Be honest, when you observe a youth sports game in the US, who is getting the more fulfilment from the spectacle; the kids or the adults?
To me, it looks very much like youth sport in America is a pastime created by adults for the enjoyment of adults. This may not come as a shock to any of you, and most have probably come to such a conclusion independently of me. I want to look into why.
It's no secret that American parents treat youth sports games like the major leagues. I have watched all five major leagues in the US of the different sports, and none of the atmospheres can match that which can be found at a U12 game in St. Louis. Not just that age group. Any age group, really. And it's probably the same in your state. Sure, the fair weather fans filled the bars and took a day off work when the Blues won the Stanley Cup, but in all the NHL games I have been to, including playoffs, the atmosphere is more akin to that of a pre season friendly, when compared to grassroots soccer.
 |
| Youth sport referees are blind. You should make fun of them. Referees love it, and the blind love it also. Always thought the blind would appreciate the jokes more if they could see how bad the refereeing displays were. And yes, I know that's a clipboard in his hand, but it does look like a stick. |
Why though? Why do parents scream at referees? Why do they bark instructions to their kids? Why do they get so frustrated and upset when the game doesn't go their way? Why do they wear team merchandise? Why do they drink beers and eat hotdogs on the sidelines?
From my point of view, it's lack of fulfilment. American society changes faster than people can adapt. Nobody knows their neighbours anymore. Everything is a dick measuring competition. If your kid isn't in the advanced class by age four, you're a bad parent. So where do Americans get their sense of community? The suburbs are too spread out for it to be via a pub. Religion is losing its influence. They only follow pro sports teams, rather than live and die for them like how other countries do. Youth sport has filled that gap.
You get to turn up to a venue, where there will be a competition. The Us v Them. When you arrive, it will be easy to sort out spectators into the two aforementioned groups. It provides you with people to hate, and people to bond with. The parents often become better buddies than the kids. It's the parents going on a play date, rather than the other way around. Much like taking your dog for a walk at the park to find a date.
So much adds to the spectacle, to make it more engaging and alluring. The facilities are world class. The uniforms are sharp and expensive. A participant is allowed to purchase merchandise to show how much of a fan they are (more than you, which I guess means I love my kid more than you love yours). You get to crack jokes with your bestest bros while drinking brews in your team baseball caps, while shouting zingers at the officials, like "Hey Ref! Learn the rules!"
 |
| Everyone knows the amount a player develops is linked directly to the status associated with their kit brand. |
Just look at these facilities. St. Louis has probably five of similar quality. Five soccer complexes like this one. This is better than what most of Europe's professional clubs have. It's truly insane to me as a foreigner why such facilities are in abundance in the US, when 90% of the kids are just pure awful. What are you doing to parents by making them pay fortunes for access to this?
There comes a shared sense of adversity too, which enhances the bonding. "We were robbed!" can be the standard response for a parent who doesn't understand the offside rule, and who actually thinks that the fifteen year old boy running the flag for his third game on a hot afternoon was thinking about anything other than tits. Remember, officials aren't incompetent, they hate you and want to see your kid suffer. The league knows this. They're in on it too.
Thinking of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, so much is being fulfilled for the average white middle class parent, apart from the top part. Where's the sense of belonging? Your government doesn't care about you. The corporation you work for doesn't care about you. What causes in your life are you passionate about? Oh that's right, you don't have any, because you traded it in for middle class mediocrity. You now make jokes with Bill at work about working hard, or hardly working. Your annoying wife describes her friends as "a riot" because one of them does a silly voice, not because they have any ounce of anarchy in their bones.
The Journey Begins
You have realised you're nothing. But you can't admit that, as that means humility, self reflection, and vulnerability. Red blooded, eagle sucking, truck praying Americans don't do that. Youth sport becomes your outlet, because your kid has to do what you say.
Everyone says they would have gone pro if it weren't for some vague injury, but you actually would have. Damn shin splints! You understand all that stuff about overbearing parents, how you should leave the coaching to the coaches, and you shouldn't deconstruct your eight year old's performance in the car, but your defence mechanisms have made you aware of two things; 1. Unlike those other parents, you know what you're talking about, so it's okay. 2. You've come to realise that those other parents aren't that concerned about winning. You're a winner. They're all losers. They don't have the guts to be hard on their kid. If you're not first, you're last.
Every cult needs a leader, and there is no title in all of America more respected and revered than... Coach.
You sign up for it. Why? Because you have what it takes. These kids need you. They're too soft, and you know how to whip them into shape.
Image is nine tenths of the job. You need a club t-shirt or polo. You need to print on coach on the back, because it is a title bestowed upon you, and you get to wear it with pride. Even though you assume most people have read the bulletin board on the website and now know who you are, impressed with your back story of having played soccer for two years in high school, and previous coaching of one season assistant coach in peewee baseball, you have your initials printed on your shirt just in case.
What else do we need? Aviator sunglasses, to look intimidating. A new baseball cap, which serves two important functions. It allows you to turn it round to wear it backwards when things start to get tense, and it gives you something easily accessible to throw on the ground when you wish to make a display of frustration. Occasionally you can stamp on it too (but never the brim) although be sure to only use this a couple times a season, as the effect of the display starts to wear off.
 |
| This is sort of the look you're aspiring towards. |
Having worked on your attire, it's time to work on your stance. Workout, but only biceps. Everybody knows that a man's manliness is in his biceps. Your coaching shirt is going to have those bad boys on display quite a lot now, and you better be ready to show them off to all the mums in the group, who you totally haven't thought about in the last few years as sexual activity with your own wife has rapidly declined, but all of them totally want to do you. An added benefit of the aviators is you can check out the mums without being caught. The smaller the pitch, the better, as you can see them from across the touchline, and it still looks like you're watching the game. 7v7 is the best for this.
