Own It
I can be opinionated, a bit obnoxious on the sideline (and other places), fairly sarcastic and sometimes a little crude. Some might even say I struggle with social graces, preferring to begin introductions with a “Hey, that’s a big mustache you got goin’ there”[1] instead of the more traditional “Nice to meet you.” On the other hand, I’m pretty amiable. I like people. My parents raised me to be a team player. As a result, I usually work well with co-workers and peers though I may struggle occasionally with authority.
Why am I telling you all this? To let you know that when I accepted a club coaching job in 1994, my relationships with coworkers were pretty darn good. That is, they were with everyone except coach Matt. Matt just rubbed me the wrong way. From his porcupine hair standing at attention to his bizarre California surfer boy crossed with Jersey know-it-all tone, everything about Matt just grated at me. He had an opinion on everyone and everything. And he always let you know what it was.
One day Pete (my boss) assigned me to cover Matt’s U11 girl’s game until Matt arrived from another game. This is standard procedure at most soccer clubs. The head coach provides the lineup, some instructions and a few things to watch for. The fill-in coach follows the script while also providing the kids with another, though not contradictory, coaching perspective. I viewed the assignment as a good opportunity to bond with the players and get to know the families and, hopefully, Matt. We didn’t need to be best friends, but we did need to be colleagues.
Matt’s team had three star players: Leslie, Amy and Morgan. Ten minutes into the U11 game (note the emphasis on U11 here) we were down 0-1. I wasn’t concerned. Confident that we had the better team and that we would win, I did the unexpected – I pulled the three stars out. The team manager, whose daughter was one of the stars, shot me a horrified look, like maybe she thought I stole her purse. Undaunted, I didn’t acknowledge her concern or provide an explanation. (And, did I mention this was U11 soccer.) My plan was simple, take them out for a short period, provide some instruction and then unleash them on our opponent to get the game firmly in hand.
I was feeling good about my plan, preparing to offer up a few coaching tips to the three girls, when I saw Matt loping down the sideline. He looked concerned, his eyes surveying the field, looking for his superstars, I assumed. I tried to make eye contact but I couldn’t get him to look in my direction. As he got closer, I prepared to explain my tactics and provide him some info on the game. When he was about 10 yards away, he started talking – to the manager, not to me.
“Why aren’t Leslie, Amy and Morgan in the game?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, she responded.
“What’s the score?”
“We’re down 1-0.”
“Leslie, Amy, Morgan, come here!” Matt commanded.
Matt subbed them in and stood on the sideline, eyes glued to the field, never looking in my direction. I stood motionless, getting angrier and angrier. Too pissed to feel even properly humiliated.
Usually, a guest coach sticks around for the remainder of the game and provides insight, feedback or, at the very least, shows interest in the match. Screw this, I thought to myself. What an asshole. First chance I get, I’m going to tell him what a worthless ass he is. And I’ll let him know what I think about his coaching.”
Not saying a word, I tried to show my anger and disgust by packing up and leaving as loudly as possible. I stood loudly. I loaded my backpack loudly. I folded up my chair loudly. And I loudly walked away, silently lambasting Matt with my Puritanical rage and Socratic coaching logic. He had no idea what he was in for. He would wilt from my diatribe, maybe cry and or possibly quit coaching altogether. It would be beautifully cathartic for me, humiliating for Matt.
I ran into David, another coaching colleague, and told him what happened and how Matt was about to get his comeuppance in a big way. The two of us were sitting against a fence when we saw Matt approaching. He was about three soccer fields away but his direction was clear – he was walking fast heading directly toward me. This is war, I told myself, Don’t shoot until you see the whites of his eyes. David attempted to calm me. When Matt was about five yards away, he leaned forward pointing his finger at me. Bring it on cowboy! I thought.
Matt fired first, “I owe you an apology! I was completely out of line!”
What? What’s he talking about. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. I dropped my weapon and responded nonchalantly, “Hey, don’t worry about it. We all have our moments. I was ready to kill you though.”
“And I would’ve deserved it,” he said. “I still do.”
Anti-climactic, huh? Admit it, you were looking forward to a little blood and guts, weren’t you? Maybe a “Youth Soccer Coaches Trade Blows Over U11 Lineup” newspaper headline? Or even a Live Action Breaking News Exclusive Video, “Live at a local soccer tournament, these coaching colleagues have been planting pathetic punches for over a half hour. We’d call authorities but they’re just too pitiful.” Sorry to disappoint.
So, what is the moral of this story? It’s not earth shattering but it is important. The coaching world is rife with big egos, petty jealousies, narcissism and righteousness. That day, Matt’s self-righteous hyper-competitiveness was on full display – as was his humility. Matt, who eventually became my very good friend, taught me a valuable lesson. We all screw up, and when we do – own it.
[1] She really did have a nice mustache.
