Dummies along the mohawk

Hand out Gatorade Gels fifteen minutes before kick-off and look forward to the immediate impact on my players. I don’t have to wait long. The game starts and one of my midfielders starts running around waving his arms in the air, like his hair is on fire. It kind of is. He’s being pursued by bees. Why him and not all the other kids? Well, turns out that rather than drink the gel, he smeared it on his head.

‘I just wanted a Mohawk,’ says the boy wonder, now sobbing from beneath the tracksuit top I’ve placed on his dripping mop to ward off the stingers.

His mother puts down the Jodi Picoult novel she’s reading (can’t be sure but from the cover I’m thinking it was the one where somebody learns a moral lesson) when she should be watching the action, and starts berating me.

‘What did you do to him?’ she shouts.

‘I did nothing,’ I reply. ‘Your genius son is the one at fault here. I gave him energy gel and he put it on his hair.’

‘Were there instructions on the gel packet?’ she asks, like a lawyer already preparing a ludicrous defense of a particularly hapless client.

‘Instructions? No, I think they just expect a basic level of intelligence from people who use them.’

‘There’s no need to be like that,’ she says as she starts to lead the brainiac back to her car.

‘There’s every need to be like that,’ I roar after her. 'Where are you bringing him now? Straight to Harvard?'

We win the game 3-0 but that’s not the most important thing I gain today. I jot down a note at the final whistle. Commandment of Travel Team Soccer Number 53: At try-outs, get all prospective players to take IQ tests. It’s no fun working with dummies.

Energy blast

Standing in the aisle at the supermarket tonight, I decide to purchase a case of Gatorade Gels. You'd be surprised but on some game days, these 10 year olds are surprisingly sluggish. Must be too many video games or the fact their moms drive them absolutely everywhere they go in life. Anyway, I figure this stuff will give my squad a much-needed pre-match burst of energy this Saturday.  I just hope it’s as full of sugar as its critics suggest.

Only problem is wife dispatched me on this chore with $100 and a lengthy list of groceries. No biggie. I throw out a few of the more expensive and unnecessary items like laundry detergent, shampoo, Greek yoghurt, and that organic decaf coffee she drinks in the evening. Hey presto, I come in just under budget.

‘What the heck are these?’ she shrieks, catching me trying to pack away the shopping before she can notice the switcheroo.

‘Gatorade gels to give the kids energy,’ I say in my business-like voice.

‘How much did they cost?’

‘Eh, not a lot,’ I answer, just as she picks up the receipt and starts to scan it.

‘This box cost $40!!!!’ That shrieking voice again. 'And you didn't get half the list!'

‘I know but it’ll be worth it to see the effect it has on my players tomorrow.’

‘I don’t believe, you,’ she says in a disturbingly calm voice as she walks out of the kitchen. 'I just don’t believe you.'

Figure it’s going to be a long night so I open the box and pop a couple of those gels right into my mouth. They taste disgusting. Then again, the best medicine always does. Feel instantly energized. I know the kids will appreciate this even if wife doesn't.

Making a right Messi

Strolling about during a scrimmage at practice tonight, happily admiring my reunited Nike Mercurial Vapor Superflies, when one of the boys has a sudden outbreak of unrestrained dribbling. Every time he gets the ball, this guy starts off on these mazy runs, beating three and four defenders at a time while wearing this ridiculous grin. Twice he finishes off the moves with goals.

‘Eh, what’s that about?’ I ask when I pull him to the sideline and get in his face.

‘I want to be like Lionel Messi,’ he replies far too cheerfully, obviously not realizing how angry I am at his escapades. ‘Did you see his goal?’

‘No!’ I shout. ‘I did not see his goal.’

‘He scored this sick goal for Barca against Real Madrid. It was in the Champions League today.’

Ah, the scourge of the Champions League. Bane of all serious travel soccer coaches. Usually, it’s the parents who watch this competition and come forth with bizarre new ideas about the game. Today, it happens to be one of the kids playing while under the influence of Europe.

‘And what’s that goal got to do with you trying to dribble when you know your job is to pass the ball to the better players at all times?’

‘Messi ran past five players and my dad said I should try to do that at practice.’

