Coming of Age
I arrived at my U13 boys game minutes before kickoff. I was coaching four teams on the weekend, two of mine and guest coaching two others. I was young, full of energy – and myself. A couple of years into coaching, I felt like I had a decent track record. When I arrived at the field two dads were enthusiastically providing pre-game instructions to the kids. I jogged over to the huddle. The dad’s quieted.
“Thank guys,” I said. “I got it now.”
They looked at me and then one of them turned back to the kids, “Remember what we said guys.”
Is this a coup? It feels surreal. Am I overreacting? Those were my thoughts. This game was my sixth in a row without a break, and I had just sprinted to the field after the previous game ran late. The dads hovered around the bench. “I got it now guys,” I repeated. “You can head over to the parent’s side now.”
They shot me a look like maybe I’d stolen their lunch money, then drifted away.
I first coached this group of kids in the early 90s when they were U11. The club had recruited them with the promise of a professional coach, one with a foreign accent and a resume longer than a Milwaukee County highway project. Said coach had played and coached professional soccer. He was a big deal, and the families and kids were understandably excited by this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Then a bunch of behind-the-scenes stuff happened. Somebody lied to somebody about something. The stuff some people call politics, but I call human relationships. I don’t remember the particulars, but the upshot of the whole mess (at least from my point of view) was the parents and kids were lucky enough to get me for their new U11 boys’ coach. When I was introduced, they stared at me like they had ordered filet mignon and were served a corndog.
In situations like this, a coach needs to assess the mood and climate. Display professionalism. Show the parents that although their kids won’t be coached by a seasoned professional, they will be nurtured and guided by a young up-and-comer who recently moved out of mom and dad’s house. To mollify their disappointment, I decided to introduce myself with a heartfelt letter, the beginning of which went like this:
My parents, Tim and Peewee, were driving through the Eisenhower tunnel when suddenly my mother knew the time had come to give birth to her second son, Rob. A full moon illuminated the end of the tunnel. Dad sped toward the light. As they exited the tunnel, three Wise-Men waited by the side of the road. The first offered snow skis, the second a Galway Kinnell book of poems and the third a soccer ball.
Yes, I really really did write that. And, yes, I really did send it to the families. I might as well have stood on a rooftop and shouted, “Grab your kid and get out now. I’m a freak!” This letter is a perfect example of why no one should ever sort through a tattered box of memorabilia at the back of the closet. Honestly, I had no idea what a dork I was until I found that introduction letter.
I dove into coaching those kids. I had a plan, a roadmap for how to coach 10- and 11-year-olds. Most important, I made it fun. I had a Brazil practice jersey that the team’s “Player of the Week” wore. At some point every kid was “Player of the Week.” I held competitions and handed out rewards for everything: best move, best pass, best tackle.... I handed out candy like it was Halloween.
I engaged the parents. I learned their backgrounds, their hometowns, their careers, their reclusive brother living in a tent in Idaho – their hobbies, debts, crimes, pets, parking fines – everything. Point is, I got to know them. When I grew up, my U12 team was a family event as well as a team. The kids were from my neighborhood, families were friends and our coach was a dad. I wasn’t trying to recreate my childhood team, but I was incorporating the best of what I remembered.
We ended up one big loving family. At least, I thought the parents loved me. In retrospect, I think they considered me entertaining, good for U11s, or maybe like their goofy younger brother – the one who never grew up. Okay, at that point in my life I wasn’t fond of barbers, my dress not exactly GQ and my sense of humor might have seemed a little odd. But I did study all things soccer and I was interested in child development. All that image stuff is just poof and puff, I thought. I still do – kinda.
The season finished with an 0-2 loss in the state championship. The loss was disappointing, but all in all I felt as though we had had a successful season.
So, when I was assigned the same boys at U13, I was excited. I loved those kids and the parents were great. But as the season progressed, problems developed. We were losing. It’s not an uncommon for a talented team to win at U11 and U12 and suddenly lose at U13. It’s called puberty and our team hadn’t reached it. Teams that had, were beating us on a regular basis. It wasn’t complicated and I assumed it was obvious to everyone.
I assumed too much. On several occasions, parents ambushed me. One second they’re standing nonchalantly in a crowd of random soccer parents and the next moment they’re tapping you on the shoulder, “Hey coach, do you mind if we talk for a second? Just a few ideas,” they say with a breathy smile smelling of last night’s gin and tonic and this morning’s coffee. Of course the few ideas translated into wholesale lineup changes and just a few tactical adjustments (getting the ball wide seemed to be the most popular tactical elixir with adjusting their son to a wide position coming in at a close second). The fact that their kid’s testicles had not yet descended and he still sang soprano in the middle-school choir never came up.
The parents didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, I quickly concluded. Their kids were going through a stage. The team was going through a stage. Finally, I’d had enough. I called a meeting with the parents. Here’s what I said:
“I know a lot of you are concerned because the team isn’t winning and maybe you see that as a reflection of their lack of improvement. Our main issue isn’t lack of skill or tactical development, it’s physical – they’re right on the cusp of puberty. Player development, especially at these ages, is a marathon not a sprint. Between the ages of 13 and 15 puberty plays a massive role in winning and losing. Our boys just aren’t quite there yet. Physically we have less muscle mass, which means we are slower and less powerful. The prepubescent kid doesn’t have the endurance of a postpubescent kid. He can’t run as long because his heart can’t pump the volume of blood needed to endure longer. That doesn’t mean my expectations for improvement and hard work are less. It just means that when we play teams that field a lineup of good players who’ve reached puberty, it’s difficult for us to compete at this new level. The good news is that this is a temporary situation and nothing to worry about. These kids are talented and they will only get better over time.”
I finished up with, “Does anybody have any questions?”
The dad of the smallest kid, I’m talkin’ Jiminy Cricket can’t ride on the big-boy rides at Great America small, responded. “Yeah, I want to know why these guys are underachieving?”
“Dimwit, did you hear a word I said?” I wanted to ask. But I held my tongue, instead repeating my entire speech using different words and phrases. “Does that make sense?” I asked.
He stared at me as if I had just read him his Miranda rights. “I guess so.”
When I left the meeting, I wondered how we had gotten to this point. I’d known these families and players for upwards of two years now. When did they start doubting me? Did they ever really trust me? After the meeting, however, the season did seem to move along more smoothly. There was less drama and better play. But it took another year for the bodies of some of those kids to catch up with their skill level.
As for me, when I coach a U13 team these days, I start the season with the puberty speech – it’s the professional thing to do and it helps nip problems in the bud. Sometimes, I even get a haircut beforehand.
