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.