If you haven't got the gunshow up and ready yet, do not fear. When crossing your arms, make two fists as you tuck your hands in. The fists will rest under your arms, making those biceps look bigger. Shame you can't do that with your penis, although you heard something once about wrapping it in ham. You make a mental note to try that soon. To complete the look, stand with legs slightly wider apart than shoulder width. You'll lose a couple inches in height, but you'll make up for it in manliness.
Here's a great tip. When shaking hands, extend your hand out, forearm parallel to the ground, elbow locked at 90 degrees. This forces the other person to have to lean in a bit to meet your handshake, putting them off balance. Squeeze their hand unnecessarily tight, and pull it towards you with a slight jolt. This will make you seem stronger than you are, and make them look like a pathetic beta.
When it comes to game day coaching, you may be slightly concerned, but don't worry bro, you got this. Nobody else out there knows anything about soccer, so all you have to do is act convincing. Shouting "Hey!" and "Come on!" a few times will do the trick. The advantage you have is that the parents don't know soccer either, so don't know what they should expect to hear from a real soccer coach. Sound aggressive, and you'll be fine. It helps if you lower your voice, like you used to do as a teenager when trying to get into movies. Coaches that yap like small dogs are not convincing, and nobody wants to suck their dicks.
As coach, you have a responsibility, and a duty to these kids. Remember, they can learn a lot from you, but they don't know it yet. Kids are stupid like that. But don't worry, they'll soon know. They think you're just like all the other idiot coaches they had before, who were all hot air and no real guidance.
 |
| If you can't get the ball, make sure you take the man. Soccer is a tough sport. Sometimes you have to foul a kid off the ball. |
You notice that you don't have many athletes in the team. You start to think of ways to offload Skinny, Fatty, and Specky. No point learning their names, as they'll be gone soon. Coordination is low, stamina is lacking. Put the balls away and bring out the running shoes. Sessions consist of mainly laps, suicides, and push ups. You notice the push ups aren't having that much of an effect. Probably because the kids don't do any of this stuff away from practice. Look to find ways to positively reinforce players. Next time in the game one of your players clumsily mows down an opponent, inflicting pain via use of the elbow, make sure to inform the team that that show of strength was entirely down to the push ups.
 |
| Running in straight lines. The best training methods are the simplest. |
Inevitably, results won't go the way you want to initially. These kids are worse than you thought, and resistant to your training. So many years of sub-standard practices run by inferior coaches with smaller dicks than you, has really impacted their growth. These kids lack discipline. Here they are, laughing and joking, acting like a bunch of kids. That won't get them anywhere! Some of them who turn up early to practice, even get a ball out and start passing it around. You thought not bringing balls to training any more would put an end to this Tomfoolery, but some of the kids have started bringing them in from home.
How can you rid the team of such insubordination? You think back to what got you into coaching. It was that Vince Lombardi quote you saw on Facebook. Something about winning is everything, and if you don't win, you should punch yourself in the dick...? Something like that. Probably should have saved it.
Who are the manliest men in existence? United States Marines. You look to them for inspiration. A YouTube video of an obstacle course becomes inspiration for your next session. You watch interviews where they talk about hard work and accountability. You parrot phrases from that for the first fifteen minutes of your next training session, before sending them on the obstacle course.
You come to the conclusion that they don't win because they don't care enough. You need to make them scared of losing. The number of goals conceded is the number of push ups they have to complete at the end of the game, and the number of laps they have to turn up early to practice to complete before running their usual number of laps.
There needs to be more organisation. You suggest fining players some of their allowance, a notion that is rejected in a parent meeting, if they turn up without their socks pulled up and shirts tucked in. You compromise for taking away fifteen minutes of game time from the individual, while maintaining you would still be punishing your own child monetarily, in addition to the game time. One day at school, this results in your child not being able to afford lunch. But if starvation is what teaches them to pull their socks up and tuck their shirts in, so be it.
 |
| Half-time: "Do you even want to be here? Do you think that was an acceptable first half? You all need to take a long hard look at yourselves and decide if you really want to be here. I need players with guys. I need players who put the team first. You wanna go home and cry to your mommas? That won't win you the game! You've been acting like a bunch of kids recently, with your laughing and your joking, treating this like some kind of fun activity with your friends. You're forgetting how serious soccer is. There could be D1 college scouts in the crowd over there, and none of you are getting picked based on your performances today! Show me something in the second half! Show me why I should give up my free time to coach you! Show me why I should drive all around the state on weekends! Why should I do it? If all you're gonna give me is this, then I'm wasting my time. You're wasting your time, you're wasting my time, and you're wasting your parents' time. |
The next session, you devote fifteen minutes to having the team practice lining their bags up neatly on the sideline at games. The next match, you see the opposition run over to their bench screaming, laughing, messing around, and just throwing their bags down wherever. Pitiful. Then you notice the kids start kicking balls around freely, and appear to be having fun. The coaches get involved too. Pathetic.
