You Say It, I'll Think It
After 19 years of travel coaching, I had a new gig as the Coaching Instructor for a small neighborhood club. Gone were the exhilarating weekly trips to Rockford, IL, Muscatine, IA, and Soulsuck, MO. And I got my holidays back; no more Thanksgiving weekend tournaments (organized by people who hate their relatives), New Year’s Eve day events (started by teetotalers), Memorial Day tournaments (hosted by hippies), Labor Day games (built in the boardroom), Arbor Day games (constructed by cement companies), Valentine’s Day matches (developed by the dumped), St. Patrick’s Day events (established by the English), Fourth of July tourneys (coerced by communists), Hanukkah games (generated by Gentiles) and Easter Kick arounds (started in synagogue). It was a new life of soccer that spared time for friends, family, and vacations (plural!), and I loved it. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t moments…
I sat on our bench, sandwiched between two volunteer coaches. Our team was getting schooled and the opposing coach was boisterous. Although his team hadn’t scored, he was proud of their dominant ball possession. He kept slipping this point humbly into his instructions: “That’s it, that’s what we practiced. That’s what we worked on.” All the while, I couldn’t stop thinking: Who’s he saying this to – the players? himself? the parents? the opposing parents? the opposing coach? everyone on planet earth? He sounded like a car salesman. I was fine though; didn’t let it bother me. I was a young coach once and have been around the block a few times. With my years of experience, my new role was not simply to impart wisdom to my coaches, but to model decorum and etiquette -- a classy example for everyone who visited our home field. And though I’m a relative nobody in the greater soccer world, I have carved out a reputation in Wisconsin.
For example, I know when I walk through a soccer park in SE WI people whisper things like:
“That’s Rob Harrington? I didn’t think he’d be so fat.”
“Yeah, that’s Rob the coach, the one who kicks water coolers and acts like an idiot.”
“That’s Rob Harrington? He should probably trim his eyebrows.”
“That’s that hairy guy… Oh, his nickname’s Harry. I get it now.”
“Who is he?... Never heard of him… Oh, I did hear that story. I heard he went to therapy… A lobotomy? No, they don’t do those anymore, do they?”
Truthfully, my former club had a lot of success, and I was one of the architects. I think I earned and achieved a modicum of notoriety and standing in our local soccer community. Then again…
The game continued. Our team got a chance – didn’t score. The opposition continued to keep the ball and make us chase. All the while, their coach continued to narrate “Excellent movement,” joystick “Now play it wide,” and congratulate himself “That’s what we practiced,” and all the while, I was condemned to listen. I wanted to stand up, adjust our team, organize our shape, and stop the game of keep-away. But that wasn’t my role. I wasn’t the coach. No, my role was to observe, take notes, point things out, and help the coaches understand what they were seeing and what they were missing so that eventually they could fix it. A few minutes later, we got our second goal-scoring opportunity, but the shot missed wide as our forward collided with their goalkeeper. Their goalie got the worst of it. The opposing coach was waved onto the field. He strutted towards his player while continuing to instruct and advertise: “Keep moving the ball and probing like we’ve worked on; it’s coming gentlemen.” It felt like there was a bit more instructing happening than injury evaluation.
After some time, I decided to check if everything was okay – again, because it was the right thing to do. I was certain the opposing coach would appreciate my gesture. Maybe he’d say something like, “No, he just needs a moment to gather himself. He’ll be fine. And thank you coach. Your reputation of being a class act precedes you and now you’ve verified it.” I entered the field and walked neither slow nor fast toward the injured player and coach. “You guys need anything? Is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah, we’re fine,” the coach responded while barely looking at me. Then he added with a sharp look, “He was probably just shocked the ball ended up on our end of the field.”
“Oh, okay, so you don’t need anything?” I think that was the proper response. But I was really thinking: you’re a self-congratulatory asshole, and now I, kinda, hope the kid is hurt and the gloves are coming off, fart-face.
“We’re fine,” the coach said as he walked his player to their bench and added, “It’s coming boys, keep playing like we’ve practiced.”
Back at the bench I told my colleagues what transpired. They responded appropriately with shock and then a whole lot of chuckling. It wasn’t the response I desired. I wanted them to say, “He said that to you?! That’s so disrespectful. He must not know who you are. You don’t deserve that. You’re the best Coaching Instructor ever, Rob.”
The game ended. We lost 0-2 and I was annoyed. Teams I help coach should not look that bad. I took part in the ceremonial hand shaking and again asked their coach, “Is your keeper going to be okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine,” he refrained from a snarky comment, apology, or even an acknowledgement of his assiness.
I walked to my next field thinking about the previous game, our poor defensive shape, our lack of ball pressure, and the annoying coach. If I was head coaching the team, I started to think but then stopped myself and quickly recalled the years of weekends in Collinsville, IL, Lexington, KY, Sioux Falls, SD, and Cincinnati, OH. Maybe if my coaches are doing a good job I should yell out, “Yeah, that’s it. Just the way I used to coach” but I’d never say that. I’ll just think it.
