What lies beneath

Phone starts to vibrate in my pocket during a meeting at work. Glance at the number and immediately suspect it’s from the family of one of the players I’m trying to recruit/trying to get away from his current team.

‘Sorry guys, I have to take this,’ I lie. ‘It’s opportunity knocking.’

The conversation goes even better than I could have expected.

'Hi, this is ____, my son plays for ____ and I’m just wondering if you’ve heard anything about his team breaking up this summer,’ says the concerned father.

‘I’ve heard that alright, very disturbing,’ I say in my fake sincere voice. Of course I’ve heard it. I was the one who posted the rumor on the league message board under my new pseudonym “Prius-loving soccer mom”. Not to mention I’ve already phoned another kid’s mother from that team.

‘It seems half the team are going to concentrate on football in the fall,’ says the father, in a voice that suggests he’d like further confirmation of this.

‘Yup, that’s the talk in coaching circles alright,’ I lie magnificently. ‘I’ve also heard the coach is moving out of state.’ I just can’t resist adding another layer of doubt.

‘Well, considering all that, I was wondering if my son could try-out for your team,’ he says.

‘You know, I don’t usually like taking players from other teams,’ I somehow manage to say with a straight face, ‘but under the circumstances I suppose it’s only fair your kid gets a chance to continue playing.’

‘That would be fantastic, we’d be so grateful,’ says Mr. Gullible.

‘And if he has any friends on the team who want to pop along to my try-out, bring them too. It’s always hard for a kid to come alone to these things.’

‘As you mention it, I think I can bring his friend who plays in goal.’

‘Perfect. Just perfect.’

I walk back to my desk thinking this must be the meaning of the phrase killing two birds with one stone.

Home of the free, land of the bribe

You know try-out season is looming when the unsolicited gifts start arriving at your door. The local butcher’s truck pulls up outside this morning and hands me an enormous case of baby back ribs. A gift from an admirer? Sort of. Just the first bribe to come my way from a smart father doing what he can to help his son make the cut at try-outs.

I carry the box into the kitchen like a child proudly bearing a trophy. I make a huge deal of hoisting it onto the island where wife is sitting having her coffee.

‘What do you think of this then?’ I ask.

‘What is it?’ she doesn’t even look up as she speaks. Typical of her lack of interest in my career.

‘A giant box of baby back ribs from the butcher.’

‘You bought this?’ The voice goes up an octave. As usual, she’s looking to make this about me spending money I don't have.

‘No, it’s a gift from a parent.’

‘What?’ I’m not sure why she sounds so incredulous.

‘Just to thank me for doing such a great job with the kids,’ I continue, wisely deciding not to mention it’s a very obvious attempt by a rich Dad to buy his son’s place on next fall’s squad.

She’s so taken aback she’s unsure how to respond to this. ‘Eh, really?’

‘Oh  yeah,’ I say, trying to play it down while simultaneously having a jab about her continued lack of support. ‘It’s just great to be acknowledged for the work I put in, the way I’m changing these kids’ lives.’

I walk out to leave her staring at this tasty token of appreciation, hoping it might make her realise what a coaching giant I’ve become. I go upstairs and put a new entry in my book.

Commandment of Travel Team Soccer Number 91: A good coach cannot be bought by wealthy parents with more money than sense but he can definitely be sweetened.

Old soldiers never die

Midway through the second half of our first game today, the ref gives a bad offside decision that costs us a goal. Before I can even begin to harangue him, our goalkeeper’s grandfather is on his feet on the other side of the pitch.

‘That goal was offside, ya bum!’ he shouts at the ref, throwing his US Air Force veteran’s cap on the grass for dramatic effect.

I’m stunned into silence. Way to step up Grandpa! The ref doesn’t know how to react as the silver fox continues to berate him.

‘Why don’t you learn the rules before you start reffing?’ The old guy is giving it everything he’s got.

The ref turns towards me as if expecting me to say or do something. I shrug my shoulders pretending to sympathise. As I do, the old guy pipes up again.

‘Why don’t you let the kids play and stop playing dictator?’ he roars. How much do I love this guy? Why doesn’t he come to all our games?

Killjoy that he is, the ref sees this as an insult too far. He walks towards me  with the type of power stride they must teach at ref school.