‘He did, did he?’

‘Yeah, he told me practice is where you try things out in order to get better.’

‘And is your dad a coach?’

‘No.’

‘Is your name Messi?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you keep that dribbling while smiling caper for your own backyard. Here, we take practice seriously. It’s not a place for fun and games.’

He’s not a bad kid. He never tries another dribble all night. At least he listens.

The sweet smell of success

I’m walking down the hallway when the sound of girlish cackling makes me realize wife and gossipy neighbor are in the kitchen. In between peals of laughter, I think I hear the word ‘cleats’. I stop in my tracks, go all Jason Bourne, and start eavesdropping.

‘So I took his stupid soccer cleat with me and brought it to work so he couldn’t find it,’ she says, giggling at every word.

‘Good for you sister!’ says nosey neighbor, confirming my suspicions she spends her spare time watching Maury Povich instead of minding her brood of badly-behaved children.

‘But then I got into trouble with my boss,’ says wife, still barely able to speak in between her laughing.

‘How come?’

‘Well, I just shoved the cleat on the floor under my desk but the smell from it became so gross it started to stink up the whole office.’

More guffawing and the sound of wine glasses clinking in delight.

‘So where is it now?’ asks neighbor.

‘Oh, it’s in the trunk of my car,’ says wife casually. ‘It doesn’t matter though because hubby still thinks it’s at work.’

That’s all I need to hear. With Bourne-like stealth, I sidle back down the hallway, out the front door and into the driveway. I pop the trunk and there it is. My baby. My beauty. My missing Nike Superfly Mercurial Vapor, still caked in the same mud since it was kidnapped. I inhale the smell of it, the disgusting odor that saved the day and then I take back what's rightfully mine.

Ain't misbehavin'

On my way from the car to the field, I’m accosted by a deranged mother.

‘Josh can’t practice tonight,’ she practically shouts.

‘Eh, okay. Is he sick?’ I ask.

‘No, he’s not sick.’ More anger in her voice. ‘He’s just misbehaving at school.’

‘And, what’s that got to do with soccer?’

‘His punishment is he’s not allowed to practice this whole week.’

I pause for a second, unsure what to do in the face of such warped logic. And then I see Josh, staring out at me from the backseat of his mother’s car, like a forlorn prisoner on the way to jail. Well, if jails used 2011 Range Rover Sports to transport sad 10 year old boys to the big house.

‘So,’ I continue, ‘your reaction to his poor behavior in school is to stop him playing a game he loves?’

‘Yes,’ she says, sounding slightly taken aback by my unimpressed tone.

‘Well, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You are only going to make him angrier and he’s going to take that anger out on the teacher. Here is where he lets off steam. Any child shrink will tell you that.’ Just to annoy her more I give Josh a big thumbs-up as I speak.

‘Well, I never,’ she says before stomping away, apparently too angry to continue the debate. Upon reaching her suburban tractor, she stops, turns around and delivers her final piece, very obviously for Josh’s benefit. ’Since he’s going to miss two practices I’ve told him you will  be starting him on the bench for Saturday’s game.’

I shake my head while smiling at the sheer stupidity of this bizarre brand of parenting. As if I’m really going to bench one of my dirtiest players just because he’s tormenting his teacher in class every day. What kind of lesson would that teach the boy?

New rules to coach by

So busy at work today I can’t devote too much time to working on my “The Ten Commandments of Travel Team Soccer” book. The hour and a half I do manage to squeeze in this morning makes me come to a realization about this project. Ten Commandments are just not going to be enough. It may have worked for God and Moses when they did their deal back in the day but those were different times. Moses didn’t come down from the mountain and have to deal with meddling helicopter parents, incompetent referees, overzealous league officials and, worst of all, ten year old prima donnas who think they are Lionel Messi.

I cross out ten and decide to go for 100. A nice round number. That should be enough at least for the first volume. I immediately start jotting down potential new commandments. Will flesh these out later with stories illustrating what I mean.

No. 79. If one player leaves every practice in tears you are doing something right.

No. 44. Kids change and you may not always understand their slang but they will always understand you shouting.

