There's no midfield in Middle Earth

Determined to put my down time to good use, I head to the local library tonight to check out the soccer section. Want to see if they have anything similar to my soon to be best-selling “Commandments of Travel Team Coaching” tome. It’s a strange place, the library, eerily quiet. It takes me a while to find the sports section because I’m afraid to ask any of the employees for directions in case they might try to get me to join their cult.

No sooner have I found the pitifully small soccer books section (lots of tomes about some clothes horse called Beckham but nothing at all about travel team!) than I hear my name being called. Oh the embarrassment. Caught with my hand on a bookshelf in the library by a soccer mom.

‘Hey coach, what a pleasant surprise,’ she says. For her maybe, not for me.

‘Oh, hello,’ I reply, pretending to be all comfortable.

‘Doing some research are you?’ she asks, rather rudely as she nods towards the soccer books behind me on the shelves.

‘Kind of, kind of,’ I say, my face turning redder and redder.

‘I’m here getting the Lord of the Rings trilogy for ____,’ she says, naming her son, a half-decent midfielder with a delightful nasty streak his parents will probably parent out of him before long.

‘Oh he’ll like those movies,’ I say, ‘lots of action in them.’

‘Not the movies, silly, the books,’ she continues, laughing as if I’ve just made some joke.

‘Oh yeah,’ I say, pretending I was kidding.

‘I’ve told him if he reads the entire trilogy by August 1^st, I’ll give him 50 dollars.’

I’m not sure why she is telling me this bizarre information or how she wants me to react so I just nod. Obviously, it’s difficult to resist the urge to ask why she doesn’t have the boy on an incentive scheme to improve his game over the next few weeks.

‘Anyway, must dash, have a good night,’ she says, bouncing towards the front desk in her Skechers Shape-Ups.

I walk away disillusioned. America is never going to amount to anything in soccer when parents are too obsessed with promoting reading over practicing soccer skills. It’s a sad day indeed when books are deemed more important than balls. What can Middle Earth possibly teach a promising young talent about patrolling midfield?

Patriot act

A chilling tap on the shoulder from my boss this morning, signaling to follow him into his office. All my colleagues turn to look at me doing my dead man walking thing, trying to appear as nonchalant as you can when you are about to be fired.

‘We have evidence you circumvented the company firewalls to access inappropriate websites yesterday,’ he says in a very prosecutorial tone.

‘Eh, what can I say?’ I respond, wondering whether to lie or come clean and cop a plea.

‘It’s all here in this document our tech guy has printed up, showing you spent two hours logged into some Russian site that streams illegal feeds,’ he continues, handing me the sheet.

I read the overwhelming evidence against me and nod my head, glad now I didn’t try to lie my way out of this one.

‘Have you anything to say in your defense?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I do,’ I say, standing up and walking around his office, doing that whole TV lawyer thing for effect. ‘ESPN3 went down yesterday morning and I had to go to the site listed to watch the USA women take on North Korea in their opening game of the World Cup.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Yeah, that’s the long and the short of it.’

‘But you know the rules are that anybody visiting unapproved sites during work hours can be fired.’

‘That was a chance I had to take,’ I say, now standing before his desk, gripping the back of my chair as I go for broke. ‘And if you want to fire me for being a proud American, for wanting to see the daughters of Communism put in their place by wholesome girls with ponytails from all corners of this great, great nation, that’s fine. I can’t think of a better reason to lose my job than for supporting my country. However, let me warn you, as soon as I leave this office, I will be all over the cable news channels, telling my story, the compelling tale of how one man’s love for the national soccer team cost him his job. You want that kind of publicity in this economy? You got it? I should be on Fox News by lunchtime!’

I take only two steps towards the door when he caves.

‘Okay, okay,’ he says, not sounding so confident anymore. ‘I think we can, eh, overlook it this time.’

I stroll back to my cubicle, shoulders back, triumphant.

A modest proposal

Rumor sweeps the office this morning about more job cuts looming. This sends everybody into a panic. Except me. Obviously I’m happy that I started building my tunnel out when I sent my job application to Sunil Gulati before the Gold Cup Final debacle. Way to get in ahead of the pack. Instead of working on yet another “urgent” project for my boss today, I start toying with my presentation for the inevitable job interview with the USSF. Begin putting together a document tentatively titled: 'Simple steps for improving the American game'.

1.      Ban parents from driving kids to games and practices. This encourages laziness. By walking to and from games, they develop a hunger and passion for the sport while also improving fitness and work ethic.

2.      Ban parents from games altogether. How often do coaches that know everything about soccer (like myself) see their instructions countermanded by parents on the other sideline, shouting stupid orders like ‘Pass the ball’ and applauding mistakes with platitudes like ‘next time, next ball’?  

