Moving the goalposts

Like most right-thinking coaches of younger kids, I always put the largest, widest boy in goal. It’s not just common sense. It’s basic physics. He’s the one that will fill up the most space possible between the posts. That it also spares him the embarrassment of laboring after smaller, more diet-conscious opponents outfield merely adds to the wisdom of this selection policy. Imagine my dismay then when a parent waltzes up to me tonight and asks for his son to get a turn in goal.

'He really wants to try out for goalie,’ says the father.

'Okay, okay, that can be arranged,' I say, putting on my best, eyebrows-crunched, sincere face despite the fact the kid is a complete bantamweight utterly unsuited for the role.

Ten minutes later, the boy in question is standing on the goal line getting ready for a test of his nerve. Every one of his team-mates is on the edge of the penalty box with a ball in front of them. On my order, they all shoot simultaneously. Some of them score but enough of them hit our wannabe goalie in places he’d rather not have been hit to prove my point. He strolls out of goal and hands me the gloves.

'I don’t want to play goalie, anymore,' he says.

'I think you should go and explain that to your father,' I say.

Another teachable moment.

F-bombs ahoy!

Take a break from the marital tension and walk over to the high school fields tonight to see our U-11s and U-12s practicing. Always good to see what other coaches are doing. Never know where you can pick up something useful. Not this evening though. A depressing scene. Coaches all over the pitches are dropping F-bombs left and right. It’s F-this, F-that, and F-the other thing. I’m shocked but can’t say I’m surprised. This is the way travel soccer has been going in recent years. Everybody wants it to be fun now.

The worst cameo of all involves the U-11 boys. At the end of a practice in which they bizarrely never stopped using a soccer ball, their coach gathers them into a huddle. All players place their right hands on the top of the coach’s four year old son’s head (obviously some sort of mascot), and then they drop the loudest, longest F-bomb of all. ‘F-U-N spells FUN!’ they chant in unison. I blush for them, for their coach and for their parents. This is what we’ve been reduced to.

Back at home I log onto the league website and see that the U-11 boys are bottom of their division, no points and no goals from three games. Somebody should tell them there’s no fun in that.

And all I got was this fantastic t-shirt

Busy at my desk this morning, putting together a Power Point showing the kids their mistakes from last weekend. Then wife calls, very obviously on the warpath.

‘The Sporting Goods Store called to say your order is ready,’ she says.

‘Great,’ I reply, fearing what’s coming next.

‘Yeah, the guy said the total bill will be $250!’

‘That sounds about right. These are the ones with "They are only nine and ten year olds!" on the front and "Nothing shapes character like winning!" on the back.’ I’m playing it cool. Trying to anyway.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ she shouts. ‘We can barely make the mortgage and you’ve just spent an entire week’s grocery money on t-shirts.’

‘I had to.’

‘You had to?’

‘Yeah. I needed thirty for the kids so they had them in two home and away colors and twenty for the parents.’

‘For the parents? Why are you buying t-shirts for the parents?’

‘I’m figuring I’ll give t-shirts as prizes each week to the two parents that shout the most at the kids during the game. It’s a little thing that we in business like to call incentivizing. Ever heard of it?’

She hangs up rather abruptly. Yet more proof there’s no reasoning with some people.

Show, don't tell

Have a full scale scrimmage at the end of practice tonight. I am the best player on view. Some say it’s wrong for the coach to participate. I argue it’s important to show them how good I am. How else are they to take my advice seriously? It also offers them something to aspire to. You too can be this good if you keep playing into your late thirties. I know I would have appreciated that kind of example when I was ten years old and just learning the game.

As usual, I end the session with a contest. Who can chip the ball onto the crossbar from the edge of the penalty area? Kids love this kind of thing even if most ten year olds can't lift the ball that high. They still get really into it, cheering and jeering every attempt. I get carried away too. And when I win, I pull my shirt over my head and run to the bleachers in the traditional goal celebration. Some of the parents applaud. I keep a keen eye on the ones that don’t. Their sons will be on a short leash come Saturday.

No directions home

As per league rules, we are supposed to email our opposing coaches with directions to our home field early in the week. Obviously, I put all other work aside to get this done first thing this morning. Never mind the boss clamoring for an urgent report to be finished. I’m already thinking of next Saturday.

Of course, I regard this opening communication as the first salvo in what will be a war with this other team. So, I email the coach a slightly amended version of the directions with two wrong-turns thrown in. Nothing like making the other squad late for the match to throw them off their game. When I see our opponents sprinting through the carpark in a frenzy next Saturday, I'll know the first half will be that much easier for my boys.

This is the kind of thing they never teach you on coaching courses.  Competitive advantage, I think it's called.

Losing my religion

Go to church this morning. Wife is a true believer and she doesn’t know that I love to use the hour for thinking about the team. I kneel down and stand up on her cues but really I’m somewhere else for the duration. Not that there isn’t merit in this God stuff. Have had some of my best ideas sitting in these pews. Today is no different.