No. 57. Even the most overbearing parent can be cowed into submission by seeing their child spending a couple of games stuck to the bench.

No. 22. Travel team is about creating memories and all these kids will remember when they grow up is whether they won or lost, not how they played the game.

That's as far as I get before annoying boss starts lurking around my cubicle. Still, a good start to the working week.

She drives me crazy

I pull into the driveway just before 10 and honk the horn loud enough to draw stares from  neighbors. Wife comes to the door cradling a coffee and wearing a rather bemused look on her face.

‘What do you think of the new Jeep Grand Cherokee?’ I ask, proudly.

‘Where did you get this?’ she answers, sounding more than a little suspicious.

‘I’m taking it for a test drive this morning. Get in.’

‘Eh, why?’

‘I need a new car. I can’t be taken seriously as a soccer coach while driving a 2001 Toyota Corolla. All the best coaches have SUVs.’

‘Okay, firstly you can’t even pay off the cleats you bought on my credit card. How are you going to manage a monthly car payment?’

‘The dealer is going to give me a great deal because he wants his son to be on my team next year. It's a win-win.’

‘Now, you’ve officially lost your mind,’ she says shaking her head, refusing to budge from the doorway.

‘No, I haven’t,’ I protest. ‘I’m sick of explaining to you that I have to speculate to accumulate. I need to start looking like a high school coach. The car is a vital part of the image. Can’t you picture me driving to games in this?’

‘I can’t because you can’t afford it. Now be a good boy, take it back to the dealership and be back here in time for church.’

They say behind every great coach is a supportive woman. I obviously married the exception that proves the rule.

Early bird makes parents squirm

Practice at 7.30 this morning. A number of reasons for the ridiculously early start, most notably the opportunity it affords to impact adversely at home. Wake the wife up by accidentally on purpose making too much noise as I stumble around the bedroom, bumping into as much furniture as possible.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asks angrily from beneath the covers.

‘Looking for my other Nike Mercurial Superfly Vapor!’ I answer far too chirpily, and all she can do in response is grunt.

I’m not looking for it of course. I know she has the contraband hidden at work. Still, always good to keep her on her toes.  Having ruined wife’s cherished lie-in, I arrive at the field in great form. My mood improves further when I see the glum faces of the parents pulling into the car park.

‘What’s with the dawn patrol?’ asks one of the braver fathers.

‘Just my way of showing you guys who’s boss,’ I reply, and he laughs like he thinks I’m joking.

‘Good one,’ he says, half-heartedly.

‘Are you hanging around to watch the practice?’ I continue.

‘Eh, yeah, I suppose.’

‘Well, make yourself useful then and do a coffee run. I like mine black with no sugar,’ I say, not sure if he'll take the bait.

But, as if to prove my earlier point about my imperiousness, he jumps immediately into his car and heads dutifully to Dunkin Donuts. I like his attitude. Make mental note to give his son more playing time from now on.

Back in the USSF

A mandatory meeting of all our club coaches tonight. It’s all player development this, character building that. Usual waste of time. Some outside expert from the USSF is droning on about having to make sure every player gets enough touches of the ball during practice to improve. Like that’s my job? Sorry, I thought that was the kid’s own responsibility to work hard and get the ball for himself. What kind of motivation is it if I guarantee every ten year old the same amount of touches at every session?

I bite my lip for the longest time but finally I can take no more. During the Q and A session, I put my hand up and the club president suddenly looks kind of nervous.

‘Did you say you are from the USSF or the USSR?’ I ask the guy, and the laughter from the floor makes him blush.

‘I don't know what you mean, I'm from the United States Soccer Federation,' he says, sounding rattled.

‘Well, only a soviet sleeper would be promoting the kind of socialism you are talking about.’

‘It’s not socialist,’ he says, his voice rising.

‘Okay, everybody getting equal touches of the ball without having to work equally hard for them, sounds like socialism to me.’

‘No, no, no! I’m promoting coaching the kids the right way so they have the best chance to improve over time.’

‘Really?’ I ask, playing to the gallery who are enjoying his discomfort.

‘Look, this is the best way to teach the game,’ he continues. ‘The more kids touch the ball the more comfortable they get. This is the most common coaching philosophy all over the world.’