‘I’m stopping the game until the old guy leaves the field,’ he announces. ‘He’s with your team, he’s your responsibility.’

‘You can’t eject him,’ I shout back. ‘He’s a veteran, a war hero. He’s what this weekend is all about.’ I’m quite pleased with that retort given I don’t even know if Grandpa actually served.

‘He’s a loudmouth and he has to go or the game is over,’ says the man in black.

Sometimes in life you have to make hard decisions. I can’t ask grandpa to leave. Not after the way he fought our corner today. So I dare the ref to end the game. And he does. End of game. End of our interest in the tournament. But at least the kids have learned what this weekend is truly about: showing solidarity with those who’ve worn the uniform of our country.

May madness

Like a lot of coaches, I enjoy using the Memorial Day weekend tournaments to experiment and to try new things. Of course, I don’t do the usual sappy stuff like starting weaker players or giving them more playing time. Why encourage mediocrity? 

I prefer to use these events to tinker with my coaching methods. In the first game of our double-header today, I decide to completely freak my players out by remaining silent for the entire first half. Radical, I know.

‘Coach, are you okay?’ asks one of the fathers, so concerned at my silence he walked around from the other side of the field to check on my health.

‘Fine,’ I say, noting his concern. This is one of the good guys. He knows I only shout because I care.

The boys on the field are utterly perplexed by the absence of my voice. Again and again, they look to the sideline for instruction but I remain stoic with my lips pursed and my arms folded. Well, at least, until we concede a goal. Then I stamp my feet and flail my arms while grunting my displeasure.

At half-time, I pull another trick. As soon as each boy has had a drink, I gather them around me.

‘Get back on the field right now,’ I whisper. ‘And while you are waiting for your opponents and the ref,  spend the next few minutes thinking of how badly you’ve played and what an embarrassment you are to your parents…Then do something about it!’

Shortest, most effective half-time speech in the history of U-10 soccer. They go berserk in the second half, kicking everything that moves, ball and man. We get three yellow cards and three goals. Perfect. What a response from my boys. Just the right amount of violence in their approach to prove there was a method to my madness.

Class is in session

Midway through practice tonight, one of the parents crosses the line. Literally. He walks onto the field and asks me a question. The sheer effrontery of it. This is such a breach of etiquette I’m unsure how to react at first.

‘Don’t you think you are running them a little hard coach?’ asks the college professor father, carrying some academicky-looking book in his right hand just to remind us all of his illustrious position.

‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ I reply before blowing my whistle to announce yet another round of 40-yard sprints.

‘It’s still 85 degrees and you’ve had them running for over half an hour,’ he says, sounding like he believes this to be a reasonable argument.

‘What is it you teach at the university again?’

‘History,’ he answers, proudly holding up his designer-accessory book as some sort of proof of this. ‘Mostly European history although I do dabble in the Revolutionary War period too.’

‘Okay, well, unless you teach Physical Education, I would ask you to leave the field right now. I’ll leave the teaching to you and you leave the coaching to experts like me.’

You’d think this would be enough for him but no, these teaching types are too used to having it all their own way.

‘I’m just saying this is a rather punishing work-out in this heat,' he continues.

‘Just get off the field bud,’ I shout, making a menacing step into his personal space that startles him so much he begins to back away. ‘And you know what else you can do, teach? Take your kid who, for the record, needs to run more than most because he's carrying a few pounds and certainly doesn’t have any basic skills in this sport, and go join another club!’

End of argument. I go back to shouting at my players, having shown once again that, whatever else, I won’t participate in the wussification of another generation of American children.

Insert catchy slogan here

Everybody at work is called into the conference room for an address by some guy from head office. It’s one of those video hook-up things so I don’t have to pay attention to his speech about more cut-backs and looming lay-offs. Determined to prove wife wrong about yesterday's merchandise lie, I get busy jotting down potential bumper sticker and t-shirt slogans on my yellow pad. Boss catches me writing and nods approvingly at my avid note-taking which gives me more license to really concentrate on what I’m doing.

I just put down some rough cuts with notes in brackets to explain the marketing behind each one.