Flicking through the prayer book, feigning interest, I come across a reference to the Ten Commandments. Eureka! Have this idea floating around in my head for ages about writing a coaching manual. Always struggling to come up with a format. Until now. The ten commandments of travel team coaching! What a title! Forget your Brazilian Joga Bonito or Dutch total football, I will offer practical advice from somebody who really knows the game.

I start feverishly scribbling notes on a hymnal.

1.      Thou shalt obey thy coach. He knows more than your parents and your teachers and your older siblings put together.

2.      Never pass to an open player unless he is at least as good if not better than you. Giving the ball to weaker team-mates in space merely encourages them to stay mediocre.

That’s as far as I got when she busts me. I’d been so engrossed in the idea that I forget to stand up for some communal prayer. Amateur mistake. She grabs the hymnal and stuffs it in her handbag. Much glaring ensues.

A sporting chance

There was such a frosty atmosphere at breakfast this morning that I buried my head in a sports psychology book. Some of these publications are for the birds but this one had a bit of useful advice. Just before kick-off, tell the kids one thing you want them to achieve in the first five minutes. This helps them focus.

This nugget comes to mind when I see our opponents warming up, replete with newly-stitched “Sportsmanship Award” patches gleaming on their left arms. I will never understand why coaches choose to advertise their team’s weaknesses like this but there you go. One born every minute.

Armed with this crucial byte of information, I call our boys into the huddle.

"I want every outfield player to commit one seriously bad tackle in the first five minutes," I say.

Most nod their heads eagerly. Kids love proper instruction especially when laced with violence.

"But that’s against the spirit of the game,” says Joey, the son of college professors, the kind of boy who spends too much time reading books and not enough working on his weaker foot.

"The spirit of the game?" I ask, fumbling for a reply and making a mental note to try to embarrass him in practice next week. "In the spirit of the game I’ll drop you to the bench if you don’t do as I say."

There endeth the argument.

The first five minutes is a cacophony of whistles. My boys show how well-trained they are and bodies fly  everywhere in the opening exchanges. Those on the other team who aren’t limping have quickly lost all appetite for the fight. They are much more skilful but we still cruise to a 3-0 victory.

What’s that they always say on ESPN? Coaching wins games.

Table manners maketh the man

Out for a meal tonight. It’s one of those fancy places with white linen on the table so wife insists I have to wear a real shirt and nothing with an Adidas or Nike logo visible. So ridiculous. Anyway, all going well until, halfway through the main course, she catches me trying to send a text with the Blackberry on my lap. She’s not pleased.

“Can you not for one hour forget the team?” she says.

“Why?” I ask, wondering what all the fuss is about.

“Because we are here in a nice restaurant having a wonderful meal and you are still thinking about the game tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the game,” I declare a little too confidently.

“Yes you were.”

“NO! I wasn’t.” Half the restaurant is looking at us now, witnessing my moment of triumph as I hold up the Blackberry to show her the text. She reads it and weeps.

“See, I was thinking about the pre-game breakfast. I just sent around some suggestions to the parents about proper carbo-loading for the boys given it's an 11.30am kick-off.”

She dashes off to the ladies’room, apparently disgusted, leaving me to reflect on just how self-absorbed she can be sometimes.

Yo Mama!

Driving to work this morning, daydreaming about how wonderful the league trophy will look on the shelf in my den when a parent calls with some troubling news. It seems her son may miss the occasional game due to a clash with his cello recitals. No, seriously. I checked to see if there was a television crew filming me from the back seat as part of some Candid Camera sketch. She had to be kidding, didn’t she? Well, eh, no.

I try to tell her you can’t put false Gods before the kid like that. It’s soccer and then everything else in his life. I’m sure the cello teacher is telling her the same thing. After all, the kid is ten now. He’s not exactly a spring chicken anymore. He’s old enough to choose one and forsake the other forever. Time to grow up and all that.

Of course, there’s no reasoning with some people.

‘His teacher says he’s gifted and might be the next Yo Yo Ma,” says the mother.

“Yo Yo what?” I ask.

“Yo Yo Ma, the greatest cellist of his time.”

“There’s where you are wrong,” I point out. “I’ve never even heard of Yeah Yeah Yeah!. He can't exactly be the Landon Donovan of the cello if I don’t know him, can he?”

She didn’t come back too quick from that one, I can tell you. Still, these mothers and their desire to raise well-rounded Renaissance children will be the death of me and of this team. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.

Not all Greek to me

Got caught up in a documentary about the Spartans on television tonight. Inspirational stuff for any ambitious coach of 10 year old boys. Those guys brought their kids up the hard way so they’d be better able to fight hard in battle. What chance have I got with a squad who get driven everywhere by their mothers and never go an hour without being handed a juice box or a banana? Not exactly being groomed to fend for themselves in the wild, are they? 