‘Okay, you are telling me the boys in Brazil or in Germany are being guaranteed touches of the ball at practice. I don’t think so, comrade.’ More cheap laughs at the comrade jibe.

At that point, the club president jumps up and announces the Q and A session is over. And our friend packs away his notes and no doubt heads out to report back to his handlers in Moscow.

What would Jesus do?

Almost as soon as I inform parents the next round of the cup will take place on a Sunday I get the first withdrawal. Apparently, one of my best players will be unavailable due to his altar server duties that morning. Unbelievable! Of all the ridiculous reasons for missing a game, this must be the worst. I’m immediately on the phone to his mother.

‘He can skip altar serving that day,’ I suggest, trying to stay calm.

‘No, he can’t,’ she says. ‘He’s made a commitment to the church and the roster for serving is set up a month in advance.’

‘He’s made a commitment to this team and this is the semi-final of the cup,’ I say, somehow suppressing the urge to shout.

‘I’m sorry but there’s nothing we can do,' she says.

‘I’m sorry too. I’m sorry that your son is putting his faith before the good of his team. I’m sure if he was allowed to decide for himself, he’d choose soccer over Jesus. I mean he's going to be ten years old soon, old enough to think for himself about religion.’

That obviously stings because she remains silent for a few seconds.

‘I’m sorry coach, I think that’s a bit over the top,' she counters, her voice definitely starting to waver.

‘No, it’s not over the top. Ask yourself this? What would Jesus do? Would he let down his team-mates just to be a bit part player at a mass? Or would he honor his God by trying to be the best soccer player he can be?’

The phone goes dead. Obviously shocked at my ability to make a very solid spiritual argument, she hangs up rather than admit defeat.  Another victory for impeccable coaching logic.

Credit score not so good

Situation so bad between warring factions at home I fear Obama may have to call NATO and send in a peacekeeping force. Yes, you’ve guessed it, wife got her credit card bill and discovered I used it to purchase my totally awesome Nike Superfly Mercurial Vapors.

‘This is tantamount to cheating!’ she shouts.

‘How do you figure that?’ I ask, doing my best to pretend this is not a big deal at all.

‘You stole my card!’ she screeches.

‘No, I didn’t steal it,’ I say calmly. ‘You left it on the kitchen table.’

‘And you helped yourself to it!’

‘I’m sorry that you don’t understand how important it is for me to look good on the sidelines. This job is all about image, you know.’

‘Firstly, it’s not a job. Secondly, you look like an overgrown little boy on the sidelines, and, thirdly, you behave like one too.’

‘That’s abuse that is,’ I shout back, trying to turn the tables on her. ‘Any marriage counselor in the world will tell you that - psychological and verbal abuse. You should be ashamed of yourself!’

‘No, this is abuse,’ she says, holding one of my beloved cleats by the laces in her hand.

‘What are you doing with that? Where did you get it?’

‘I took it out of the trunk of your car and I’m taking it to work with me and keeping it there until you pay me the 250 bucks you put on my credit card.’

Really, sometimes her childishness is matched only by her selfishness.

Absent without leave

Six players at practice tonight! I’m so stunned I allow the kids who are there to just kick a ball around and have fun for half an hour while I send furious text messages to the parents of the absentees. Not a single reply.

‘They are all on vacation coach,’ says one player, frivolously doing keepy-uppies right in my face, enjoying himself way too much for my liking.

‘Vacation - what do you mean?’ I ask.

‘We don’t have school this week,’ he continues cheerfully. ‘Lots of families are gone away.’

As I process this information, I sit down on the bench and type up an email to the parents of the missing boys. Always better to do this kind of thing while angry rather than later when passions have cooled.

Dear Parents,

I would like to thank you for your incredibly selfish decision to allow your children to miss practice this week, one of the most crucial weeks of our entire campaign. I can’t pretend to understand the motivation behind the need to go on vacation at this particular time of year. After all, these kids are nine and ten years old. They do not work. They do not need a break from the grind. However, they do need to attend practice if any of them are ever going to make it as professional soccer players or, in some cases, ever see significant playing time on my team. Furthermore (always a good word to use to convey authority), your actions this week may just have jeopardized our entire season. So please think on that while you enjoy your, ahem, much-needed vacations!!!