God, travel team, and country. In that order. (obvious appeal to religious market)

Travel Team Soccer is not a participation sport! (sums up what the game is all about)

My travel team soccer player would kick your honors student’s ass (to remind our players they are superior to so many of their peers)

School prepares children for college, travel team soccer prepares them for life (to remind players their coaches know more than their teachers)

Travel team soccer, it’s about the winning, not the taking part (self-explanatory)

Travel team soccer is my serotonin re-uptake inhibitor! (how we offer holistic alternative to anti-depresssants)

My therapist is a travel team soccer coach (none of my players will end up in therapy like those emo kids)

Proud father of a marine, navy seal, travel team soccer player (to remind our players how tough it is to make the cut)

Teach a kid to win and you have yourself a travel team soccer player (highlighting our hatred of losers and losing)

There should be an I in travel team soccer (highlighting our love of individual brilliance)

Honk if your kid wasn’t cut from his travel team (always good to encourage show of pride)

You don’t have to be crazy to coach travel team soccer but it helps (what coach doesn’t believe that?)

That’s as far as I get before video conference ends and I’m forced to go back to real work. Still, it’s a start.

Work is the curse of the coaching class

Wife decides to hold a council of war before we leave the house this morning. She’s up in arms about the financial situation. As usual.

‘I think you are going to have to get a second job,’ she says.

‘Come again?’

‘A part-time job just to get us over the hump,’ she continues while frothing her coffee, just to add an annoying soundtrack to her whining.

‘I have a second job. I’m a coach. Remember!’ I’m almost choking on my Honey Nut Cheerios at the very suggestion.

‘Well, you aren’t paid for that. You need a paying gig.’ She does an excellent irritated schoolteacher impression for so early in the morning.

‘How many times do I have to tell you I’m working now towards a big payday down the road? I will be the high school varsity coach in a couple of years and that’s a highly-paid position.’

‘Yeah, that’s great honey,’ she replies, slipping in the type of surreptitious honey that drives me nuts. ‘For now though we need cash and you just aren’t earning enough in your main job.’

I don’t even dignify that with a reply but this doesn’t deter her.

‘Seriously honey (again with the honey!), if you devoted half as much time to work as you do to your little soccer venture, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

That’s it. The moment she goes over the top with a two-footed tackle leaving me writhing in pain on the ground.

'For your information, I already have a business that I’ve started. I just haven’t told you about it.' A complete lie but a good response under pressure.

‘What is it then?’ she asks in the tone a mother might use when addressing her five year old son.

‘I’m designing a range of merchandise based around my travel team philosophy. T-shirts with slogans, bumper stickers, stuff like that. There’s a huge gap in the market.’

‘Merchandise?’ That’s all she can get out before she laughs so hard her coffee comes out her nose and her eyes water. She doubles over the sink guffawing.

I shake my head in disgust. I get up and march out. I’m so mad I don’t even put my dishes in the dishwasher.

Just say no to Little League and drugs

The moment I get out of the car at practice tonight I’m confronted by one of the uber-moms, iPad under her arm, Bluetooth in her ear. Obviously, she runs an enormous corporation with three employees, sorry, kids.

‘My son can’t play on Saturday,’ she says, almost proud of the fact.

‘Oh yeah?’ I ask, wearily, knowing this could get ugly fast.

‘He was selected for the All-Star team in his Little League and they are going upstate to a tournament this weekend.’ Definite pride in that voice alright.

‘And?’ I’m still biting my lip, trying to play it cool.

‘Well, he has to go because it’s a huge honor to be selected.’ She’s smiling as she speaks, like this is really a good thing.

Shaking my head, I pause, inhale deeply and then let go.

‘Why is it a good thing?’ I practically shout. ‘He’s an All-Star in a sport where you only have to hit the ball once out of every three tries to be any good, where you catch the ball with a big, ugly glove rather than your bare hand, and, and here’s the worst part, where kids actually cheer for each other from the bench during games! What a joke!’

She just stares at me as if I’m speaking a different language.

‘You are kidding right?’ she finally asks, nervously clutching her iPad to her chest like a comfort blanket.

‘Look, your son is a half-decent soccer player who, if he listens to me, might one day actually be almost good. If he’s going to put baseball first I suggest you take him home and start him on the steroids right now. I don’t want him taking up space at my practice. And you better get him on the HGH and all that stuff as quickly as possible.’

More confusion on her face. ‘What do you mean steroids?’ she shouts as I turn to walk away.

‘Honey, he ain’t making it in baseball without chemical assistance so you better get to the pharmacy and get working on him. See ya in Yankee Stadium.’

