The league of extraordinary dictators

Still reeling from the appointment of the German as our national coach (notice not a word from Obama on this outsourcing!), I decide not to bother emailing Sunil Gulati about the lack of native candidates interviewed for the position and to concentrate on my own team. I’m more determined than ever to show the authorities that a grass-roots appointment like me would have been the best way forward for USMNT!

A few weeks back, I filled in all of the necessary league forms for the forthcoming season. In the box asking which U-11 division I felt my team should play in, I asked to be kept at the same level even though we won almost every game of our last campaign. I attached an explanatory note pointing out that we’d be losing a lot of key players and will be a lot weaker so we shouldn’t be promoted up a level.

The thinking behind this very blatant lie was simple. I want my now even stronger team in a division where we can beat up on opponents every week, not play competitive matches against our equals. Do you think these players will learn anything from eking out 1-1 ties against sides of comparable talent to them? Do you think parents want to watch their sons playing out epic 2-1 close encounters when they could be watching them trample weaker kids by six and seven goals every Saturday morning?

Despite what the, ahem, genius running the USSF might think, I’ve been around this game long enough to know the answer to those questions. Imagine my horror then when I log onto the league website this morning to find the dictators running the league have promoted my team up not one but two divisions! Thankfully, the benevolent despots offer all coaches the chance to plead their case if they feel their team was wrongfully assigned. I throw back a coffee and type in his address.

To: guywhorunstheleagueandobviouslyhasnolifeandnoclueaboutcompetitivesoccer@league.com...

The not so good German

‘I need to take a half-day boss,’ I say, not even waiting to sit down in his office before blurting it out.

‘What’s up?’ he replies.

‘It’s personal. I just need some time.’

‘You gotta give me more than that,’ he asks in the tone of somebody who is now a friend rather than an employer.

‘It’s the United States Soccer Federation. They’ve broken my heart.’

‘What have they done?’

‘They’ve only gone and outsourced the management of our national team to a German.’

‘No? Who is this guy?’

‘Jurgen Klinsmann.’

‘Does he know anything about the game?’

‘Well not as much as me of course. I mean, he was a half-decent player in his time, I think he won a World Cup, and he was really, really good at diving.’

‘Why would they opt for him over somebody like you though?’

‘See, as a newcomer to the game, you won’t know this but American soccer is a place where accent trumps ability. If you speak in the clipped tones of somebody for whom English is a second language, it sounds much more impressive than if you have a regular New York accent.

‘No way?’

‘Oh yeah and this rule applies at all levels of the game. Give parents a choice between two equally qualified coaches, one from Europe, one from the mid-West, and they’ll always opt for the European. It has always been this way and now, thanks to Sunil Gulati and the USSF, it’s going to be so for evermore.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the first rule of American soccer is the foreigner knows better.’

;So this German guy, Clingfilm or whatever, will he do a good job?’

‘Not on the available evidence. His only successful spell as a coach came when he had a bright assistant who was the brains of the operation called Joachim Low. Once he doesn’t have Low, he’s clueless.’

‘But why have they gone for him?’

‘Have you not been paying attention? It’s simple. The accent. If in doubt, always go for the accent. He may not know what he’s talking about but it will take people a lot longer to figure that out!’

‘Take a half day, coach,’ says the boss. ‘Take more if you need it. Don’t let the USSF grind you down.’

At least there’s somebody in the world who feels my pain today.

Fear and loathing on the coaching trail

I can barely summon up the energy to write today. I’m too angry and too worried about the future direction of this country. Earlier today, I read a press release from an organization called “The League of Fans” about its campaign for a more humanistic approach to coaching kids.

“We’ve been conditioned in this country that coaches – from the pros down to our youth leagues — have to adopt a Vince Lombardi coaching style: treat athletes inhumanely, and motivate them by force and fear,” said some character called Ralph Nader. “That notion is archaic and barbaric. Our sports culture needs to evolve from the dark ages and transition to more humanistic coaching styles that enhance the overall sports experience for athletes while still striving to win games.”

I initially thought this had to be a spoof story from “The Onion” or from one of the other coaches in the soccer club trying to play a prank on me. But no, I Googled it. It’s apparently for real. I do not know who this Nader character is or what he’s actually done with his life. I’m not sure whether he’s ever had to try to get a group of 10 year old boys to hang on to a 1-0 lead in the teeth of a gale-force wind. I’ve yet to hear if he knows what it’s like having to motivate the most pampered generation in American history to fight for travel team glory!

Whatever his background, Nader is at the very least guilty of un-American activity here. What else do you call it when somebody advocates yet more wussifying of our children? Force and fear are the very cornerstones of all successful youth coaching in this country. Take those away and what are we to use to get the kids to play harder? Positive reinforcement? Words of whispered praise? Pats on the back when things go wrong???

It’s a small and chilling step from there to participation medals for every player, equal playing time for all, and coaches not being allowed to roar abuse at their charges. Nader must be stopped!!!

If I touch a star, will i twinkle too?

‘You are not going to believe this!’ screeches the receptionist at work.

‘Believe what?’ I reply, dreading where this conversation may lead.

‘I saw David Beckham yesterday,’ she says. ‘Seriously, I was literally five feet away from him in New York city.’

I sigh. Being the soccer person at work isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes you have to take one for the team.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she goes on and on. ‘He was right there. Getting out of a limo. Surrounded by bodyguards. He’s so cute!!’

Where do I start with this woman? How can I possibly react to this type of provocation without saying something that might have me reported to Human Resources? Still, she continues.

‘I hadn’t even time to take a picture with my phone. It all happened so fast it was magical.’

Magical. That’s the word that does it for me. Magical.