The opposition coach comes over to you, BEFORE THE GAME, and extends his hand in a friendly hello. You try the handshake thing with him, but it doesn't work. He's bigger than you. His friendly demeanour must be a mindgame he is trying on you to get into your head. You despise this man. He say his name is Dan. He is not befitting of such a name. He's not manly enough to have a name that rhymes with man. Names like Tom, Dwayne, Steve, John are sacred manly names, and this smiling prick doesn't deserve one.
You cut to the chase and ask him his team's record this year. He responds with "Oh, I'm not sure. We've been focussing a lot on improving our passing. I have forgotten our results. I know we tied last week." Now you know you're also dealing with a socialist. This sorry excuse for testosterone repulses you. You shudder as he wishes you good luck before the game.
During the match, you notice he subs off two players every ten minutes. You attempt some basic maths and reckon every player has had a similar amount of time on the field. It's when he takes off his best player, the tallest and fastest kid, that you realise this "coach" doesn't want to win. His shirt doesn't even have coach printed on it. You would call him a pussy, but at least a vagina has the honour of getting a big strong dick in it. He doesn't deserve even that.
As the weeks go by, you notice training attendance numbers are dropping. The best way to solve this is to send out a passive aggressive text in the group chat, making thinly veiled attacks on certain people about passion and commitment. A team meeting is called. You send the kids off on their run and get down to business. You tell the parents that you can't coach their kids, if their kids don't care about soccer. One of the parents suggests you should be happy that the team is in a higher league position than last season. You remind him that second place is first loser.
Some of the socialists within the group start hinting at how their kids aren't enjoying the overly serious nature, and wish you would not be so aggressive. They have other commitments too, like baseball and lacrosse, and occasionally soccer has to take a backseat. Lacrosse? Isn't that a sport invented by Canadian wives to prevent their husbands from doing the cooking and cleaning? Baseball you can understand, as at least that's a real American sport. Some English guy once told you baseball is a less skilled version of a game little English girls play called "rounders." You remember how much you hated him, as all the mums swooned over his accent, despite his crooked teeth and tea breath.
As the meeting goes on, you can't believe what you are hearing. Too hard on the kids? Too focussed on winning? Always talking about motivation and guts? Not giving the weaker kids game time? Only picking players based on physicality? You think you're on some kind of alien planet. They're criticising you for the things you're good at. They're mentioning your strengths like they are somehow weaknesses. You have a firm camp of loyalists, but it seems this team will lose a few kids at the end of the season.
| "I know you're upset that you're not playing much, but the fact of the matter is you're not good at soccer. It's unfair on the other kids that you play on their team." |
You go to your favourite Buffalo Wild Wings on the way home from that meeting. The waitress brings you your Bud Light and ribs. It's a Tuesday evening. She looks bored. She asks you if you're a coach. You smile, and proudly answer "Soccer." "Wow, that's so cool!" she says. "I used to play soccer when I was in high school." She's flirting with you, but at least you know she's over eighteen. You're tempted to continue the conversation, but you've got planning to do.
While in this B-Dubs, with the waitress who is clearly into you, obviously telling her coworkers how much she wants you, you decide to make a list. The list is parents that are with you, and parents that are against you. You then correlate these parents to their kids, and their kids' abilities. At least 60% of the parents are on board, and most of them have the stronger and faster kids, so you have a good base to build on. Time to start recruiting. The waitress brings you your cheque. "I've got to go, as my shift is about to finish" she tells you. Later, when you consult the receipt for damage, you're disappointed to not see a phone number. Only a smiley face, and a heart over the i in her name. Clearly she was into you. Too late now.
As the season begins winding down, and tryouts soon approach, you decide to go watch some games of other teams in your age group, to look at what kids to recruit. You go in jeans, a plain t-shirt, dark glasses, and a baseball cap. Don't want people recognising you. Your list says you need at least four fast kids, two tall kids, two kids that are tall and fast, and if possible, a couple black kids. You haven't had any black kids this year, and you feel that has been to your team's detriment. They may not be able to follow orders very well, but you have seen how fast they can run. Games are decided by tight margins, and it only needs to work once for you to win the game. What they might lack in discipline, they make up for in speed.
 |
| Why is the communist the one with the halo? |
On your way to the local fields, you've passed Office Depot and had some business cards printed. This is so you can hand them out to parents. At your first game, you feel a little awkward, but you know the payoff will be worth it. You observe the match, and instantly identify some of the tall kids you need. Fifteen minutes later, and you have seen the fast kids. Now it's time to mingle in with the parents and find out who they belong to. You'll be able to do this by correlating the action on the pitch with the shouts and instructions from the parents. Slowly, you start making your way through, beginning small talk with the parents, and then mentioning tryouts. They don't seem interested at first, as they are relatively happy at their club, so you lie a little, about how great your team is, and invent some benefits. Now you have their interest. You hand them your business card, and wish you would have learned that business card handshake thing.