Funny how a good argument like this can put you in the mood to really make the other kids suffer for an hour.

Don't try-out this at home

Usual Monday morning craziness at work. Boss roaring at people. Files piling up on my desk. I do the only thing a sane man can do and start working on the flyer I must distribute advertising the forthcoming try-outs for my team for next fall. Some coaches like to draw in big numbers to these events. I prefer to make sure they understand my philosophy from the outset.

TRY-OUTS FOR BOYS U-11 – THEY AREN’T KIDS ANYMORE!!!

We want soccer players. We do not want kids who wish to play soccer and other sports simultaneously. If a child doesn’t know which game he wants to concentrate on at this age (they already 10 and 11!), we aren’t interested in him. We also do not want parents who interfere/who once played intra-mural in college/who read magazines with articles about European coaching methods.

Our team is focused on teaching players the most vital skill of all – winning. Once they master this hugely under-appreciated and often-neglected skill, they will learn plenty about the game. They will not be exposed to fashionable yet ridiculous concepts such as ensuring every kid touches the ball a couple of hundred times during every practice.

Also, please note we conduct our try-outs the same way as we run the team, always looking to separate the weak from the strong. Some kids will go home in tears. Tears of their own making! There will be no soft-soaping. There will be no excessive praising of merely competent play. There will be no attempt to teach life lessons other than losing sucks and mediocrity will not be tolerated!!

We have limited spaces available so no time-wasters please. Remember, on our travel team, it’s about the winning, not the taking part.

That just about sums it up. Should at least ensure only serious kids apply.

God is not great

Sitting in front of the computer screen this morning, staring at the revised league standings and lamenting our loss of top spot. Still trying to come to terms with the injustice of yesterday’s game. Enter wife showing no regard at all for my suffering.

‘Are you ready for church?’ she asks.

‘Do I look like I’m ready?’ I snap.

‘Well we are leaving now whether you like it or not,' she declares in that bossy voice she’s perfected over years of marriage.

‘I’m not going,’ I say with all the defiance of a man now no longer in charge of the league-leading team.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not going and that's it.’

‘Why not?’ she asks, now resorting to her schoolmarm tone.

‘I don’t believe in God anymore. Any deity who allows a decision like that to go against my team yesterday isn’t worthy of my worship.’

‘You are so over the top,’ she says, yet again failing to feel my pain. ‘It’s only a game.’

‘If it’s only a game, why would a higher power want to inflict that sort of suffering on somebody for no good reason? What did I ever do to deserve this type of treatment from the man upstairs?’

‘You are losing your mind!’ she shouts.

‘You’d be losing your mind too if you were sat here trying to figure out whether God even exists anymore.’

She slams the front door on her way out and I shake my head in despair. Sometimes, her lack of empathy  is just stunning.

The eyes have it

With one minute to go in today’s game, we are clinging to a one-goal lead when our opponents hit a long ball over the top.

‘Offside, Offside!” I shout, knowing the moment the referee hears my roaring he’ll call it too.

As they are trained to do, all my defenders stop in their tracks. Only one problem. The ref ignores my attempted call and waves play on. They score, the game ends in a tie, and, of course, I go ballistic. I jump up and down on the sidelines and offer a selection of the greatest hits from my insults repertoire.

‘I didn’t see you put on one of their shirts ref. It’s supposed to be nine against nine not nine against ten. You do understand what offside actually means right? Are you legally blind or is it just short-sightedness? Does your village know it's missing an idiot?’

The kids are loving my display of passion, and, as one of my boy’s fathers starts to drag me back towards the bench, I give the piece de resistance.

‘Are you saving up for laser surgery ref?’ I roar while throwing a fistful of dollars in his direction. ‘Here’s my contribution to that fund.’

At this point, the man in black walks towards me and brandishes a yellow card. ‘There you go, for your trouble,’ he says in that annoying authoritative voice.

‘A yellow card? A yellow card? Oh that’s going to hurt me. Remember this pal, yellow cards are the Oscars of my profession! The Oscars of my profession!!’

I’m so spent from shouting I don’t even have the energy to berate my defenders for failing to play the whistle. That dressing-down will have to wait until the next practice.

Don't sweat the small stuff

Practice goes a little long tonight so I have to rush from the field to the fancy restaurant where wife has dinner reservations. You’d think she’d appreciate the effort I made. You’d think wrong.