3.      Have try-outs earlier. The sorting out the gifted from the dross process must start earlier and earlier. Evaluating five and six year olds is the way forward. The best can carry on with the sport, the others can be cut and told to start taking steroids in preparation for careers in baseball or professional cycling or whatever.

4.      Deport all foreign coaches. Controversial I know but the scourge of the accent is killing the game here. It’s not just how they speak, it’s the knowledge they try to impart with their ludicrous attempts to create mini-Barcelonas. This is a menace blighting our game.

5.      Stamp out the culture of rewarding mediocrity. Ban participation medals (take this to Supreme Court if necessary) and remind coaches it’s not their job to give valuable playing time to mediocre players at the expense of the truly talented. This is especially critical with kids under the age of 10 who need all the time on the field they can get.

That’s as far as I get before my boss, who’s turning into a serial lurker on my shoulder, starts hanging around my cubicle rather menacingly. The presentation is a work-in-progress but at least it keeps me from getting all obsessed about my future like so many of my colleagues.

Show me a good loser

The club president calls me at work today. I’m a bit worried when I see his number. A tad nervous he might want to relieve me of my position after the cup final defeat. I would have no complaints given my failure to deliver the trophy.

‘Coach, just calling to say “well done” to you and your team for having such a great season.’

‘What?’

‘You know, you guys did a fantastic job, second in your division which guarantees promotion in the fall, and reaching the cup final, that’s a great campaign.’

‘You are kidding me right?’ I say, waiting for the punchline.

‘No, I’m not and I just hope you emphasized to the kids what a great job they did in achieving so much success, told them what a platform this is to build on. Stuff like that.’

I pause while I take this in. Just to check if he’s really serious or if he’s just pranking me to see how I’ll react.

‘Are you there coach?’

‘I’m here.’

‘So again, eh, well done to you and your team, please pass on my congratulations to all involved.’

He’s serious. He’s definitely serious. So I must be too.

‘Listen, if you don’t’ mind me saying, el presidente, this is what is wrong with our club. You want me to celebrate mediocrity. You want me to applaud failure. You want me to tell a group of U-10s who had the chance to write their names in history that it’s okay, that they did really well to almost win two trophies, to almost make history. This is what’s wrong with this country today. What would have happened if the greatest generation almost won World War II? We’d all be speaking German! What would we be saying if Obama almost got Bin Laden? Great job letting the bad guy get away!’

I stop to take a breath and judging from his lack of response, my words are hitting the target.

‘And furthermore (always throw that in to sound important), I want you to tell the rest of the club I refused to hand out the losers’ medals to my team at the cup final. Those boys went home empty-handed that day and learned the hard way that second means nothing. Your job is get everybody else in the club thinking like this. Now my boss is on my case here and I’m going to hang up while you go away and think about changing your philosophy towards the sport!’

Put phone down and make mental note to start immediate campaign to oust club president.

Wife's peculiar Mexican standoff

Wife made me accompany her to a wedding last night so didn’t get to watch the USA-Mexico game until this morning. Having managed to successful avoid hearing the result, I’m relieved to sit down in front of the TV and, like a lot of coaches, I take in the action with a keen eye on the tactical set-ups.

Obviously, I love the way the American defenders keep hoisting long hopeful, high balls forward even after the Mexicans have proved they aren’t troubled by this. No point changing your approach in mid-battle and so what if Freddy Adu is available out wide in acres of space? Just because Adu seems to have the opposition in trouble every time he gets possession doesn’t mean we should keep feeding him. How many times do I tell my kids to go and win the ball for yourself?

Even when things start to go wrong for the US, I’m thrilled to see Fox Soccer Channel analyst Kyle Martino refuses to blame individuals like Jonathan Bornstein. It’s not like, eh, nearly every goal and so much other danger originated down Bornstein’s flank or anything. Midway through the second half, I make a mental note to send email to Sunil Gulati mentioning that Martino will be in the running for the job of my assistant when I succeed Bradley. That guy really knows his stuff. Love that he wanted to take Adu off earlier too.

Anyway, it’s finely poised at 3-2 and I’m wondering if America can find an equalizer when wife walks in.

‘Have you seen the fourth goal that the little Mexican with the hairband gets?’ she asks, brazen as anything.

‘What?’

‘The fourth goal. Guy with a hairband. He’s so cute he’d be a beautiful woman.’

‘You mean Dos Santos?’

‘Yeah, I think that's him.’

‘Well, thanks for ruining the game for me!’ I shout.