On the way home, you decide to go past Buffalo Wild Wings again. That waitress isn't working today. The wife calls, but you let it ring. While passing the time between Buds, you observe some of the MLS game being shown on one of the screens. You notice how the teams rarely make more than four passes, and begin to question why you hear so many beta coaches talk about possession. The ball regularly goes out of play, and you see that as a good thing, because at least it means the other team can't score. The game finishes 1-1, with both goals coming from corners. Corners! That's the secret!
 |
| "You see that? That's the goal! That's where you have to kick the ball! I swear some of you are forgetting we are playing in red. What's wrong with you all? Don't you want to win? You're just not hustling out there! I swear, it's like you don't even care. I must be saying the same thing every week. Why do we even bother? I mean, how can I teach you anything if you don't even care? We're never going to be champions. And you can kiss state championships goodbye this summer! Why would I waste my time entering a team that doesn't even care? If I see any of you trying any more of that fancy stuff, you're coming right back off, and sitting on the bench with me. I know the club trainer teaches you stepovers and other pointless stuff on Technical Tuesdays, but this is not the time or the place for you to use any of that! Are you even listening to me? |
The next three weeks of training are dedicated to elaborate corner routines. You drew them up in B-Dubs, staying there for six hours, in the hope that the waitress might come in late to cover somebody's shift. She didn't. The wife was annoyed when you got home, as you had previously promised to play with the kids. You explain how you had been recruiting and working on corner routines. She just doesn't get how important your coaching role is. It's not even a role. It's a calling.
The first session with your team, they don't get any of the routines you have shown them. This leads you to buying a magnetic clipboard and a marker, so you can help them visualise it better. After a thorough twenty minute explanation, you go out on the field and try it, and it's a complete shambles. None of them were listening. They were fidgeting, daydreaming, picking the grass. These kids aren't the winners you're trying to mould them into. Because they weren't listening, they have effectively killed the session, so you send them on laps as punishment. If they aren't going to care, why should you care?
The next session, they are nervous, and paying much better attention. The routines go well, as the movements look pretty good, but the crossing and finishing is so inconsistent. Only once in forty-five minutes did a kid connect a cross without the ball touching the ground. Nevertheless, all is justified, as one of the goals you scored in your 4-3 win at the weekend comes from a corner. The ball wasn't played where you wanted it to be, and the keeper flapped at it, but still, you can attribute this to spending three weeks working on corners in training.
It's starting to become apparent to you, that even though you are a natural born winner, some of the kids are natural born losers. You can't wait for tryouts to come. You need to boost the team's reputation in order to attract better players. This leads to entering a few local tournaments, giving the team exposure. You enter the lower brackets in the tournaments, because this means you'll play weaker teams, and are therefore more likely to win gold medals.
The team inevitably wins, and you tell everyone you went four and oh, despite one game being a tie, and the final being decided on penalties. It's a similar story in the next couple tournaments. You plaster the pictures all over social media and the website. You encourage all the parents to share wildly. The word is getting out. Sunday evening, sweaty and sunburned, you decide to go to that B-Dubs again on your way home, medal around your neck. She's not there again. Some chubby girl serves you this time, and you order without making eye-contact or saying please or thank you.
 |
| WTF ARE YOU KIDS DOING TOUCHING MY TROPHY!?!?! |
Tryouts approach. You've told certain players to not bother showing up. The parents respond that they weren't going to anyway. How petty of them. As things are getting more serious, you feel you need an assistant. One of the dads has always been quite vocal. And he's shorter than you too, which is a bonus. He decides to join you. You teach him how to stand, suggest he buys aviators, and get matching initialed polos, and matching baseball caps. Having someone to echo your message may be what is needed to turn these kids into winners.
The tryout process is easy. You picked your team during the warm up, simply by seeing how they move, and assessing their relative height. Your assistant notices that all the kids you're going to offer spots to are born between January and April. What a weird coincidence that is. Must be something about those months that produces natural born athletes. You'll see if they're natural winners like yourself as time goes by.
The summer gives you time off and time to think. The Women's World Cup is on. You end up watching quite a few USWNT games. They're not bad, for women. They eventually win the tournament, and you notice some trends in their game plan. Their fastest athletes play in wide positions. Wide is usually where the space is. The team will hit a lot of balls into the corners, seemingly for no-one, but there is a plan here. If you hit the ball forward enough times, and have athletes on the wings, eventually those boots into the corners will have to connect. Maybe it's ten times for one success? Better aim to do it sixty or so times per match. The chances they create, when they eventually create one, are really good chances, with very few defencemen in the area in front of goal. That's it. That's your tactic.
You invite your new assistant to B-Dubs on a Tuesday to tell him the plan. You both show up wearing your coaching gear, even though there hasn't been a game or a practice for weeks. In any other profession, it would look awkward and weird, but everyone can tell you're coaches, and now the restaurant just oozes with respect for you both. You're thinking of having the word "HEAD" printed above the word "COACH" on the back of your polo, so that people can instantly determine who is in charge, between you and your assistant. But at least you're taller than him.
While you explain the tactic to him on your magnetic clipboard, you keep glancing around for that waitress. You spot her, but she's servicing the restaurant and you're in the bar area. You keep looking in her direction, hoping to make eye contact, while your assistant tells you about how he is planning to finance the purchase of a speedboat so he can enjoy brewskis on the lake with the boys, getting away from the nagging wives. Sounds like a good idea, but you can't fully entertain that thought at the moment as you are devising your own plan. You pretend to go to the bathroom, hoping to utilise perfect time to randomly walk past her, face to face. Now's the time. You go. She comes walking around. It's going to happen. Your paths are going to cross in five, four, three "Excuse me!" Some ass asks her for a straw, her path diverges away from yours, and your plan has been ruined. What do you do now? Wait in the middle of the restaurant like an idiot, or go to the bathroom, which you don't need to do, and hope to get the timing right on the way out? Text received from the wife. "When are you going to be home?" Ignored. She knows you're having an important discussion with your assistant.