Yours in sport,

Coach

Once I hit the send button I feel much better. Spend the rest of the session making the remaining kids run mindless laps. When they complain, I tell them to blame their missing friends. I think that’s called sending a message.

Charity begins at work

Great start to the week. A rush-job has come in to the office and the boss wants to know whether I’m available to come in and work next Saturday to help finish it. The money would be handy, might even help me pay for the Nike Mercurial Vapor Superflys I bought on the wife’s credit card. But come on, Saturdays are me-time, my chance to shine on the sidelines.

‘Sorry boss, I can’t do it,’ I say.

‘Why not? Family stuff?’ he asks.

‘No, I coach a travel soccer team and we play every Saturday.’

‘You get paid for that?’ The moment he asks the question I sense the opportunity to turn this to my advantage.

‘No, of course not, I do it for the kids.’

‘That’s very noble of you.’ I know he and his wife do a lot of work for charity so I start to lay it on thick.

‘Yeah, it’s all about helping the children. That’s me. If I can just improve one boy’s life through the game of soccer I’m happy.’

‘I’m very impressed. I had no idea you were so philanthropic.’

‘Yeah, I try to use sport to keep these poor boys off the streets. Otherwise they’d get in with the wrong crowd and end up in trouble with the law.’ I’m almost blushing as I say this. None of the kids on my team arrive at practice in anything smaller than a Lexus and the only law most of them could run foul of are their lawyer parents. Of course, he’s not to know that.

‘So do you guys win a lot?’ Now he’s really interested. 

‘I don’t even keep score,’ I say, somehow keeping a straight face. ‘To me, it’s about the joy on their little faces when they get out there. The results don’t matter.’

‘What a great attitude to have. Keep up the good work then.'

With that, he walks back to his office, no doubt to put a few lines in my HR file about this hitherto secret aspect of my charitable life. Another excellent result.

No substitute for coaching

Ten minutes into today’s ridiculous ‘Players Weekend’ farce, I crack. I can’t be silent anymore and I let out a roar at one of the midfielders.

‘Will you please get back into the center?’ I holler.

The referee immediately stops play and walks towards our bench.

‘You are not supposed to be coaching,’ he says.

‘I’m not coaching, I’m just telling him where he should be,’ I explain.

‘That’s coaching and this weekend’s games are all about not coaching and letting the players think for themselves.’

‘Well, you can see that’s not working, is it?’

‘Next time I’m going to eject you from the field,' he warns.

I bite my lip for a few minutes and, in the midst of all this frustration, happen upon an ingenious plan. I make 19 substitutions during the rest of the half, using my subs to impart messages to key players then withdrawing them the next time the ball goes out of play. The weaker kids are thrilled. This is the most action they’ve seen since the season started. They are excited too.

‘We are like the messengers during the Civil War!’ says one kid who obviously pays a little too much attention in school, after I tell him to go on and order one of our defenders to kick their best player hard and often.

‘Are you trying to break some sort of record for most substitutions in a game?' asks the referee at one point midway through the second half.

‘No, I’m just the kind of conscientious coach who likes to give all the kids a fair amount of playing time,’ I lie.

Largely due to my wonderful improvisation, we win 2-0. And, fortunately, I only have to tolerate this ‘Players Weekend’ nonsense once a year.

Lost and found out

Like all serious coaches, I carry my official league ID in my wallet. The thinking behind this is quite simple. If something terrible was to happen to me, a fatal car crash or whatever, I’d like the doctors and emergency personnel to know that I was a coach first and everything else second.  I definitely placed the card on top of my driver’s license after last Saturday’s game but when I go to look for it this morning it’s nowhere to be found. I remember showing it off to somebody at work earlier in the week but I know I didn’t take it out.

‘Have you seen my coaching pass?’ I ask as wife irons my beloved Adidas polo shirt with my name on the left breast.

‘No, honey, I haven’t,’ she replies.

As I empty the pockets of my jacket, it hits me. Something in her tone of voice. The casual use of honey. She’s the culprit!