‘Oh sorry, I thought you must have already seen it on SportsCenter,’ she says, faking all sorts of remorse. I can tell by the mischievous smile on her face, she knew what she was doing. I’ve been around the game long enough to know a deliberate foul when I see it.

Fluke is not just the name of a fish

Midway through the second half of today’s title showdown, one of the opposing players sets off on the type of mazy, self-indulgent dribble that I absolutely despise and have successfully coached out of my own team. Dropping his shoulder, swiveling his hips, he beats, one, two, three, four and, finally, five of my boys before he curls the ball into the top corner from the edge of the penalty box. A total fluke! There’s no way he meant to do that. I don’t mind losing but not to a freakish accidental strike like this.

For the rest of the game, we press and press but our task is made difficult by their cynical tactics. Unbelievably, they start time-wasting all over the place. Their players go down with fake injuries any time we look like we might attack. Clearances out of their defense tend to go for miles so that the ball takes forever to come back. I’m stunned. Not just at how difficult they are making it for us but how well-coached they are. The guy in the charge of them has left no stone unturned. Talk about me being hoist by my own petard!

At the finish, I shake the other coach's hand and compliment him on a job well done. Then I shake the hand of every one of their players. Of course, I make a production of shaking the hand of their goalscorer, a diminutive kid with a faux hawk.

‘Nice goal kid,’ I say as I clasp his hand in mine.

‘Thanks coach,’ he says, the sweat making the hair gel drip down his forehead.

‘If you take that shot a thousand more times, kid, you miss every one of them,’ I continue. ‘That was a total fluke!’

He starts laughing. That’s how fresh some of these kids are. They can’t take a constructive critique. Then, I walk over to where my own disconsolate team is standing and try to figure out whether to start by berating the goalkeeper or the defenders.

Professor of the Dark Arts

Last practice of the season tonight. Obviously, there’s no slacking off. If we win our game tomorrow we win our league and since our opponents have the same number of points as us, it should be a clash of the titans. I’m taking no chances and devote much of this session to teaching the kids some practical measures to use when nursing a narrow lead in the second half of a crucial game. I start by going over some basic time-wasting measures.

‘When the ball is near the touchline and you need to clear it what do you do?’ I ask.

‘Hold onto it and look for a pass to a better-placed team-mate,’ answers one kid, obviously trying to be funny.

‘No,’ I shout. ‘You kick it long and hard into the next field. Forcing them to go get the ball, thereby wasting more time on the clock.’

I can almost see the lightbulbs going off in their heads as they begin to see the method to my madness.

‘If you get any sort of kick on the leg in the last ten minutes, why does it make sense to go down as if you’ve been shot?’

Puzzled looks all around. They are not quite getting this yet.

‘Because the ref will tell you take a knee while I come on to treat the injury. Hey presto, another minute or so gone off the clock.’

Smiles all around. It’s gratifying to see the looks of recognition break across their faces.

‘Another smart move is to take a throw-in even if you know it’s for the other team.’

‘Why?’ a couple of them ask. I love when they display this eagerness to learn.

‘Because then the ref will stop play and make the throw be retaken. Another 30 seconds down.’

‘Coach,’ asks the son of the college professor, ‘you are basically teaching us the dark arts of the game here.’

‘The what?’

‘The Dark Arts, like in Harry Potter. At Hogwarts.’

‘Yeah whatever,’ I say, trying not to give the bookish nerd any encouragement although I do like that description. Professor of the Dark Arts has a certain ring to it.

Employment prospects looking up

Bored at work this morning, I decide to kill two birds with one stone, start my search for a new, more fulfilling job while also venting my anger at the way some fans and pundits are actually “celebrating” the United States’ 1-0 victory over Panama last night. Why anybody thinks it’s a good thing we eked out a win against a country with a population of under four million people is beyond me?

It takes surprisingly little time to find an email address for Sunil Gulati, President of the USSF. I figure I might as well bypass the HR department and contact him directly. Save time for all involved.

Dear Sunil (hope you don’t mind me dispensing with formalities since we are all part of the soccer family),

I’m not sure whether you’ve formally advertised the position or not yet but obviously since the national team job is about to become vacant, I’d like to throw my hat in the ring early. You may not have heard of me. I’m one of the game’s best-kept secrets, one of the unsung heroes, working at the coal face, tending the grass-roots.

I may appear to lack professional experience but I’ve plenty of experience dealing with huge egos and people with a sense of entitlement (mostly parents in my case but it’s the same type of thing as pros coming back from European clubs with fancy notions about passing games etc). I’ve a winning record at U-10 level and a growing reputation for not suffering fools, on or off the field.

