A Rant On Soccer

This year, Sprout's soccer organization decided to let the kids of the head coaches choose the name of their team for the upcoming season.  I thought that was a really nice and fun gesture.  Unfortunately, by the time I got around to responding to the email, the most popular names on the list were gone.  Sprout's first choice was Sharks.  Taken.  His next choice was Tigers.  Taken.  So instead of continuing to go back and forth between Sprout and the team coordinator, I had Sprout prioritize the remaining options.  And then, just in case those were all taken, Sprout decided to add a few names of his own:

1. Koalas
2. Monkeys
3. Tractors
4. Rope Guys

I am pretty sure Rope Guys will be available.

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The second year that I coached Sprout's older brother, Fern, in soccer, our team was absolutely horrible.  We had, by far, the worst team in the league.  We hardly ever scored.  Other teams would run up five or six goals in the first half and then just play keep-away the rest of the game.

Our team had no attention span, no talent, and no interest in soccer whatsoever.  Frankly, it felt like we were trying to coach a bunch of kids whose parents needed cheap babysitting three times a week.

Believe me, we tried everything.  We tried running them hard at the start of practice to take the edge off.  We tried to grab their attention with fun drills and games.  We tried one-on-one challenges to get them to engage.  And we gave positive encouragement at every opportunity.  (Which wasn't easy.  Sometimes, we had to get creative.  "Wow, that was a hard kick!  I bet next time, if you actually make contact with the ball, it will go really far!")

I mean, nothing worked.  Especially with Kolton.  He lived in his own world.  In practice, I had to practically drag him onto the field.  In games, he would often just sit down and pick at the grass.  Other times, he would be off to one side doing somersaults.  He had no interest in soccer, but he loved somersaults.

Miraculously, the last game of the season, Kolton suddenly exploded on the scene.  He wasn't the best player out there, but he was engaged, he was running, and he was aggressively going after the ball.  I was amazed.  Perhaps all our coaching effort, encouragement and pleading was finally working.  After the game, I spoke with his mom about his unexpected turnaround.

"Well, Coach...I kind of told Kolton before the game that I would give him a dollar every time he kicked the ball."

There is no coaching challenge so large that a little money can't fix.

---

As I mentioned, that year, we hardly ever scored.  The first time happened several games into the season.  Greg, the son of the guy I coach with, was one of the few kids who actually worked hard out there.  He was playing right defense when an opposing player came speeding down his side of the field.  Greg challenged the forward and actually won the ball.

But instead of clearing the ball to the side like we taught him to do, Greg dribbles the ball right in front of our goal.  And inexplicably, he strikes the ball, putting it past our goalie and into our net.

After the game, we asked him if he knew he was shooting at his own goal.

"Yeah."

"Then why did you take the shot?"

"I wanted to see what it felt like to score a goal."

---

Speaking of own goals...

A couple years ago, Fern played indoor soccer.  (We wanted to give him something to do in the winter other than tease his brother.)  One game, Fern was playing defense when the ball rebounds hard off the wall, strikes his heel and inadvertently goes into his own goal.  I was a little worried about how he felt because he's usually very hard on himself.  I decided to probe on the drive home.

Deadwood: So...did you have fun, today?

Fern: You bet I did!  I scored a hat trick!

Deadwood: Uh...how do you figure?

Fern: I scored two goals for my team, and one for the other team.

---

I tried to explain.

Deadwood: Yeah, well technically...

Fern: Three goals, Poppa.  That's a hat trick.

Deadwood: Well, it doesn't actually count as a hat trick if one of the goals is for the other team.

Fern: Last week I scored twice for the other team and they counted.

Deadwood: Well, yes, but the other team was short on players, so your coach loaned you to the other team.

Fern:  So?

Deadwood: So, you were actually playing for them.  Therefore, the shots counted because they were intentional.

Fern:  Not my second goal.  I just stuck my leg out and the ball went into the goal.  I didn't try to score, but it still counted.

Deadwood: Yeah, but...okay...so here's the thing...

Fern:  You said you were proud of me because I had created the opportunity for myself.

Deadwood: That is true, I was proud of you.  I'm just saying in this case, the goal doesn't count.

Fern:  It did count.  The scoreboard said they scored three goals, and the third one was mine.

Deadwood: That's not what I meant.  Yes, it counts on the scoreboard, but what I mean is...so what I mean is...

  

By this time, we had arrived home.  Rooty greeted us in the garage.

Rooty: So, how did it go?

Deadwood:  Fine...he scored a hat trick.

---

One rainy October day a couple of years ago, I was trying to teach Fern how to one touch corner kicks into the goal.  He was getting close, but he was having trouble timing it right.  He was getting frustrated and tired.  I decided that a real life example was worth a thousand words.  “Here, let’s trade places.  I’ll show you.”

He kicked a great corner to me, but wow, the ball comes surprisingly fast and really bends.  The ball was a little high, so I jumped to try to put the ball in the goal with my knee.  Only, the ball didn't hit my knee.  It hit my groin.  And to add injury to injury, in my attempt to avoid the ball hitting me in the groin, I angled over awkwardly and severely strained my arch as I came down.  (My arch still gives me problems.)  There’s a lesson in there somewhere.  And that lesson is this: “You’re a dork, Deadwood.”

Note: A Canadian friend of mine has a similar story which is even funnier.  However, I won't tell you about it because he was playing hockey, so it is also bloodier.  (For you non-Canadians, hockey is almost exactly like soccer except it is played in the snow.)

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Soccer seems to attract kids with all kinds of personalities.  Some of them are a bit quirky.  A couple of years ago, we had one kid, Bruno, who insisted on calling me "Assistant Coach Deadwood."

"Assistant Coach Deadwood, can I take a water break?"

"Assistant Coach Deadwood, can I play goalie?"

"Assistant Coach Deadwood, what time is the game on Saturday?"

It was a little embarrassing, especially when parents were around to overhear.  They would always laugh.  So one day, I decided to say something.

"Listen, Bruno, you can just call me 'Coach.'"

"But you're not the coach...you're the assistant coach."

"Yes, but even though I am the assistant coach, you can still call me 'Coach.'  You don't need to call me 'Assistant Coach.'"

"Uh huh..."

"That's how it is in any sport.  You just call everyone "Coach.'"

 "..."

"Seriously.  Even in the major leagues.  Football, baseball, basketball, whatever.  All the assistant coaches are just called 'Coach.'"

 "..."

Bruno just kept looking at me, skeptically.  He clearly was not convinced.  I think he figured I had some kind of inferiority complex.  And the more I tried to explain, the more pathetic I looked.  Not just to him.  But even to myself.  I decided to cut bait.

"Okay, you know what?  Forget it.  Call me whatever you want.  Just get out there and practice your passing with the others...Backup Mid-Fielder Bruno."

POST SCRIPT
Some of the odder moments happen off the field.  Or court.  Fern played in a rec basketball league this past winter.  One of the teams decided to name themselves the "Super Condors."  But somehow, the screen printer misunderstood.  When the jerseys arrived, they all read:

SUPER CONDOS

So, let me get this straight.  The printer actually thought a boys basketball team wanted to call themselves the "Super Condos?"  Seriously?  Okay, maybe I could buy the name if they were say, a retirement shuffleboard team out of South Beach.  Maybe playing the Liver Spots in the Metamucil Invitational or something.  But 11 year old boys?  C'mon.  Super Condos?!

Of course, this past summer, when Fern's soccer team heard about this fiasco, half of them immediately wanted to adopt the name.

"Yeah!  Let's be the Super Condos!  That'll be AWESOME!!!"

Maybe the screen printer knows 11 year old boys, after all.