‘You haven’t even changed!’ she shout-whispers at me when I find her sitting alone in the middle of the crowded dining room.

‘Yes I have, I put on a fresh polo shirt,’ I respond.

‘You stink of man-sweat. You haven’t even showered.’

‘I do not stink,’ I say, doing the whole armpit-sniffing gesture as if to prove my case. ‘I sprayed some Axe on myself in the car.’

That’s still not enough to please her.

‘Look at your shorts,' she continues. 'You are still wearing the same shorts you went to practice in.’

‘The shorts are fine. There are lots of guys in here in shorts.’

‘Not athletic shorts and not ones with white paint stains down the side.’ I swear, sometimes with her it’s every little thing.

‘Well, the stains are because I’m the only guy in the room who made an unbelievable sliding tackle to save a certain goal in our scrimmage. It was last-ditch stuff! I slid right along the edge of the freshly-lined penalty box. Some refs might have called a foul but given that I was the ref, that was never going to happen.'

‘I don’t even want to eat now,’ she says, refusing to even acknowledge my story about the game.

‘I do. I’m starving. These practices are quite a work-out.’

The food turns out to be great and wife’s silence means I get to spend a lot of time thinking about tomorrow’s game. It’s a win-win.

Scout's honor

Like any self-respecting coach of a U-10 travel team, I keep a detailed scouting dossier on every opponent we face. This way when we run into them again, say at U-11, I’ll know which of their players we need to kick early on in the game to upset them. That kind of thing. As somebody once said, if you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail.

Busy doing nothing at work this morning then when I get a call from another coach in our league, brazenly trying to tap into this resource.

‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ he says. ‘We are playing ____ this Saturday and I know you guys beat them a while back. Obviously, I’d love your take on who their best players are and what way they play?’

This is quite a moral dilemma. Do I offer him a glimpse into my notebook (arguably the most comprehensive breakdown of every nine and ten year old boy in our division) or do I use this opportunity to feed false information to a team that could yet deny us the league championship? Of course, I opt for the latter.

‘Well, their goalie is really good (he’s pathetic) so warn your players not to shoot from outside the box (we scored three from distance!),’ I say in my fakest sincere voice. ‘They play a high offside line (obviously they don’t) so warn your offense to hug the halfway line. Oh, and they are a very physical team so I’d start your bigger players rather than your skilful ones (they are actually all nippy tricksters). Other than that I don’t know much about them.’

The last is the biggest lie of all. My real notes about that club run for three full pages.

‘That’s more than enough pal,’ he says, thrilled with this scoop. ‘If you ever want any information about any team we’ve played just give me a call.’

‘Sure thing,’ I say. As if I’d ever be naïve enough to take another coach’s word for anything.

Holy war

Busy collecting the cones after practice tonight when I’m assailed by a soccer mom. It’s obvious from the way she’s squeezing her chai latte too tight she’s got her yoga pants in a twist about something.

‘My son can’t make it this Saturday,’ she says in a strident voice that suggests she’s expecting a confrontation.

‘Oh yeah, what’s the problem?’ I ask.

‘His brother is making his first communion.’

‘Come again?’

‘His brother is making his first communion at the church.’

‘What’s the problem with that? He’s not making it. Just drop him here for the game and somebody will drop him over to the church when it’s over.’

‘The look she shoots me, you’d think I’d just asked her to sacrifice the child on the altar.

‘I don’t think you understand the significance,’ she says, after a particularly long sip of her drink. ‘It’s an important religious ceremony and all the family have to be there.’

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I do so understand. I’m a member of the one true church myself. I just don’t understand why all the other kids have to be dragged along for the mass. They’ll probably spend the whole time playing those hand-held video games anyway when no-one is looking. Now be sensible, let your son play the game and I promise to deliver him safely to the party. I mean, that's the important part of the whole day.’

What did she expect me to say? Her son is a good player. I can’t afford to lose him for a vital game just because his brother is receiving the body of Christ for the first time.

‘You are so offensive!’ she shouts as she starts to march away, obviously unable to continue the spiritual debate. ‘You are beneath contempt!’

I stand there shaking my head as she hurls the chai latte against the fence. When I started out in coaching, nobody warned me about the potential problems caused by religious fundamentalists. Time to make that right. 