I’m a strict disciplinarian and guarantee no player will ever leave my squad in the middle of a tournament to attend a wedding, not even if it’s his own. Ask any parent how I deal with excuses like First Communion. Though currently childless, I’ll never pick my own son to start for the team, and promise I won’t come off like or dress like an angry gym teacher on the sidelines during games like the current guy.

Furthermore, I will always pick the players with the best reputations to start for my team regardless of their current form. No point punishing somebody for having several bad games in a row by putting them on the bench in favor of younger, more in-form players. Where’s the sense in that?

I have a few radical ideas to improve morale too. All prospective internationals born outside America or inside America to foreign parents will be subjected to a rigorous citizenship examination and/or an interview by Fox News Channel’s Sean Hannity (he’s very good at figuring out who is or is not a great American).

Anyway, we can discuss these at the interview (I presume we’ll have to have one just for the sake of propriety).

Yours in Sport,

Travel Team Coach

Type A personality deficit

‘Have you selected your squad for the fall yet?’ asks wife as I sip coffee and troll the league message board to see if there are any topics I can contribute malicious lies to before I go to work.

‘Yes, I have,’ I reply, pretending not to notice this is the fiftieth time she’s asked me this in less than a week.

‘And are you going to tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’ I ask, continuing the merry dance.

‘You know perfectly well what!’ she says, now showing her true colors. ‘Whether my boss’s son is making the cut or not!’

She’s suffered enough. I’ve wrung the process for every privilege I can this past week. Time to come clean.

‘Yeah, he is,’ I say.

‘Fantastic! That’s great news!’ She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Talk about taking liberties. ‘Can I tell her this morning?’

‘Sure.’

‘So if he’s in the squad he’ll be starting right?’

‘What?’

‘He’ll have to start, he can’t be a bench player or she’ll hold it against me at work.’

'Are you kidding me?'

‘No, I’m not. She won’t tolerate him riding the pine or whatever you soccer people call it?’

‘Are you telling me how to pick my team?’

‘Honey,’ she says, thinking this will soften me up. ‘My boss is a very Type A personality. Her son has to be a starter on every team he plays.’

'Well this may be a valuable lesson for him and her. Sometimes in life, you have to watch from the sidelines.’

'I’d prefer him not to make the cut than to be a sub,' she shouts in that shrill voice she uses when nervous.

'You should have thought of that before pestering me to pick the kid!' I roar back.

She storms out the door to work, without even as much as a ‘goodbye honey’. Typically ungrateful.

Escape to victory

Still trying to stave off post-Cup final depression, I stick on my favorite movie tonight. Thirty years after first being released, I still can’t figure out why “Victory”, starring Sylvester Stallone, Michael Caine and a host of European soccer players, didn’t get a single Oscar nomination at the time.  It’s directed by John Huston. I’m not sure what other films the guy was involved in but he can’t have made many better than “Victory”.

Perhaps the failure to win awards had something to do with Pele. His acting is second-rate and, as per usual, he is a complete ball hog in the game that the Allied prisoners of war play against the soldiers of the German army. There’s also the troubling matter of another New York Cosmos alumnus, Werner Roth, captaining the Wehrmacht XI. Can’t believe he was ever allowed back into America after that.

Of course, I take most pride in the performance of Hatch, the American goalkeeper, the man who blazed a trail in Europe for Kasey Keller, Brad Friedel, Tim Howard and those who came after him. Hatch demonstrated that American custodians were able to compete at the highest level in the sport, get the girl, and organize an audacious escape attempt all at once. Show me an English goalkeeper capable of that level of multi-tasking. Robert Green? Come on.

I love the refereeing performance in the game, the way the officials let the play flow and don’t blow for every little foul especially when Pele feigns injury for attention. It sticks in my craw though that the Brazilian is feted at the end for that ridiculous bicycle kick which was a total fluke! What kind of a message is that to send to kids? It’s a low percentage play that almost never comes off. Why try it in a big spot?

Still can never figure out why the Allies celebrate a 4-4 tie either. Surely they should have been disgusted at coming back from four goals down and then failing to win the match. Celebrating a tie? I guess that’s Hollywood for ya.

The English are coming

Serious case of the Monday morning blues. Still hurting from the cup final defeat and the treachery of the kids placing their own fathers before their coach. Wish I was having more try-outs so I could cut the ring-leaders from that operation. Matters take a turn for the worse when boss hands me a file marked “urgent” and tells me I should work through my lunch if necessary. As if.

At lunchtime, I refuse to eat with my colleagues because they are too upbeat. I sit in the park on a bench with a wrap, wondering where it all went wrong in the cup final until I get rudely interrupted.