Next season gets underway, and you're both impressed and frustrated by it. Impressed how the combination of that tactic and the recruitment of those players has worked so effectively, but also frustrated as you don't feel the level is challenging you anymore. You feel like you've outgrown it. You've heard a lot recently about DA and ECNL. You had previously thought that ECNL was that thing your wife had refused to do on your honeymoon all those years ago. You start looking into it.
After some research, and even attending a few games, you are impressed. Impressed by so many things. The coaches there aren't the duds you're used to. They're all like you. Aggressive, loud, masculine, hyper-focussed on organisation, discipline, and motivation. This is where you need to be. Their polos and baseball caps are magnificent, and some of them even have tracksuits. In fact, the whole team has tracksuits, with coaches and players having different tracksuits. Most of them have their initials or number on there, and many have on their bags too, which are lined up next to the bench, in the same way you tried to get your kids to do it.
The coaches have magnetic boards like yours, only bigger. The kids sit and listen with 100% concentration, and nobody cries when they are shouted at. Their uniforms are top of the range, and even have patches on the sleeve to represent what competition they are playing in. Is this heaven? There's banners and flags all around the venue. All the cars have bumper stickers on, displaying what club their kid plays for. Some of them are from way out of state. You consult the league webpage, and see teams from really far away. You didn't see any of their cars in the parking lot. DID THEY FLY HERE? FLYING TO A GAME? THAT'S SO COOL! THAT'S LIKE HOW THEY DO IT IN THE MAJOR LEAGUES!!!!
You need to get into this. But how? You consult the local clubs' websites, and notice one of them is hiring. They talk about something called a "coaching license", adding that applications without it won't be accepted. So you look into it, and notice you have to go to spend a week at a site way out of state. You can get the time off work. It will feel cool telling them you're flying to a different state for a week to coach. You tell your club about it, and they decide to fund the course for you. Better not tell them yet that you plan to leave at the end of the season, and possibly take a couple kids with you, if you can.
This coaching course is a weird concept. You enjoyed telling the hotel staff what you were in town for, and they seemed mildly impressed. There's thirty candidates, and three instructors. One of the candidates is a woman. Must be a diversity pick. There's a handful of English guys on the course, and all they do is make fun of the way soccer operates in the US. You ready your 1776 jokes. While looking at ways to insult the English on Google one night in your hotel room, you find that the USMNT beat England in the 1950 World Cup. That will absolutely destroy these English assholes. You better save that one for when you really need it.
The course has a bit too much discussion and talking for your liking. Everyone talks about coaching methodology like there's more than one. You're asked to work in groups to develop presentations, which you find pointless and trivial. You're here to learn from the instructors, not each other. One of them was about giving more ownership to the players. At first, you thought it was a joke. Only upon finally wiping the tears away from your eyes did you realise you were the only one laughing.
Some of the assignments require watching videos. You're seeing teams you've never heard of, like Barcelona, Milan, Manchester United, Bayern Munich. The players in the videos are doing way too much passing. They need to get the ball to the goal quicker. You also notice that the players are quite small. Many below 6'0". Hold on. These are supposedly the best players in the world, and yet you are bigger than most of them? That's hilarious. You lean across to those English guys and tell them how lucky they are athletes like LeBron and Tom Brady didn't choose to play soccer. This leaves them bewildered. Obviously stunned at the thought of America's best athletes suddenly switching to soccer, and winning the World Cup every year.
Why do these assessors keep questioning you on stuff, anyway? It's like they don't realise you played in high school, and that your team won three tournaments last season. If anything, you should be showing them some things. One of them is apparently head coach of the deaf national team. How is learning from him going to be helpful? You want to learn how to better instruct your players, and this old fart works with people who can't even hear!
One of the presentation tasks is about how you might change the youth development setup within the United States. Why would it need to change? The women keep winning everything, and we'd dominate on the men's side too if our best athletes played soccer. You delegate this one to the other members of the group, as you are dumbfounded by the sheer thought of it. Another groups is lead by a couple of the English guys. They spend the whole time tearing the US youth game to shreds. It's making your red, white, and blue blood boil. And the instructors are even agreeing with some of their points! What is this?! At the end, they open it up for questions. They talk about how things are done differently in other countries, and talk about Spain, and this place called the Netherlands. They must be playing a practical joke on us if they're trying to convince us to learn soccer from Peter Pan.
You've had enough. You decide to say something. Hand goes up, and before they even acknowledge you, you hit them with the zinger you've been saving. "If England's so good, then how come we beat you in the fifties?" Aced it. Expert delivery. Suck on that one, you limey pricks with your crooked teeth. But no, they quickly supply a retort, explaining how that team was made mainly of immigrants, much like the team that finished third in the thirties (that's impressive, how the US finished third at a World Cup, despite sending our best athletes to fight Hitler), and state that even today, the USMNT's best soccer players are usually from immigrant backgrounds, or grew up overseas. You can't take this anymore. Here they are making fun of us, giving praise to immigrants, and just being darn right rude! So you let them have the big one. You say it slowly, but calmly, one syllable at a time. Seventeen... seventy... six. Arms folded. Lean back in the chair. The place is silent, obviously in awe of your patriotism. Then the little one of the two looks at you, straight in the eyes, and says "at least our kids come home from school without the use of body bags."
The instructors had to intervene, at that point. Things calmed down, but you were too incensed to focus for the rest of the day. How dare they!