‘You’ve hidden it, haven’t you?’ I shout, marching back into the kitchen.

‘Hidden what, honey?’ she says. The incriminating honey again!

‘My coaching pass. My ID.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she says, a very sly smile on her face as she carefully places the shirt on the back of a chair and walks out.

After fifteen more minutes of frantic searching, I'm in a real sweat. Running late for the game, I go to put on the polo shirt and there it is, the coaching pass. Nestling in the breast pocket. Now I know she's just toying with me. As I get in the car, I shake my head and think: 'Well played wife, well played.'

Players only love you when you're shouting

Can barely contain my anger this morning. Receive an email from the league reminding me that the next set of games will be part of an atrocity called ‘Players Weekend.’ At first, I think it’s one of those joke chain mails until I read a little closer. Apparently, the head honchos have seriously decreed that for one Saturday each season, the coaches should not coach. At all. Instead, they should suffer in silence and, as they so quaintly put it, ‘refrain from the constant barrage of instruction.’

I can’t believe what I’m reading. They expect the kids to think for themselves out there. To problem-solve without our help? To talk more to each other? And they demand adults only applaud and never instruct. Even the parents are ordered to obey this very obviously fascist directive. Come on, have any of these people ever been in charge of a team? How are we supposed to coach without shouting? The players won’t know what to do without the constant soundtrack of people like me droning on.

More importantly, what am I supposed to do to counter this? It’s too late to learn sign language before the match. And the kids wouldn’t understand it anyway. I guess I’m going to have to just stand there, watch mistake after mistake, and not even get the satisfaction of roaring criticism at the kids. This is not what I signed up as a coach to do. The more I think on this the more I realize it’s positively un-American. I mean, when did all this become solely about the players?

Mud in your eye

Ugly scenes at practice tonight. During the five-minutes I allot for a scrimmage, I’m doing my best to help my team win. As usual, this involves me running at full speed towards whichever kid has the ball and frightening them into giving it up to me. Surprisingly, most nine and ten year olds get a little nervous when they have a six foot one, 220lb man closing them down while screaming scary noises at the top of his voice. Except for in this instance.

I’m charging towards a kid named Billy out near the corner flag when he does the most brazen thing. He nutmegs me. No, seriously. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t kick the ball away before I get there. He waits and waits and then, at the last second, flicks it through my legs. To add insult to injury, he runs around me and goes away up the field. And I swear some of the other boys are laughing!

I’m so annoyed I extend practice by an extra five minutes. I have to. How else am I to get revenge?  The chance finally comes. Billy is dribbling with the ball and doesn’t hear me coming. I wait and wait until he’s approaching the muddiest area of midfield, then I sprint up behind him, and execute the most brilliant trip. He goes face-first into the mud. As he lies there caked in the brown stuff, I stand over him and shout “Nutmegged!”

Practice makes imperfect

Wife still ignoring me so I pass the time at breakfast checking my emails. Yet one more annoying communication from a parent. This mother wants to know why her son doesn’t play more given that he never misses a practice. This is so irritating I decide to phone rather than write back.

‘Your son’s attendance at all practices is duly noted and appreciated,’ I say, by way of an opening gambit.

‘Thank you coach,’ she says.

‘No problem,’ I continue. ‘It is also required because if he is ever going to even resemble a soccer player he will have to practice much more than twice a week.’

Cue lengthy silence and a deep intake of breath on the other end of the line.

‘I’m just upset because the rules you gave the boys clearly state that only players who practice can play. Attendance is supposed to be mandatory.’

‘It is mandatory,’ I reply, ‘just more mandatory for some than others. The best players need to practice less than the weaker ones so it would be unfair not to start them on Saturdays just because they miss some sessions. It would also weaken the team if they were on the bench.

‘Uh, uh, okay.’

‘Hope this clarifies the situation for you. Thanks for getting in touch.’

Sometimes honesty is the best policy.

Superfly guy

Wife happens to be the only person home when the UPS man delivers my awesome new Nike Mercurial Superfly Vapors. Very bad luck. I try to lie and tell her the package is work-related but she’s too smart to fall for that. My efforts at hiding the invoice fail too when she snatches it from me the moment I open the box.