By contrast, the Spartans made their kids run a gauntlet of whipping guards as part of their military training. Brilliant idea. Turn off the television and spend an hour adapting that routine, finally sketching a similar drill in which players must sprint from one cone to the next as their team-mates simultaneously batter them with properly-inflated size 5 soccer balls. The perfect way to work on speed and agility while allowing personality conflicts within the squad to come to the surface.

Leave a message on the club president’s phone asking him to get back to me about whether this will be covered by our liability insurance.

The meek shall inherit the earth - not on my watch!

An irate mother emails me to complain about my selection policy. Apparently, she felt I should have withdrawn some of my best players once we went four goals up last Saturday. Way to reward kids for playing well Mom! Sit them for most of the second half so the inferior players get more game time. This, ladies and gentleman, sums up what's wrong with America. This may be why we don’t win wars anymore. We’re supposed to punish those who worked hard and did well by subbing them out and putting in the less-talented in their stead. Political correctness gone mad!

Wife begs me not to call up the woman. But come on, it’s time somebody took a stand. Conversation goes as badly as you’d expect.

“I understand you have a problem with my coaching last weekend?”

“Well,” she says, “I just think you should have given some of the other players more game time when the game was already won.”

“Why?” I ask, resisting the temptation to mention her son is our worst player.

“Eh,” she stammers, obviously not expecting to be put on the spot. “You have to remember you are shaping these boys’ characters as well as teaching them soccer.”

“Yes I am,” I declare. “And nothing shapes character like winning!”

I hang up right there. Always good to end on a high note. Then I make a mental memo to put “Nothing shapes character like winning!” on the back of the new t-shirts. On a real roll with the sloganeering right now.

Corner flags of convenience

Leading 5-0 with two minutes to go in our first game when disaster strikes. We concede a goal. As you’d expect, I go berserk on the sideline. Terrible defending. Poor goalkeeping. All round bad effort. Before I finish jumping up and down while loudly berating my players, I shout “corner flag”. They know what to do next. From the kick-off, they take the ball into the corner and run down the clock. No point risking another blemish on the scoreline.

Then the most amazing thing happens. The parents of the opposing team start booing. Just shows how little they know about the sport. At the end, while I’m busy reading the riot act to my guys for letting in a goal, one of the fathers from the other side comes up to me.

“That was way too cynical," he says. "You guys were leading by four goals with two minutes to go!”

“And?” I ask, wondering where he’s going with all this.

“That was like something professionals do. They are only nine and ten year old kids!” he replies.

They are only nine and ten year old kids! Fantastic. Make a mental note to get team t-shirts made up with that slogan on the front. The parents will love that.

The shirt heard around the world

Nightmare start to the campaign. Woke up this morning to find wife had forgotten to wash my favourite Adidas polo shirt, the one with the club crest and my name on it. What an amateur blunder! Huge argument ensues, completely messing with my psychological preparation for the first game of the season. I can’t believe she just walked past it on the bedroom floor and didn’t think to put it in the laundry. She makes matters worse by walking off when I try to explain that this is a straight red offence, even says something under her breath about "all those shirts look the same to me!"

When she returns, I have three dresses laid out on the bed.

"What's this about?" she asks, as if she didn't know.

"Do all these dresses look the same to you?" I hold two of them up as I pose the question.

"No, of course not," she replies.

"Point proven!" I declare, marching off downstairs to iron the last wrinkle out of my second-choice Adidas polo, hoping this is only my first victory of the day.

No sleep till game time

The night before the first game so I call all the houses to check on the players. The wife persuades me against driving around the town to see if the boys are at home, pointing out that at nine and ten years old, most are probably inside by ten pm. I wish I shared her confidence. You can never be too careful these days. One mom cheerfully admits her son isn't at home because he's at a sleepover! The night before the first game!!! I thought she was kidding at first but no, she was serious. She might as well have let him go on the beer. Really? After all I’d told them about the importance of rest.  Nice one Mom, you just talked your son onto the bench tomorrow.

First night jitters

Held my first outdoor practice tonight. Nothing like that first session as the evenings get brighter. My clipboard in hand, my whistle around my neck, trying to beat my record for keepy-uppies as the school groundsman watched on from his tractor. This is what sport is about. Me showing off and him being impressed.

Of course, I got there two hours early to lay out my cones and to line up the balls just so. Everything looked great until the kids came along. Two cones knocked over in the first 30 seconds by the sloppy buffoons. The best laid plans etc…

I took that opportunity to lay down the law. I made the kids run laps of the field until they whined. Then I reminded them they weren't U-9s anymore. U-10s is a whole new ball game. Just to reinforce who was boss, I had them practice throw-ins for 15 minutes. We may lose some games but we won’t be out-run and we won’t give away foul throws. You can keep your beautiful game, that’s the cornerstone of my soccer philosophy. Fitness and fundamentals! I let them have the ball then for a bit. Not too much though. Want to keep them hungry for Saturday.