The message board mambo

Busy day at work today. Get the tech guy to temporarily take down the firewall on my computer so I can spend my lunch break on our league message board. I’m sure every coach does this. Me, I’ve got three separate email accounts so I can log on under false names and cause some havoc. You know the type of thing.

Wonder aloud about the validity of the birth certificate of the best player on the team we are playing on Saturday. Or allege the same team benefits from partial refereeing that allows them away with dirty play. Sometimes I even question how much their coach is getting paid for his services. In my book about travel team coaching, this will be in the chapter titled ‘Black Ops – Using Modern Technology to Gain a Competitive Advantage.’

So while my colleagues head off to Applebees, I’m chained to my desk, making the boss think I’m working that bit harder and affording me the opportunity to undermine our opponents this week. Using my favorite alias, ‘concerned soccer mom’, I post the following comment.

‘Is it true that the coach of _______ is notorious for using ringers and if so why aren’t referees more rigorous when it comes to checking the IDs of his team? Just asking.’

Then I just sit back and wait for the message board Mujahideens to take the bait.

Words of wisdom

As a coach, I realize the enormous influence I have over these kids and I take that responsibility very seriously. I know they listen to me and I do my best to make a difference in their lives on and off the field. My latest initiative involves expanding their vocabularies. Like children all across America, my boys don't read enough and I feel we must do all we can to improve their language. This is why I decided to hand out note cards at the end of every practice, with a difficult word on each describing how the individual player performed.

Started the new word of the day program tonight and am already a a little shocked these kids don't know basic adjectives like putrid, perfunctory, wretched and apathetic.

'I don't know what hapless means,' shouts one bemused boy (admittedly one of the nine year olds in the squad).

'I know, I know but you will when you look it up as soon as you get home,' I say as he scurries toward his mother's car.

Improving this team one SAT word at a time.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't

Conscious of need to repair relations with wife, I rent a movie and order some Chinese food. After all, she does put up with a lot and it’s been a tense start to the season for our marriage. She likes English movies, ‘Notting Hill’, ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’, that kind of thing. So tonight, I’ve picked the perfect film to get back in her good books. An English romantic comedy. Well, sort of. ‘The Damned United’ is the true story of an egomaniac soccer manager called Brian Clough and his time in charge of  Leeds United, the dirtiest team in 1970s England.

‘It’s "Billy Elliot" with soccer cleats and shin pads,’ I say confidently as we sit down to tuck into our sweet and sour chicken.

‘Eh, okay,’ she says, not at all sounding like she believes me.

She lasts 30 minutes. Just long enough to finish her food. Then she storms out,.

‘Your selfishness knows no bounds!’ she shouts as she departs. ‘This is nothing like "Billy Elliot".’

‘I know,' I say, 'it’s far better than that garbage!’

With her gone, I’m free to take notes during the rest of the movie. I don't ever want to be accused of being one of those coaches who thinks he already knows everything.

Wrong turn, right result

Five minutes to go until kick-off and still no sign of the opposition. My, ahem, slightly-amended directions may have caused them some problems. Not to mention I compound matters by accidentally turning my cell phone off so their coach can't contact me for assistance. The ref is standing in the center-circle, anxiously looking at his watch when a convoy of cars finally pulls in. Their players come streaming onto the field, cold, rushed and unprepared for the start of the game while I jog towards their coach.

‘What kept you guys?’ I ask in my best mock-sincere voice.

‘We must have taken a wrong turn,’ he replies.

‘Well, don’t worry, we aren’t going to start without you,’ I say, pretending to be jovial and friendly while slyly making a watch-tapping gesture for the referee’s benefit.

We score twice in the first ten minutes and our visitors never quite recover from the disarray of their arrival. Another day. Another victory. As we line up to shake hands with them at the final whistle, I’m muttering the words ‘well played, well played’ but battling to resist an overwhelming urge to shout: ‘If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail.’ I mean, who doesn’t check the directions given by opposing teams?

Weather permitting

Inundated with emails and text messages from concerned parents today. Wanting to know if practice is on tonight. Why wouldn’t it be on? Oh, of course, the slightly inclement weather forecast. All it takes is the first sign of sleet and freezing temperatures for these mothers and fathers to want to wrap the children in cotton wool and keep them indoors. This is why America will never win the World Cup.

Figuring something has to be done if we are going to produce tougher children, I email all parents reminding them practice will go ahead no matter what the conditions this evening. I don’t care if they all turn up wearing fleece jackets and ski masks. This will separate the ten year olds from the boys. Also resolve to send a copy of “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” to every player’s home once wife lifts block on our credit card.

The hair on my chinny chin chin

Went to the league convention some weeks back and saw most of the serious coaches were sporting the shaved head, finely-trimmed goatee look. Made immediate decision to go down that road. Having had my head shaved earlier this week, I’m up early this morning to work on the facial hair, converting four days of stubble into one newly-formed goatee. So pleased with the results that I stand in front of the hall mirror for ten minutes, suavely stroking a chin now sporting a little salt with its pepper, admiring the instant gravitas this gives me. That’s when wife walks by.

‘What have you done?’ she asks, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

‘Updated my look,’ I reply, turning to give her the full frontal view of the goatee. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you look like you put your head on upside-down this morning,' she says before marching away triumphant.

Difficult to believe but she gets less and less supportive of my coaching career every day.

Moving the goalposts

Like most right-thinking coaches of younger kids, I always put the largest, widest boy in goal. It’s not just common sense. It’s basic physics. He’s the one that will fill up the most space possible between the posts. That it also spares him the embarrassment of laboring after smaller, more diet-conscious opponents outfield merely adds to the wisdom of this selection policy. Imagine my dismay then when a parent waltzes up to me tonight and asks for his son to get a turn in goal.

'He really wants to try out for goalie,’ says the father.

'Okay, okay, that can be arranged,' I say, putting on my best, eyebrows-crunched, sincere face despite the fact the kid is a complete bantamweight utterly unsuited for the role.

Ten minutes later, the boy in question is standing on the goal line getting ready for a test of his nerve. Every one of his team-mates is on the edge of the penalty box with a ball in front of them. On my order, they all shoot simultaneously. Some of them score but enough of them hit our wannabe goalie in places he’d rather not have been hit to prove my point. He strolls out of goal and hands me the gloves.

'I don’t want to play goalie, anymore,' he says.

'I think you should go and explain that to your father,' I say.

Another teachable moment.