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?

This charming man

On the field next to where we are practicing tonight, the girls U-11 team are playing a make-up league game. As I watch my boys run their mandatory 25 warm-up laps (they will be the fittest 10 year olds in this competition), I see the most disturbing thing happening on the other pitch. After making a save at the expense of a corner, the goalkeeper from our club walks behind to gather the ball. Of course, to me, this is a big no-no. Why is she not hollering at her own players to get back instead of fetching the ball?

It gets worse. After picking up the ball, she then runs out to the corner flag and, with the same care as a mother taking a cake out of the oven and placing it on the window sill, she puts the ball down for her opponent to take the kick. She then skips merrily back towards the goal. I’m flabbergasted, mostly because her coach says and does nothing about this embarrassment. If that’s not a benchable offence, what is?  I tell my boys to keep running and go to see the girl’s coach.

‘What was that about?’ I ask him.

‘Girls will be girls,’ he says with a big, gormless grin on his face. 'It's not like they scored from the corner.'

‘Are you not going to punish her for that by taking her off?’ I continue.

‘No, not at all, I thought it was charming.’ More stupid grinning on his behalf.

‘Charming?’ I roar into his face. ‘Charming? Charming is a brand of toilet paper and that kind of behavior is exactly why your team is in the toilet! You are a disgrace to the club, tolerating crap like that.’

He walks away from me without responding, hopefully seeing the error of his ways.

All work and no play makes coach a dull boy

Unhappy with how much time I've been spending doing actual work each day, I've decided to set up a Twitter account. I'm hoping it will eat into my work day significantly and also allow me share my knowledge of coaching the right way with the wider world. There are too many coaches out there preaching the gospel of pass and move. We have to fight this type of menace on every front.

Follow me on twitter @travelteamcoach but please don't tell my boss.

Food for thought

Boss on my case today about finishing a project so I take time out to phone the mother who complained about my issuing Gatorade Gels to my team. Who better to vent my workplace frustration on?

‘Hi, it’s coach here, I understand you wanted to talk to me about last Saturday’s game,’ I say, using my serious business voice.

‘Yes,’ she replies, sounding slightly startled, ‘I just think, you know, it was wrong to give sugary drinks to the boys.’

‘Why exactly?’ I ask, still trying to remain reasonable.

‘Well, all dietary advice suggests these products ultimately do harm to the children,’ she says, sounding like a woman who watches too many of the morning shows on television.

‘Really? Did you see how the team played?’

‘Yes I did,’ she says, ‘but that had nothing to do with the drinks. Scientific evidence proves…’

I cut her off right there. ‘It didn’t, did it? The boys gave their most dynamic performance for weeks after they imbibed that stuff,’ I say, not sure where I pulled the word imbibed from.

‘I have a medical study I researched on the Internet,’ she practically shouts. ‘10 year old boys do not need Gatorade!’

I pause for a deep intake of breath, cast a quick glance around the office to check boss is nowhere within earshot then I let go.

‘Listen lady, it’s nutrition Nazis like you that are ruining this country for the rest of us. I don’t care what sort of free-range soy-bean organic granola you force-feed your poor son and make him pretend to like but on my team I will give the boys energy drinks if and when I see fit. If you don’t like it, I suggest you go and ask Whole Foods or some other hippie-dippie fake food emporium to set up a team for you and your kind!’

I hang up in perfect sync with the end of the sentence then I exhale. Relieved. Happy. No point in trying to reason with the unreasonable.

Results may vary

On the way from the elevator to my cubicle, I meet the boss.

‘Great result at the weekend!’ he declares.

‘You bet,’ I reply, a little taken aback that he’s so interested in my team he knows we won on Saturday. Must have checked the league website.

‘We should all be very proud,’ he continues.

‘Too right,’ I say, slightly puzzled that he regards our latest victory as such a matter of pride. I mean it was a fairly routine win.

As I go to pour myself a coffee in the kitchen, two more of my colleagues make to high-five me.

‘Job done!’ says one.

‘We always win in the end,’ says the other.

I smile a proud smile, delighted my little team’s fortunes are lifting people’s spirits during the recession.

‘It’s just great to see everybody in such a great mood,’ I say, trying to be modest.

‘I know,’ says another colleague. ‘Who’d have thought we’d live to see the day when Bin Laden was killed?'

'Who?' I ask.

‘Bin Laden, the terrorist, the world’s most wanted man, we killed him yesterday.'

‘Oh yeah, oh yeah,’ I say, faking knowledge, suddenly regretting that I watched Fox Soccer Channel this morning rather than the news. And as I walk back to my desk, I get a troubling thought. I don’t think the boss and those other guys were congratulating me on my team's result at all.

Roaring in the chapel

On my way into church with wife this morning when I catch a lucky break. Phone goes just as I’m about to sit down in the pew. I ignore the disapproving stares and go stand just outside the door. It’s the president of the club.

‘Is this a bad time or can you talk?’ he asks.

‘No, now is perfect, what’s up?’ I reply.

‘We’ve had a complaint from one of the parents,’ he says in that solemn voice my boss uses when he’s about to fire somebody.

‘Eh, yeah. About what exactly?’

‘Well, it seems you contravened the club’s health and wellness policy.’

‘The what?’

‘Health and wellness. Did you give the boys some sort of energy drink before yesterday’s game?’

‘Yes I did. And it made a huge difference too. All the teams should be drinking that stuff. We should look into getting sponsorship for that.’

‘But it’s against the rules,’ he continues. ‘Did you not read the handbook you were given at the start of the season?’

‘No I didn’t read it. I was too busy preparing my team to win, I didn’t have time to be reading that stuff!’ I’m shouting now, shouting loud enough to be drawing stares from the holier than thou brigade standing at the back of the church. Not sure what their problem is. Mass hasn't even started.

‘Well, it should be okay if you apologize to the mother involved and assure her it won’t happen again,’ says the president, like that's the most normal thing in the world.

‘You’re kidding right?’ I ask.

‘Afraid not coach, you’ll have to call her tomorrow to straighten it out.’

I hang up, so annoyed at this I momentarily forget where I am and just as I walk back in the door of the church, I let out a roar of frustration. ‘God give me strength!’

The priest and the entire congregation look at me like I've just renounced my faith.

'Well, isn’t that why we are all here?' I ask aloud, before sitting down next to wife who, of course, is turning a very, very angry shade of red.