Out on the field, it's not much different. The instructors keep talking about this thing called Coerver, and how they've moved away from it. WTF is Coerver? They say you shouldn't be using lines in your drills, and procede to demonstrate a whole host of drills that weren't even drills. Everyone was moving, everyone was taking part. It looked nothing like how soccer should be practiced. The coach wasn't even in full control, allowing input and suggestions from the players. It appears the communists have infected our soccer, much like how they have infected our educational institutions. It won't be long before California breaks off (good riddance) and Obama is reinstated, allowing marriage between a man and a cat.
Day four, and you coaching gear is starting to smell. It's because the wife isn't with you to wash it. Even though you went to your club's online store and bought extra polos for the trip, the time has come to go to a sporting goods store, and buy some more uniform. You want to avoid Nike, due to the un-Americanism of Colin Kaepernick, but it's all they have. And it does look good. You pick up some items and go to purchase them.
Back at the hotel, the English are in the hotel bar, drinking, and becoming quite loud. They're happy to see you, and invite you over for a drink. You were reluctant at first, but there might be a waitress nearby. The discussion eventually moves away from soccer when the token woman of the course decides to go to bed. She's taken the place of a man who deserved it. Talk about reverse-sexism. They start talking about "birds" which at first lead you to believe they had weird fetishes, but then you figured it must mean women. Hopefully. They actually told some good jokes, which you make sure to write down later to tell to your buddies. "What do you call the useless bit of skin between the vagina and the anus? The woman!" You spit your beer across the table, and nearly choke on the hilarity of that joke. It's the funniest thing you've ever heard. They start calling you "Wanker." Apparently you remind them of a very successful coach from years gone by back in England, called Berty Wanker. They tell you he was quite the revolutionary. "Hey Wanker!" they ask, "Why do women have foreheads?" You contemplate the thought for a moment, before they shout out "So you have somewhere to kiss them after you cum in their mouth!" They fall about the place in hysterics, not noticing how your gaze drifts off into the distance. Your wife hasn't done that to you since before the kids were born.
It's the last night of the course. You've done what the instructors asked of you, even though you don't agree with any of it. You just need the certificate to begin coaching at the next level. Everyone is flying out tomorrow, and the English suggest a thing called a "pub crawl" to celebrate the conclusion of the course. They dress up, and smell much better now. You notice a few of them have removed their wedding rings. Perhaps they don't want to lose them. Town can be a bit dangerous.
You thought it was only going to be a quick few drinks, but it is now past midnight. There's a handful of women now hanging around the group. They're not instructors, and the token you recognised from the course left a while ago. The English tell you she's a "frigid lezza." It's only as the night passes, you realise what their plan has been all along. They're trying to score. A week away from the family, the wedding rings off, it makes sense now. Could you do it too? Are you capable of this? You start to rationalise it. The wife doesn't get it. She doesn't appreciate you or your coaching. She's turned into a nag. You deserve one night of fun, and your role as a coach has elevated your status. You're on different terms now compared to when you first got married.
Out of the blue, one of the women approaches you, as you sit away from the group on a stool by yourself. "Are you a coach too?" she asks, slurring her words, and reeking of alcohol. She's probably the least attractive of the bunch, but you have to start somewhere. "Why yes I am!" you proudly proclaim, as you turn to face her, straightening up your posture. "Do you work with kids?" she asks, "Oh my God, I love kids!" she says as she swoons. And then you hear this weird noise coming from across the bar. "Wheeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy!!!!!!" It's the English. They're sounding their approval of your endeavours. It then breaks out into song. "Wanker's pulled a fatty! Wanker's pulled a fatty! Na na na na, na na na na!" They continue for several verses of this, what appears to be a soccer chant, dancing and pointing, locking arms with each other.
You have their credibility now. On your way out with this woman, one of them pats you on the back and says "Hey lads, Wanker's a mad shagger!" "Wheeeeeeyyyy!!"!" they all chant again, and begin the song once more, which you hear fading in the distance as you shuttle the woman back to your hotel. In the room, she instantly passes out on the bed. Saddened, disappointed, you start to feel guilt about what you were contemplating doing. You shower, and sleep on the sofa. When you awake the next morning, she's gone.
At breakfast, with all the other candidates having their last meal, hungover, checking out, and waiting for their flights, you hear "There he is!!!!" You turn, and the English give you a round of applause with a standing ovation, for what they think you have done. "Oi Wanker, guess who I saw sneaking out earlier this morning!" At least they think you did it. A pen and paper circulates the tables, as one of the candidates decides it would be good to gather everybody's contact details. As you go to write yours down, you see your name has been crossed out, with "Berty Wanker" written in place, next to a set of brackets containing the words "mad shagger." They'll never find out you didn't, and your wife will never find out you nearly did.
Some of the discussions from the week play on your mind. You decide, for sheer enjoyment, to try one of those non-drill drills with your players. As you predicted, it's a complete disaster. Your players don't have the footskills to do what was required of them, unlike that messy player everyone kept talking about on the course. You wish you could remember his name, as his lack of athleticism shocked you, and supposedly he was the best player in the world? Communists are weird.
 |
| "So you beat three players and took, a shot. What, do you think you're some kind of hero? Mr. Bigshot over here with his blue cleats. Do you know, you're nothing? Nothing! You won't amount to anything, because you're too busy caring about your hair. You've not even got on the right uniform today. Why should I even play you? Huh? You don't listen, you don't learn, you're not a team player. All you ever think about is yourself. Soccer is a team sport. There's no "I" in team." |
You did like the idea of analysing games, though. That was one good thing to come from the course. Nobody at your current team has any kind of tall tripod or drone that can be used for filming games, so you decide to purchase a GoPro camera, and strap it to your head. That way, the players can see what you see from the sidelines, so there is no debate about what actually happened. This comes with the added benefit of coming with your narration and coaching points, making it more informative when the kids watch it back.