‘Two hundred and fifty dollars!’ she screams. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’

Some battles you just can’t win so I quickly lace up the cleats and run out into the backyard in the middle of the argument. I figure if I get them muddy and dirty she won’t be able to make me send them back. They feel fantastic. So light. Such a perfect fit. Of course the moment is ruined somewhat by the fact my first excited touches of the ball come sound-tracked by wife braying her displeasure through the kitchen window.

‘It’s an investment,’ I shout back while flicking the ball from foot to foot.

‘An investment in what?’ she hollers.

‘In my coaching career.’

‘You don’t get paid for this.’

‘You don’t think word will get out about me and high schools and colleges will be begging me to take over their programs.’

‘No I don’t and I’m going out now. I’m going out shopping. Out to blow the grocery budget for the whole week.’

‘Enjoy yourself honey,’ I say, throwing in the honey at the end for added irritation. Then I volley the ball into the air and think to myself, man, these cleats are so worth all this trouble.

Actions speak louder than words

Unwind tonight watching a rerun of a boring Serie A game on Fox Soccer Channel. I don’t care much for either team or their tactics or technical approach. I’m more interested in studying the behavior of the coaches on the sideline. Like all travel team coaches, I’m very conscious of how I look during games and this is an opportunity to add to my growing repertoire of impressive mannerisms. I’m not a fool, I know parents often judge us by how animated or detached or cerebral we appear at crucial stages so this kind of thing can’t be underestimated.

When the game ends, I head upstairs so I can practice my new moves in the full-length mirror in the hallway. I work on pursing my lips in frustration. Always a good look. Then I start doing the arms outstretched in disbelief pose. A classic. Perfect for when I’m exasperated with the referees and my own players. Best thing about that too is it morphs easily into the hands clapped together in front of your chest gesture. Very Italian. Very sophisticated. And with sound effects too.

‘You look ridiculous, you know that,’ says wife, who has been secretly spying on my antics.

‘Nobody asked your opinion,’ I say, trying hard to stay in character, arms remaining in the crucifix position.

'Next thing you’ll be putting on an accent,' she continues.

And as she walks away, I think to myself, that’s not a bad idea at all. Most positive contribution she's made to my coaching career in quite a while.

In the name of the father

Midway through a hard-fought cup game, I notice our opponents have brought on a sub who isn’t wearing a proper shirt. Of course, my first instinct is to bring this to the referee’s attention and cause some trouble for the other team. Before I can even get the words out of my mouth though, one of the fathers on our side is up out of his chair, roaring.

‘That kid isn’t dressed properly,’ he shouts at the referee. ‘You can’t play without the right equipment on.’

There is some booing and hissing from the opposing parents but my guy isn’t deterred by this. He roars again, haranguing the official and the child.

‘Get off kid and get a real shirt. You can’t play in a sweater.’

The referee stops play and the child turns bright red as the spotlight falls upon him and his bad fashion decision. The other coach is apoplectic. I stand there feigning innocence, pretending to be exasperated at my interfering parent.  I even shake the head once or twice convincingly. The kid goes off the field to change, their concentration is broken and we sneak what turns out to be the only goal of the game.

‘That’s for you sir,’ I say, at the final whistle as I hand the father involved one of my adult-sized ‘Nothing shapes character like winning’ t-shirts. ‘You did your bit for the cause today. You earned this prize.’

He pulls it over his head and walks towards his car with a spring in his step. Sometimes these parents will surprise you in the best possible way.

Keepy-uppies with the Joneses

End practice tonight with a keepy-uppy contest. These kids have really improved at this but none can hold a candle to me. After watching the most skilful player in the squad reach 40, much to the delight of his cheering peers, I take center-stage.

‘Now let’s watch how the professionals do it,’ I say, shoving the 10-year-old upstart off to the side.

I cruise to 40 and once I’ve beaten that tally and ensured my victory in the competition, I begin showboating. I’m alternating between left and right feet, mixing in some thigh work, and even a couple of headers. Of course, some of the kids are jealous of my ability. There is a distinct lack of cheering at my ball-juggling magnificence, and one or two of the fresher ones are actually bouncing balls to try to distract me. As if that’s going to work.