Commandment of Travel Team Soccer Number 34: The more atheist parents on your team the less disruption will be caused to your squad during a season.

Settling scores

Feeling the Tuesday blues this morning, I log on to the league website to look at the standings, and to bask in the glory of being top of our division. Imagine my shock when I see we are only in second place. Turns out our opponents last Saturday failed to upload the score to the site as is the home team’s responsibility. I can’t decide whether to email their coach directly or to take this to a higher power. Eventually I opt to phone the league.


‘Hi, I’d like to report Coach ____ for failing to put our score up after last Saturday’s game.’

‘Okay,’ says the woman who runs the league, ‘he probably just forgot. I’ll send him a reminder email.’

‘No, he didn’t.’ I say. ‘It was deliberate. Some of these guys just can’t take losing.’

‘Well I’m sure that’s not the case. He’s probably a busy guy.’

‘He can’t be that busy!’ I shout a little too loudly. ‘He even brings his kid onto the sideline with him at games!’

‘That’s got nothing to do with the scoreline,’ she counters, still remaining way too calm for my liking.

‘Okay, can you put this on his permanent record then?’

‘Eh, this is not high school. We don’t actually keep permanent records on people.’ To add insult to injury, she kind of laughs as she says this.

‘Well you should. This guy is a bad loser and everybody should know it,' I roar before hanging up.

Now even more agitated than before, I resort to my favorite weapon of all. Back to the message board I go. Log under new name ‘Subaru Soccer Mom’, and start a thread with the title: ‘Is Coach____ of _____ the worst loser in this whole entire league?’ In the body of the entry, I write: ‘I hear terrible things about the type of sportsmanship this guy teaches the kids on his teams. Surprised any parents would let their children play for him.’

I think that’ll send the right message.

The mother of all rumors

Some guy from head office comes in this morning and lectures us all about the need for increased productivity in these recessionary times. Conscious of the new rules, I sneak back from lunch early and use a colleague’s phone to start my poaching campaign. Make a call to the first name on my list of players I need to improve my squad for the fall.

‘Hi this is Coach ____ from _____, I was wondering if you’d heard the rumors your son’s U-10 team is disbanding. I’m not sure if it’s true and please don’t say you heard it from me, but that’s the word on the street. Anyway, I just wanted to say that even though a talented player like your son will have no shortage of options, I’d like you to know we’d love to have him over here on my team. He’d start every game for us obviously.’

I pause then to let the sales pitch sink in.

‘We hadn’t heard that,’ says soccer mom, though, if she’s like all others of her breed, the rumor will take flight in a matter of seconds once she gets off the phone.

‘Yeah, that's the talk going around coaching circles about your son's team,’ I continue in my matter of fact business voice. ‘Anyhow, just bear us in mind if it happens.’

‘You really think my kid is that good a player?’

‘Oh yeah,’ I reply, moving into excessive flattery overdrive. ‘I mean he’s a four-year scholarship to a major college at the very least, if not the pros.’

‘But he’s only nine and a half.’

‘I know,’ I say, still laying it on thick. ‘That’s how easy it is to identify talent like his.’

I hang up the phone, satisfied with the quality of my subterfuge. Now just have to wait for her to go online and set the league's message board alight with the rumor. A very productive start to the week.

In the name of the fathers

I can’t believe the people who run our league. They are the most insensitive bunch. This morning I get an email telling me that the cup finals are going to take place on Father’s Day, June 19^th. ‘We  hope the occasion will prove the perfect Father’s Day outing for children and their parents!’ says the league president. Yeah, what about the coaches? Way to deflect attention away from the coaches who, in case anybody is forgetting, are the ones that got these teams to the finals.

‘We recommend families get to the venue early and turn it into the perfect celebration of what Father’s Day is all about!’continues the email. Can you believe this? I work for months to get this team through the qualifying rounds and into the final and this is my reward. I now have to stand back and see the players’ fathers get all the attention on what should be the biggest day of our season. I mean, what have the fathers ever done for these players?

As wife shouts at me to take off my club polo shirt before going to church, I dash off an email to the league president.

‘Thanks for ruining cup finals day by having it on Father’s Day? You couldn’t have used any other Sunday in June. This shows yet again the contempt you people have for the coaches who, in case you haven’t noticed, are the most important people in the league!!!!! Why not have finals on a Sunday you declare “Coaches Day” to honor our work?????’