Then something happens that annoys you. It really annoys you. One of your kids tried this fancy flick thing in a game. It beat his opponent, but that's besides the point. You ask the player what were they doing, and they tell you they saw a video on YouTube by some guy called Neymar. They say that Neymar is really good, and he does lots of skills. You tell them that whoever Neymar is, they are not Neymar, and should stop trying to act like him. Neymar has natural talent, that's why he is able to do all these things and get away with it. You make a point to tell the group that none of them are naturally talented, and shouldn't try any of these pointless fancy tricks, as they will never be able to do them.
Although somewhat decent athletes, you have to face facts. You're stuck with the rejects who couldn't make it in real sports, played by real Americans. It's been a good two years, but it's time to use that fancy coaching qualification, and get that real job at the Elite Academy National Development League club that you have been longing for. They give you a team, pay you a decent wage, as they are privileged to have you and your winning record on staff. They ask you if you know of any kids with potential, and you bring along the three tallest and fastest kids from your previous club. The club tells you that in addition to your salary, you're allowed to command a fee to parents for the privilege of playing under your tutelage. What's the going rate? Usually around $800 for top coaches. You decide to be generous and humble, charging only $500 per kid, in addition to your expenses and salary.
 |
| "Okay kids, sit on the ground here, while we point our bellies at you in our new tracksuits. You won't be getting anything like this yourself as part of your fees. That's extra, and you can find some in the club shop just over there, or online. I'll give you a 5% discount code, because I'm nice like that. Thanks for coming her today. We're going to go one by one, introducing ourselves, so you know who you are fortunate enough to be playing for this year. We'll start with Coach Joey." "Hey, yeah, so uh, I'm Coach Joey. And uh, I have a lot of experience. Been coaching for three years now. This is the start of my third year. Been coaching longer than many of you have been playing, so I definitely know a thing or two. My favourite soccer teams are Manchester United, Real Madrid, and Juventus. My favourite player is Messi. I like to have a little fun now and then, but soccer must be treated seriously. I'm keen on fitness and discipline, so if you turn up late, you'll have to run some laps. After that, come find us, as we'll be running laps. If you're good, I'll let you play shooter idol. I played soccer myself, being a sweeper on my high school team. We went eight and two in my final year. I got to play under Coach A. who many of you may have heard of... no? The Wildcats? Most winningest coach in the North East Central region? Well, look him up. He's been coaching since the 70s, and taught me everything I know about soccer. So yeah, that's me. I'll pass you over to Coach Dave now, so he can introduce himself too." |
The club give you brand new cones, balls, and other equipment like ladders and hurdles. You get a tracksuit, a rain jacket, a winter coat, and a whole range of polos and training tops, all with your initials on, all with coach written on the back. And if you want anymore, there's a club shop on site, and you get 10% discount. You go into the shop, deciding to purchase a team bumper sticker. The lady behind the counter asks "Are you a coach?" and you beam with pride as she applies the 10% discount.
This place is so professional. This is where you need to be. They have banners everywhere, a big billboard, the logo printed into the centre circle of their main field, which is named after one of their most winningest coaches from years gone by. That field, or another one like it, could be named after you some day. The kids even have training uniforms, with the competition patch on the sleeves! You think about enquiring to see if you can get some for your new coaching uniform.
Your weeknights and weekends are going to be busier than before now. Three nights of practices per week, plus an SAQ session with the fitness coach, and a technical night with the club trainer. You don't have to attend, but you want to anyway. You're serious about it, so go five nights per week. The wife is annoyed, but she doesn't get it. She'll never get it. The kids start to ask if they can come with you, but you tell them they will be a distraction. They can come to home games, but can't do anything to break your concentration.
The fixtures are released. In the first month, you have three away games out of state. Two of which will require flights. Three hotel trips. Would this give you an opportunity to live up to your mad shagger persona? You start to plan right away. Games are Saturday and Sunday afternoon. That allows for team meetings both mornings. You purchase a big tactics board and an HDMI cable for your laptop. At this team, you have three dads all willing to film games with their professional equipment, bought specially to film their kids playing sport. One at the halfway line, one behind either goal. You call the hotels in advance to book their meeting rooms to arrange team meetings. None were occupied. What a relief. Imagine if someone else got in there first?
The following Tuesday after your second session with the team, feeling accomplished that the entire squad of twenty have improved their mile times in the offseason. You've already had an impact. These kids respect you. The dads want to be you, which is why they have bought all the merchandise, and try to look just like you, minus the word coach on the back. The mums want to be with you. You're suspicious some may be acting that way in order to get their kid more game time, as one suggested, with a wink, that it's a pain to go all the way to Ohio for her kid to only get twenty minutes of a game. You brush those suspicions aside. Of course she wants you. Who wouldn't? You speculate about which one will approach you first on your first out of state tournament. Could you handle two in one evening? Probably not. You're low on stamina. Better start running some laps to improve your endurance. You decide to go to Buffalo Wild Wings, in full coaching gear, brand new and looking sharp. You bring in the clipboard, as is customary. And she's there. Finally. She comes over to your table at in the bar, is visibly impressed by the beautiful tracksuit you're wearing, and says with a smile "Oh hey you! Haven't seen you in here for a while!"