‘Hey coach, how you doing?’ It’s the mother of one of my players. I call her too-impossibly-cheery-for-words mom, an irritating woman who’s always bouncing on the balls of her feet as if ready to run a race.

‘Hello.’ I give it the whole downbeat tone hoping this will discourage further conversation. No chance of her deciphering that signal.

‘Coach, you’ll be delighted to know that I’ve just signed ____ up for a summer soccer camp. Not just any summer camp either. It’s being run by Manchester City from England.’

‘I do know where Manchester City are from,’ I respond, wondering whether to point out they are the New York Mets to Manchester United's New York Yankees.

‘Isn’t that great? I mean they are bringing coaches with them from England and it’s got a great reputation. He’s bound to learn a lot.’

I can’t decide whether to finish chewing the piece of chicken in my mouth or to spit it out. I go with the spitting out. Better dramatic effect. She takes a step back as some of the detritus comes very close to splattering her shoes. Then I let fly.

‘What do you mean he’ll learn a lot? Is he not learning enough from me? Are you saying the English coaches are better? What do they know? When was the last time England won the World Cup? When was the last time England did anything in the world game?’

‘Didn’t they invent the game?’ she asks in that way too perky for Monday voice.

‘Yes they did and they have done very little innovative with it since,’ I say, standing up and getting ready to march off. ‘If you wish to expose your kid to inferior coaching with an accent, that’s your decision. Just warn the kid not to bring any of his bad habits from Manchester City to my team!’

I stride back towards the office, suddenly in a much better mood.

Victory has a thousand fathers, defeat is an orphan

The most depressing thing ever happens in the middle of the cup final this afternoon. The game is scoreless at half-time, and after giving my usual Churchillian team talk, I invite all players to put their hands in the circle and ask the captain to lead us in the traditional 1-2-3 chant. Which he does, kind of.

‘I-2-3, let’s do this for our dads!’ he shouts and the others follow.

I’m crestfallen. These ungrateful wretches. I lead them to a cup final and this is how they repay me, vowing to win the game for their fathers. Hallmark has a lot to answer for.

The match opens up in the second half and with five minutes remaining, it’s a 2-2 tie. Then, one of our strikers produces the most audacious and (very obviously) well-coached dive in the penalty box. It’s gratifying to see the time you’ve put in to teaching kids pay off like that, and the gullible ref, not used to this quality of simulation, points to the spot.

It’s the job of the captain to take our penalties and as he strides forward with the ball in his hand, I take great pride in stopping him in his tracks.

'No, let the guy who won it take it,' I shout.

The captain looks at me in shock. Yeah, he knows why he’s being punished.

The penalty goes high and wide and our opponents go down the field to score with seconds left on the clock. We lose the game but I think I proved my point. The only person who cries harder afterwards than the boy who missed the penalty is the captain. He's the real culprit here, his refusal to acknowledge me in the half-time chant cost us the cup.

On the way home, wife calls.

‘Will I meet you at your father’s house?’

‘Why?’

‘To give him his presents for Father’s Day.’

I hang up. I can’t even dignify this with a response.

Parental guidance required

Unlike some of my coaching peers, I treat this role more as a vocation than a job. I’m never off-duty. With a cup final tomorrow, I decide to email the parents this morning with some advice on how best to prepare their boys. Some of these moms and dads already have two or three kids so they could probably do with a few pointers.

Dear Parents,

Just a short note ahead of tomorrow’s game. Please remember, your child will never have another first cup final so he should be the focal point of all activity in your household for the next 24 hours. There should be no swimming or other outside activities today or tomorrow to conserve energy. Fast food is out and all meals should center around his need to carbo-load. Tonight, it might be an idea to have a family movie night. Again, the movie should be of a type to inspire the child ahead of tomorrow’s combat, sorry, match. I would suggest something for all the family like “Braveheart” (all about a guy taking one for the team), “Gladiator” (good lesson on how to bear a grudge against an opponent over time), or even “First Blood” (slightly dated but valuable examples in there about improvising under pressure and refusing to take prisoners). Some of these may look a bit gory for U-10s but you should bend the rules just this once. It’s no harm to allow these kids ingest some blood and guts the night before the biggest game of their lives.

Yours in Sport, Coach

A pair of soccer eyes were looking at me

Tonight I’m accosted in the car park of the grocery store. At first I think it’s somebody from security about to get on me for parking illegally in one of those offensive spots reserved for “Shoppers with Children”, a sign that proves discrimination is alive and well in this country. It’s not security. It’s worse. An irate father.

‘I’m Mr ____,’ he says in a none too friendly voice. ‘Can you explain to me why my son didn’t make your team at this week’s try-outs?’