I’m so happy with this idea, and so confident I’ve given the authorities something to think about with my extra question marks for emphasis that I even put on a button-down shirt to please wife.

Child's play

As our first goal ripples the net, I turn to look at the expression on the opposing coach’s face. Like a prize fighter, I want to see the hurt in his eyes. One slight problem. He’s not even looking at the game. He has his back turned on the play and is kicking the ball around with his four year old son. No, seriously. I kid you not.

It gets worse. When we score our second ten minutes later, a sweeping move involving two horrendous tackles, a long ball over the top, and one particularly sly push in the back, he’s still not looking. He’s actually fumbling in a lunchbox by the bench, getting a juice box and some fruit snacks for the same child.

What an insult to my boys and my coaching! He didn’t even witness our brilliance. Eventually, I can take no more. I call the ref over.

‘What is the rule about having kids on the sideline?’ I ask.

‘Eh, there’s none, not that I know of,’ says the ref. ‘I think it’s allowed.’

‘It’s fine, is it?’ I reply. ‘It’s a disgrace. An embarrassment. You should be carding that coach.’

‘Well, I can’t card him because he’s not actually doing anything.’

‘Exactly. He’s not even paying attention.’

As this contretemps is going on, the other coach is oblivious, too busy sending the four year old onto the field delivering water to the players. If that’s not a cardable offence I don’t know what is.

We canter to a 6-0 victory but the gloss is taken off the result for me by the behavior of the opposing coach. I take this job seriously and I can’t stand when other coaches demean what we do by turning it into some sort of take your child to work farce. It's not meant to be fun.

Free credit score

Call in a huge favor at work today and ask the Human Resources guy to run a background check on a 10 year old kid. He looks at me kind of weird when I give him the age of the boy but then I explain. In this business you got to do what you have to do to stay ahead. Almost halfway through the season, I’m already thinking of bolstering my squad for the fall. I’ve a list of names of players from opposing teams who I intend to invite to move to our club over the next few weeks. Some jealous types call this poaching. I prefer to call it approaching because that’s what I’ll be doing as soon as HR guy gets me their phone numbers and family information.

The first player on my list is the dirtiest opponent we’ve come across. He’s rough and ready, about a foot taller than most in this division, and, shamefully, some of our guys were actually afraid of him when we played. He’ll be perfect for the center of my defense. Thankfully, HR guy has access to excellent background checking facilities on his computer so he can not only get me a phone number for the family but also the parents’ occupations, income brackets etc…I stand there proudly as he prints off reams of highly-personal material. This is the kind of extra effort I put in that the parents don’t see and that other coaches probably never think of doing.

I head back to my desk,  happily sifting through the file, wondering how I can use the family’s awful credit score of 550 when I call to try to recruit the kid to our cause.

10,000 maniacs

Walk into the bagel store this morning and meet the father of one of my players on the line. A professorial type, he reads a lot, always hanging around the car park at practice with a book in his hand. Obviously, this is the worst kind of parent you want involved in your team. Of course, he loiters outside waiting to ambush me.

‘Coach, I was wondering if you’ve come across the 10,000 hours theory?’ he asks.

‘No, I can’t say I have, is it some Dutch or European way of teaching soccer?’ I reply in the tired voice of somebody sick of getting unsolicited advice from know-it-alls who read too much.

‘No, it’s the accepted scientific wisdom that a kid must spend 10,000 hours practicing in order to master a sport,’ he says.

‘Oh right,’ I say, feigning interest while making a mental note to draft a new coaching commandment about avoiding bookish parents at all costs.

‘So, I was wondering if you think my son has a chance of making it as a professional if he puts in 10,000 hours over the next few years.’

What can I say? His son is hopeless. A benchwarmer’s benchwarmer. So bad that after nearly a year I still haven't figured out which of his feet is supposed to be the good one. Do I lie and I tell his father what he wants to hear? Absolutely not.

‘Eh, eh, let me put it this way. If your boy practiced for 10,000 years he wouldn’t make it as a professional soccer player.’

‘You’re a funny man,’ he says, slapping me on the shoulder playfully before walking away laughing aloud.

A strange way for him to react. He did know I was being serious, didn’t he?