‘Okay, honey, I hate to break this to you, David Beckham is a very average soccer player turned plausible clothes horse.’ I pause to watch her face begin to drop, the wide-eyed smile disappear. ‘Indeed, he once played on a Manchester United team where he was possibly the seventh-best player behind Keane, Giggs, Scholes, Sheringham, Schmeichel and Stam. He has only one foot, absolutely no pace and, for nearly a decade now, his career has been more about his ability to sell merchandise than to sell dummies to defenders.’

She’s looking at me like I’m speaking a foreign language so I decide to plough on.

‘Now he’s over here growing his brand, sitting in some sort of makey-uppy quarterback role with the LA Galaxy hitting lazy, long, hopeful crossfield passes that he can’t quite pull off. And moaning non-stop to referees when opponents have the temerity to tackle him or run past him. And the worst part is idiots like you think this is great because his wife – who is far from posh by the way! – is some sort of pseudo-glamorous icon.’

I stop there, not wanting to reduce the woman to tears but, to my shock, she actually talks back.

‘You aren’t going to the MLS All-Star game in New Jersey tonight then?’ she asks, like every word has gone flying over her head.

The net widens

I’m first home from work today and it’s my turn to cook dinner. Well, it’s supposed to be. I’ve other stuff to do. First of all, I have to fix my backyard goal. You know how much fun it is scoring a goal into an empty net with a hole in it? Not fun at all. The ball doesn’t even ripple the net. It just goes flying through it, especially when I unleash one of my trademark half-volleys from ten yards away.

No time for play this evening. I’m up on a stepladder with some string, a Swiss Army knife and various kinds of masking tape, trying to sew the net back together. It’s the most frustrating job and with each sort of stitch I make, I get angrier and angrier at the person or persons who vandalized the goal. It doesn’t help that halfway through my task, the wife arrives home.

Although no longer the number one suspect in this crime, she’s still a person of interest in my investigations.

‘Where’s the dinner?’ she shouts like some ravenous 1950s husband just in from a shift down the coal mines.

‘Can't you see I’m a little busy?’ I reply.

‘Are you telling me you didn’t cook because you are fixing that, that thing?’

‘Well, if somebody hadn’t ripped my net apart I wouldn’t need to do this,’ I say, while brandishing the Swiss Army knife for emphasis. Never a good look when the nosey neighbor in the house behind is out on her deck spying on us.

‘I’m not cooking tonight!’ she shouts, her face flushed with rage.

‘Nobody asked you to cook,’ I say in a calm voice that makes me sound so much saner than her. ‘I’ll cook as soon as I finish this sewing job or as soon as you confess that you committed this crime against my net!’

She walks inside in such a way that I can’t quite figure out if she’s running away because of guilt or anger.

Pace plus long balls equals glory

Typically boring start to the work week. As soon as I can manage it, I decide to down tools and continue work on my coaching manuscript. I need to flesh out the chapter dealing with helping coaches figure out which players are best-suited to which positions. Deciding who to play on offense is an easy one.

At the first practice of the year, you hold a sprint-off to find the fastest players. It’s that simple. If you are lucky, at least one speed merchant will emerge who has significantly more pace than all the rest of the squad. He is your number one striker. His level of ability doesn’t matter. Indeed, you shouldn’t care if he has any skill at all. His main job will be chasing long balls over the top and trying to get on the end of booming kick-outs.

A lot of U-10 coaches make the mistake of trying to pass their way to goal. I call this carry-on Barcelona disease and the virus is running rampant through the American game just now. It’s ridiculous. It’s misguided. And worst of all, it just teaches kids bad habits for life. Long high balls over the defense for the fast kid to chase, that’s the way forward for your team.

Now, you will want another boy up there with the speedster. Sometimes I’ve opted for the second fastest kid, creating a one-two punch, a sort of thunder and lightning approach. My personal favorite tandem however is to pick a tall, awkward boy to complement the fast guy. The big player is a target for the goalkeeper, a handful for defenders (it helps if he has uncontrollable elbows), and sometimes, if he has any skill at all, he may even knock the ball on for the faster team-mate to chase.

Some people call this stuff tactics, I prefer to call it common sense.

My own personal Jesus

In this job, you can never switch off. You’ve always got to be looking out for ways to gain a competitive advantage over your rivals. Show me a U-10 coach who thinks otherwise and I’ll show you a man who gives out participation medals to his squad at the end of every losing campaign. That’s what I’m thinking this morning, sitting in church, silently cursing the amount of time I’m wasting here when I should be at home planning for forthcoming practices.

Then Jesus, obviously empathizing with my discomfort and hearing my prayers, delivers a sign that he’s always paying attention, even to the sinners in his flock.

‘Hey coach,’ whispers the father of one of my players, tapping my shoulder on the way up to communion. ‘I was wondering if you have any room on your rosters for new players.’

‘Not really, after the try-outs, we had more than two kids for every spot.’

‘That’s a pity because my friend’s son is really eager to play and I think he might be useful.’

‘Did he try out?’ I ask as some worshippers nearby tut-tut, oblivious to the importance of our conversation obviously.

‘No, see, he was a football player first and foremost and didn’t expect to have time for soccer this fall.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, don’t say you heard this from me but he was thrown off the football team for being too aggressive and too rough. He kept hitting his own team-mates too hard in practice. He’s a little violent.’

If it was a movie, a Hallelujah soundtrack would have kicked in as the Jesus statue on the altar came to life and started doing keepy-uppies to reflect my joy.

‘You are kidding me?’

‘No, I thought, with your, eh, unorthodox approach, you might like to give him a chance.’

I nod my head in affirmation. Too aggressive for the football team. Too rough!!

‘Well, when a kid gets rejected by one team, it’s our job to rehabilitate him. After all, it is the Christian thing to do!’