‘I could but I won’t,’ I say, deciding the best form of defense is attack. ‘I don’t need to explain my decisions to you.’

‘That’s probably because you can’t explain them,’ he says. ‘I watched how you conducted your try-out pal, and it’s very obvious to me you don’t have soccer eyes!’

‘Soccer eyes?’ I ask, making mental note to Google this term later. ‘That’s a new one on me.’

‘Yeah, soccer eyes. You can’t see the game. You aren’t qualified to judge soccer talent.’

‘Yeah, just look at my team’s record, I must be awful.’

'They are nine and ten year old boys. It’s about more than winning, it’s about developing them as players.' The tired old development of players line. The last refuge of every scoundrel.

‘It is about more than winning if you like losing,’ I say, impressing myself at how these potential bumper stickers are coming so easily to me these days.

'If you had soccer eyes you’d see that my son is a great little player,' he shouts, finally starting to lose it.

'He’s not great but he is definitely little. And if I was casting the Smurfs movie he’d be first on my list but I’m running a travel soccer team pal and I don’t carry fun-size players.'

I don’t hear his response to that line. I jump in the car, lock the door and drive away fast. You can never be too careful with some of these lunatic parents.

The matrix is real, the domestic goddess is an illusion

Woke up this morning to the wonderful crackling sound and hunger-inducing smell of bacon frying in the kitchen. The wife is so transparent she should come with her own bottle of Windex.

‘How did the try-outs go last night honey?’ she asks, the use of honey another dead giveaway about the game she’s playing.

‘Fine,’ I respond as gruffly as possible as I go to pour some coffee.

‘Let me get that for you babe,’ she says, really trying way too hard. ‘The bacon should be ready in a moment. How much syrup do you want with your pancakes?’

Soccer is an amazing game. It can turn the least domesticated woman in the world into Rachel Ray, all in the name of trying to ensure I pick her boss’s son for my team. The beauty of it all is she doesn’t know the boy has already made the cut in my mind.

‘So what was the technical standard like?’ she says, suddenly sounding weirdly like she’s been watching too much Fox Soccer Report at night. I swear she had an affected Scottish tinge to her accent like that McMahon guy.

‘Fine,’ I respond, chowing down, wondering how many more days of her groveling that I can wring from this.

‘Do you mind me asking how my boss’s child did?’ She waits until I’m almost finished my food before asking this, obviously hoping the breakfast of champions affects my judgment.

‘I do mind you asking,’ I say, faking umbrage and trying hard not to smirk. ‘This is a confidential process. I’m not going to breach the trust of the players and their parents by giving you an inside scoop. The boy tried hard, just like all the boys tried hard. And when I sit down tonight to evaluate them all using my measurement matrix, we’ll see if he made the cut.’

I don’t know where I pulled the measurement matrix line from but I can see she’s shocked and a little impressed. Try-outs, they really are the gift that keeps on giving.

Running to stand still

There is no more fun evening in the coaching calendar than try-out night. The greatest power trip of them all. I stand there with my clipboard in hand, whistle around my neck, wallowing in the discomfort of the kids and the nerves of the parents. This is what sport should be about, moms and dads suffering as their boys try to make it in the game. What a great life lesson for nine and ten year olds!

Tonight’s edition of the annual cull is even more fun than usual since wife’s boss’s kid is one of those trying out. Wife has been on edge for days about this. She needn’t worry. I like the look of the boy. He’s big and ugly and in the brief scrimmage shows a nasty streak by repeatedly kicking opponents instead of the ball. I’m always on the look-out for an enforcer. I must check if he’s ever been reported for bullying at school because that would clinch his place in my plans.

Some old-school coaches like to concentrate on the scrimmage at try-outs. Not me. I hold a five-minute scrimmage to start. It lulls them into a false sense of security. Then I make them do ten laps of the field, five at jogging pace, five at medium sprint. That sees off some of the weaker-spirited boys as they throw up and walk towards their (now totally embarrassed) parents, who have already started figuring out the cost of sending their lily-livered offspring to science camp or tennis lessons.

I give the rest of them a minute to catch their breath before embarking on the sprint challenge. It’s soccer’s version of baskeball’s suicide sprints, running from penalty box to penalty box at full pace. I don’t count how many times. I just make them do it for fifteen minutes without a break. More vomit. More departures. Good thing I allowed my new signings to miss this try-out because I wouldn’t want any of them being scared off.

Of the 11 new kids who turn up to try-out, just three remain upright after the sprinting is over. Wife’s boss’s kid is among them. She will be pleased.

