s experience.”

In essence, they don’t just tell you what you’re seeing; they make you “see it differently and feel it more deeply.”

The backlash against Oliseh’s Tanzania match commentary was swift and pointed. Nigerian lawmaker and noted football fan, Akin Alabi, summarised a common sentiment with brutal efficiency on X: “Fantastic footballer. Terrible manager. Horrible pundit. Disastrous commentator.”

In response, Oliseh issued a formal statement on X, expressing sadness at suggestions that his critique stemmed from a lack of support.

“For nearly 40 years, I have dedicated my life and career to the progress of Nigerian football,” he stated, asserting that his “constructive honesty” is a “tool for improvement.”

He defended his impartiality as a professional duty, insisting his “loyalty to the Green and White is unwavering.”

Far from quelling the storm, the statement poured petrol on the fire. Many critics saw it as a deflection. X user Biola Kazeem argued, “It is clear that some of Oliseh’s anger & bitterness about his engagement with the Super Eagles has coloured his perspective.”

This taps into a persistent narrative about Oliseh—that of a brilliant mind shadowed by perceived grievances, a theme even highlighted in the reactions to his autobiography, Audacity to Refuse.

His managerial tenure, notably criticised by former captain Mikel Obi as his worst ever, underlines a history of fraught relationships that seem to haunt his media persona.

So, what is Oliseh’s core sin as a commentator? To diagnose it, one must look to the masters of the craft.

Globally, names like Martin Tyler set the standard. His authority isn’t just in his iconic voice but in his meticulous preparation and economy of words, knowing precisely when to let the moment speak for itself.

Then there’s the lyrical Peter Drury, the poet laureate of football, whose “Roma have risen from their ruins!” call transformed a scoreline into a timeless narrative. And who can forget the raw, cultural passion of Andrés Cantor’s elongated “Goooooooooool!”—a call that is the emotion of a continent scoring.

Measured against this gold standard, the gap becomes clear. Oliseh’s current style often feels less like a shared experience with the fan and more like a technical lecture. His deep knowledge is undeniable, but it is delivered in a cadence and lexicon that can feel alienating to the everyday viewer. He analyses the game as a professor would with PhD candidates, not as a storyteller with millions of eager supporters. The technical jargon, while accurate, sounds foreign when the audience craves connection, context, and controlled passion.

The heart of the issue is this: commentary is an act of service. It is not about showcasing the commentator’s knowledge in its rawest form, but about translating that expertise into a language of shared passion and understanding. It requires the commentator to be a bridge between the tactical complexity on the pitch and the emotional investment in the living room.

Oliseh possesses the football intellect of a world-class analyst. The challenge—and the opportunity—lies in the delivery. Can he pivot from lecturer to guide? Can he weave his undeniable insights into the fabric of a story that resonates with the heartbeat of the common fan? The path to redemption is not in defending his stance, but in re-engineering his communication.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is a great commentator. The feedback from the Tanzanian match is a stark real-time focus group. The question now is whether Sunday Oliseh will heed it, embark on that recalibration, and learn to make millions of Nigerians not just hear the game but feel it through him. The microphone, as he has learned, is an unforgiving altar. It rewards not those who know the most, but those who know how to share that knowledge in a way that elevates the beautiful game for everyone.