Still, enough of them are staring in awe for me to know this is a worthwhile exercise. I'm giving them something to aspire to. I stop at 100 keepy-uppies but really I could have done twice that. I swear I could.

These colors do run

Sitting at the kitchen counter this morning, blissfully sipping my coffee while playing a quick game of FIFA 11 on the iPhone when wife comes storming up from the basement.

‘Look at this, look, look,’ she says, holding up some pink clothing.

‘Very nice, very nice,’ I say, using my default response when asked about her daily fashion decisions.

‘Look at the color, you idiot! These used to be white. They are supposed to be white.’

‘And?’

‘Your cheap-ass soccer t-shirt ran in the wash,’ she shouts, holding up my red ‘Nothing shapes character like winning' tee in her other hand.

'Well,' I say, 'that’s your own fault. If you hadn’t made me do my own laundry, this never would have happened.'

I thought that was a reasonable enough response. She didn’t. Standing right there in the kitchen, she ripped the t-shirt in two, threw it on the floor and brazenly marched out the front door. She has no respect at all for other people's property.

I would dive for you

The most satisfying part of coaching is that, very occasionally, you get to learn something from the kids. Tonight, one of my players brought the scrimmage to a halt with a fantastic dive inside the opposition penalty box. He’d been barely touched by the defender yet he keeled over as if shot by a sniper lying in the long grass.

‘Where did you learn that?’ I shout.

‘Watching the UEFA Champions League on tv this week,’ he replies.

Eureka! Another teachable moment. I gather all the players in a circle and get the kid to repeat the dive as they watch. Then I get all of them to copy him. I spend fifteen minutes teaching them the art of the fake dive. They love it. They spend so many hours playing violent video games that they love pretending to be killed.

Some say that’s a little too much time to spend on diving but, come on, the referees we get are still in their teens, and are easily swayed by dramatics and theatrics. This is a smart investment. Not to mention either that, as all the coaching courses remind us, the good habits these players learn today are the ones they will keep for all their soccer-playing lives. It’s so important this kind of stuff is done right.

Freedom of speech no longer free

Turns out the predictably fascist moderator of our league's message board has banned one of my online alter egos. I can no longer log in under the alias of ‘dementedsoccermom’ because I'm now banned from the site. Seems he took umbrage at me saying one of the players on the team we faced last week looked like Mickey Rourke in ‘The Wrestler’. Never mind that this was a fair and accurate description of a 10 year old man-boy who looked like he was meeting his wife and kids for dinner immediately after the game. Yet more evidence these moderators are on power trips and are determined to stifle the type of free speech that made this country great!

These cleats were made for coaching

Some days you just know your luck is in. As wife rushes out the door this morning, she leaves her credit card behind on the counter in the kitchen. Can’t believe my good fortune.  Another amateur mistake on her behalf. Capitalizing on the error, I go straight onto the computer and order a pair of Nike Mercurial Vapor Superfly cleats. I’ve wanted these since one of the rich kids on my team got them for his 10^th birthday the other week. Spoilt brat. I swear they make him run faster.

I opt for the black and orange edition. A stylish snip at just under $250, including extra for rush delivery. Site guarantees they’ll be here by Saturday morning so I will look the part at our next game. If you look good you feel good and all that. Of course, I spend so long surfing the net, ogling the various colors and styles available, I end up late for work. Still, it’ll be worth getting in trouble with the boss when these big boys arrive later in the week.

Gratitude not included

A few of my coaching colleagues do everything they can to keep the parents sweet. I prefer to keep them at a distance and to remind them regularly who’s in charge.  Witness the following email exchange that took place this morning.

Parent: Jimmy was very upset when he found out what deplorable means. I think that was a very harsh word to describe his performance at practice.

Me: You only think that because you didn’t see just how bad he was.

Parent: That’s as may be but could you please be a little more constructive in your criticism?

Me: Could you please ensure Jimmy plays better?

You will have noticed the complete lack of gratitude for what I’m trying to do here. Not a word of thanks for how I’m trying to help her son develop as a player while also improving his (obviously) limited vocabulary. I can’t believe the nerve of some of these people.