When Irish eyes aren't smiling

Just putting my beloved array of multi-colored, multi-sized cones in the trunk of my car after practice tonight when I get an angry tap on the shoulder.

‘Hey coach, I’m ____, my son is ____,’ says a man in an Irish accent straight from the set of ‘The Quiet Man’.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I respond, resisting terrible urge to say something like ‘top of the mornin’ to him.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he continues. ‘I just want to register my disapproval at the fact you showed my son and the rest of the boys that Thierry Henry handball last week.’

‘And what was wrong with that?’ I ask, straightening up, readying myself for what seems like a looming confrontation.

‘Well, I’m an Irishman!’ he practically shouts.

‘I gathered that.’

‘And that was one of the darkest days in our history and I resent the fact you held it up as a good example of somebody cheating to get ahead.’

Where do I start with this joker? So many options.

‘Okay, pal, that was one of the darkest days in your history? Didn’t you people have a Famine where millions died because they were fussy eaters or something? And weren’t you occupied by the English for a few hundred years, constantly trying and, ahem, failing to throw them out even though they very kindly gave you their language and culture?’

'You’ve got to be kidding right,’ he says, shaking his head as his wife appears and puts a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m not kidding. With all that history, you think a handball in a soccer match was that bad huh?’

‘We could have gone to the World Cup but for that!’ this hot-head is roaring into my face so I’m taking the calm voice option. I notice wife now has two hands on her man.

‘That’s my point. You didn’t go to the World Cup and that’s what I’m trying to teach your son and the rest of the team. He who dares wins. If you can’t accept that I suggest you take your boy over to ____, they have a great English coach. And apparently the Irish never had problems taking orders from the English.’

At this point, he makes a move for me but his wife has too strong a hold on his jacket. She leads him away, roaring abuse at me in a pitch so high only dogs could understand what he's saying. Nice job messing up your son's chances of ever playing for me again, pal.

Why you should always hire a licensed professional

Disturbing phone call on the way to work this morning.

‘Hi, this is ___, my son is thinking of trying out for your team this week,’ says the woman.

‘Yeah? Good for him,’ I respond unimpressed, trying not to offer her any encouragement since every place on my squad is already filled in my head.

‘I just have a question to ask.’

‘Fire ahead,’ I say, wondering to myself whether I’ll have the heart to tell her not to waste the kid’s time by bringing him along.

‘Is the team professionally trained?’ she asks.

I’m so stunned by the arrogance and the insulting nature of the question I can’t even reply.

‘Sorry, not sure if the line is bad but is the team professionally trained?’ She fires the same dart again.

I’m shaking my head. I can’t believe some of these people. What an attitude!

‘Of course it’s professionally trained,’ I roar down the phone. ‘I’m the trainer and I’m a consummate professional!!!’

‘I’m sure you are but are you paid?’ she retorts in the same annoying calm voice. ‘Where else do you coach? Is it your full-time job? I need to know these things before I sign my son up.’

‘Firstly lady, you are not signing your son up for anything. I decide whether he’s good enough or not. I don’t coach anywhere else because I’m dedicated to my club. I’m not going to cheat on my boys with other teams.’

Still, she just won't let it go.

‘There’s no need to be like that about it. It’s just that his last travel team had an English coach with an accent and everything and we were hoping you’d be a professional too, especially if you are not even European.’

That’s the last straw. Another Europhile soccer mom. I’ve enough of them in my life. I hang up before I have to admit I'm not yet being paid for this.  What else can I do? I’m not taking this type of abuse. Before nine on a Monday morning. Please.

The wife's tale

‘What are you doing there?’ asks wife as she finds me sitting at her home office desk, furiously writing.

‘Just making a list of the players I’m keeping and those I’m cutting.’

‘But I thought your try-outs were this week?’ she asks, weirdly sounding like she cares.

‘They are but I already know the boys I’m going to cut. And I know the ones I’ve recruited from other teams.’

‘That’s hardly fair!’ Suddenly she’s turning into the conscience of the game.

‘Honey, it’s not fair. It’s travel team.’ Make mental note to turn this into bumper sticker.

‘But what if some kid blows you away at the try-out? What then?'

‘Then, I factor in whether his parents will annoy me or are likely to buy me gifts, whether the kid himself will obey my every instruction on and off the field, and I make my decision based on that.’

She’s standing over my shoulder now, bizarrely interested, running her finger along the lists of names.

‘Eh, why do you care?’

‘No particular reason,’ she says, very obviously lying.

‘No reason? Funny then that somebody who has never cared about my team is suddenly questioning the way I select my players.’

She starts to walk away, then turns, looking rather sheepish.