Awesome.
Satire?
No. These are all realistic examples. Perhaps an amalgamation of different people, but the story is entirely a believable one. We've all experienced people and events much like these. And yes, I do acknowledge that there are great coaches and great people involved in youth sport, but I counter that by saying that we still champion the douchebags like the protagonist of this story.
For me, it very much is Premier League cosplay, and much of it is driven by sexually repressed men. They go around, acting important and tough, because they are severely lacking in need fulfillment.
Why does it happen this way? I will try to explain using self determination theroy.
Autonomy. These sorts crave control. They want to be in charge. So much of their life is slipping away from them, and they need to get a grip on something. Youth sport becomes an easy outlet, as adults have a natural authority over kids, coaches have a natural authority over players, and you have a bunch of parents all following your word too.
Competence. This is why they often stay relatively small in their knowledge, and do not empower or encourage the players to learn more. A lot of these coaches are like Grade 2 musicians (there's eight grades) keeping their kids at Grade 1. They don't teach them anything that would allow the kid to perform without the input of the kid, or that places the learning in the hands of the kids. This keeps the coach in charge, keeping their feeling of control and competence. Players knowing stuff becomes a threat to their position. At the moment, they think they coach is all wise, and because the coach essentially keeps the kids in a dark room in terms of learning, with no doors or windows, they don't know there is more to know. The kids and parents don't watch games on TV, and are never exposed to a better way of soccer. The coaches themselves never seek it, as this is a threat to their self-efficacy. It would shake them to know how little they know.
Relatedness. Coaching youth sport makes you feel part of something. It makes you feel like you belong. You are needed. You offer something of value. You're not just part of a social group, but a respected and valued member within it.
From my point of view, youth soccer in the US has turned into cosplay. It's dress-up. It's make believe. Much like sci-fi fans dressing up as their favourite characters at a convention, but the difference being coaches need kids to fulfil the fantasy, and doing so is often at a detriment to those children.
Apparently Scarborough has a convention.
You can often tell how much it's about the kids or not by the amount of kids sat on the bench. As I have outlined many times before, these kids should be playing 5v5. That's a whole entire team sat on that bench. Why do coaches hoard players? So that they have plenty of options, so that if any of them become good, then that kid is not at another club, so they are never short-handed, and that the team never fatigues. If it were about the kids, they would be playing more. And they would be playing more, regardless of their ability.
We're all guilty of this to some extent. I love tracksuits and tactics boards. Who doesn't? But we lose sight of youth sport being, first and foremost, about the kids. Nobody, absolutely nobody, should be making a living off of grassroots sport. Pay coaches? Yes. Compensate volunteers? Of course. But nobody should be able to rely on youth coaching as a sole source of income. You're paying way too much. And that's where the US differs greatly from the rest of the world. I make the point how in 2017, back in England, I worked three jobs; boys pro academy, a Women's Premier League team, and a men's university team. I made one third of the wage I had in Missouri, which was working one job, and coaching some of the most awful players I have ever seen. Seeing them turn up to practice and games at world class facilities, in full Nike or Adidas uniform, with $200 boots on, was such an insult to the game of football, and footballers everywhere. It's not the kids' fault. No. I'd rather wear Adidas than Joma. I'd rather play on 4G all weather turf than long grass on a bumpy field. I'd rather have a three officials than some dickhead parent as linesman. But then a lot of people would rather be sucked off by Jennifer Aniston in a hot tub every night, while cruising the Caribbean on their private yacht. It's all unnecessary, extra, hollow, nothingness. The kids don't need it, but charlatans make you buy it.
How's this for perspective? American parents going to one out of town tournament will pay more for that weekend than Europeans will pay for their kids' soccer in an entire year. You've got it all wrong, and it is designed to stroke the fragile egos of sexually repressed men.
The coach isn't Pep. The team isn't Man City. The league isn't important. Your kid isn't Kevin de Bruyne. And you (the parent) aren't a fan paying hundreds of dollars for a season ticket to a professional game. As much as you want it to be, as much as you act like it, none of it is important. Calm down, let the kids enjoy themselves, let them learn, let them fail, let them experience the many different lessons life teaches them through sport. You didn't have kids so they could make you proud. You didn't have kids so they could impress you. Let them live their lives, help them grow, and be aware of all the crap that clubs and coaches try to pull in youth sport.
It's much like how adults try to make kids pick a career at a young age. No eight-year-old wants to be a lawyer. Not even lawyers want to be lawyers. If you asked a group of kids that age what they wanted to be when they were older, at least twenty percent of the answers would be an animal or a colour. Adults create the world, and they seek to understand it through adult terms. You're in your forties, with an education, a job, a family, and a mortgage, and you want to help your kid plot their own path too. Yet you fail to inspire them as to why, and fail to guide them as to how. Life isn't about things, but about feelings. Your house or car doesn't matter. It is possible to find happiness through work, but you can't let work or money dictate your life. Don't put these adult expectations on kids. Kids don't exist to justify your existence. They are their own entities. Don't pigeonhole them. Don't tell them they can't be an artist, writer, ski instructor, traveler etc. If that's their spark, go with it. Help them find their spark. Don't put it out just because it doesn't match what you want it to be for them.
Thanks for reading. Enjoy these memes.
No comments:
Post a Comment