‘Uh, uh, the son of one of my bosses is trying out for your team. I didn’t want to say anything but obviously, it could really help me at work if, you know, he made the squad.’

‘Ah-ha,’ I say, sounding at once both triumphant and superior. I even swivel around in her office chair with delight. ‘How the worm has turned.’

‘I’m not asking you to select him over better kids but he’s apparently very good and if he did end up on your team, well, his mom will be evaluating me for promotion later this year.’

I pause, allowing her to wallow in her own discomfort. It’s obvious from her face how she really didn’t want to mention this. Obvious from my face too how much I’m loving it. Somehow stifling the urge to laugh, I deliver my best faked sincere outrage.

‘Honey, I don’t know what I’m more insulted by. Your criticism of how I select my players or your very obvious attempt to corrupt the try-out process. I’m hurt that you would think I’d select a player for political reasons like this. As if I’d ever do anything to impugn the integrity of travel team soccer. How dare you ask me to pick a kid just because you know his mom? As if. Now, please leave this room while I come to terms with what you’ve just done. I don’t even know who you are anymore.’

I’m so thrilled with the last line (borrowed from some rom-com she made me watch last week) that I punch the desk for emphasis. A bravura performance.

Teenage kicks

Can’t believe my luck today when the referee doesn’t show up for our top of the table clash with our biggest rivals. As per league rules, we must play the game using an agreed-upon replacement official. Our opponents nominate a high school senior and it’s all I can do to prevent myself from smiling at them being so naïve as to improve our chances like this.

I start the verbal abuse early and often.

‘Why don’t you wear one of their shirts altogether ref?’

‘Why don’t you start kicking the ball for them too while you are at it ref?’

‘Keep playing boys, just ignore the fact the other team has an extra player!’

It’s a great feeling knowing I can shout with impunity and not risk incurring the wrath of the league authorities. Of course, there’s a method to my madness. Pretty soon, the teenager starts giving all the 50-50 decisions to my team. He disallows a goal against us, allows one of ours that was about a mile offside to stand and generally does everything I would have liked him to do.

At half-time, the opposing coach accosts me.

‘You have to stop shouting at the ref!’ he says. ‘He’s only a kid doing us a favor.’

‘Doing you a favor more like,’ I lie. ‘I don’t see him doing any favors for my team.'

He tut-tuts and walks away and I take this as my cue to up the ante in the second half.

‘Did you forgot to put in your lenses ref?’ An oldie but always worth bringing out of retirement.

‘There are two teams out there ref in case you didn’t notice!’ A standard-issue classic.

‘Have you swallowed the whistle ref?’ Useful every time they make a tackle however innocuous.

‘You’re reffing this game kid, not playing in it!’ Makes him blush every time.

By midway through the second half my job is done. The teenager hasn’t given a single decision against us and we are on our way to a comfortable 3-0 win. At the final whistle, in a move that says more about him than me, the opposing coach refuses to shake my hand. Some people obviously just don’t get the concept of sportsmanship.

Parental advisory

Given that it’s the night before a crucial league game tomorrow, I’m already on edge when the doorbell goes this evening. My mood improves when I see it’s the club president, obviously calling to wish us luck in the big showdown.

‘Coach, we have a problem,’ he says rather ominously when he sits down in the kitchen.

‘Really?’ I ask, figuring he’s got on that mock-serious face as part of some elaborate gag.

‘One of the parents has made a complaint against you,’ he says, somehow still maintaining that straight face.

‘Let me guess,' I say, playing along, 'it’s about making the boys run around in the heat.’

‘Eh, no, it’s not actually. It’s far more serious. They are alleging you showed the kids some inappropriate content on your iPad.’

‘What?’ I get up from my stool and start storming around the room. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I shouldn’t be even here because this will have to go through legal channels but I think the words the mother used were “inappropriate content that corrupted her boy and thieved him of his innocence”. I must caution you that this is incredibly serious.’

I just stand there, stunned. These helicopter parents really are the pits.

‘Now, I have to ask you, what exactly did you show them?’

‘All I showed them was a selection of the greatest handballs in soccer history.’

‘And that’s it?’ he asks in a tone that suggests he doesn’t quite believe me.

‘Yes, I swear to you. That was it.  Henry, Maradona, a selection of brilliantly-taken if slightly, morally dubious goals?’

Well, that’s an enormous relief,’ he sighs. ‘I think I’ll be able to sort that out.’

‘Good.’

‘Can I just ask you something though?’ he says as he walks out the door.  ‘Why did you show them those goals in particular?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? Kids are never too young to learn that crime pays.’

For some inexplicable reason, he’s laughing at this as he goes out the door.