Diary of a coach - genesis
Why I decided to finally and nervously, take the plunge
I've decided to take the first, tentative steps towards being a football coach.
First steps, because I have no experience of it whatsoever. Tentative steps, because… ah, well, there's a story there. And why not document it as I go?
Football, and specifically coaching, is in my blood. My dad was a coach. He coached my team from when I was around seven years old until I was twenty-six. Being a football coach defined him, for good and for bad. The story starts when Dad first took me to football training when I was six years old. In truth, training is being generous. I attended training for the Under 8s team, the youngest age group back then, before people were taking large sums of money to 'trail' three-year-olds. On a weekly basis, there would be anywhere between six and ten of us younger ones, and we were left to play off to one side while the bigger boys trained. This involved turning school benches onto their side for goals and having a game of three-or-four-aside.
Dad differed from the other parents in that he stayed to watch. Later on, he would say he must have had the world 'MUG' painted across his forehead. When the Under 8s became Under 9s, the next generation of Under 8s needed a coach. He was the obvious choice, and he agreed. Dad threw himself into the role, listening, reading, going on course. He was perceptive and strong-minded enough to largely reject the football the English FA were peddling in the late eighties, instead adopting what the Dutch were doing. Suffice to say I – and dozens of other lads – got a rich footballing education.
The fact Dad coached for so long says everything about what he got from it. But he put a lot in as well. In the days before mobile phones, the internet and things like WhatsApp, organising a football team meant a lot of time on the phone. If a game was called off, it was seventeen phone calls. Sometimes it was frantically ringing around the night before the game because we didn't have enough players. It was ringing in scores and match reports to the league secretary. It was being in the back of the car as Dad ferried equipment and kit around. It was poring over textbooks, or it was other coaches coming around to our house to pick his brains. It was, effectively, a part-time job, probably 20 hours a week on top of his regular 40-hour-a-week job. It was a commitment, and one he met week-in, week-out, year-in, year-out. In 20 years, I don't think he never missed a training session, and missed one match (a pre-season friendly) because of a family holiday.
I always thought that wasn't for me. Indeed, I've been offered organisational roles when playing and I've always rejected them on two bases. First, I saw how much of Dad's time it swallowed. Second, it would be really easy to really throw myself into it and get carried away. I have other commitments, and less time to give, and ultimately, I don't want to let people down.
However, things have changed. I played football until I was 34 years old, starting when I was six. For most of that time, it was very much about playing football to be competitive, to get better, to win. It was probably only in the last few years that I really saw the social benefits more clearly. I thought I would miss playing football when I stopped, but surprisingly, I didn't. I started running and found that ticked the 'regular exercise' box. I also had my first child about a year after I stopped playing, so that – along with two additional children – has kept me pretty busy.
My eldest is six now – the same age as I started playing. She plays football at school twice a week, basketball once, and goes swimming at the weekend. She doesn't know how good she has it! She also suffers from some social anxiety about going into new situations. Football at school works because she's with her friends, but it's been harder to get her into a local sports club where she doesn't know anyone.
I think, as well, I've been looking inwards for the last few years, and have become more socially isolated. My close friends and family do not live locally, and the nightly bedtime routine has meant that even social running has become too much of a stretch (and I'm older than everyone else when I do manage to go!). I was having this conversation with my wife and it was actually she who suggested… why don't you go and coach some kids?
I balked at the idea at first. I'm not great with kids, for one. See all the reasons about commitment and being reliable, And yet as I thought about it, it felt… right. It felt like me. There's not much I would claim to be good at, or know much about, in this life. Football would be top of the list.
I have – perhaps stupidly - always thought I would make a decent coach. When I was younger, Dad's coaching manuals were lying around, and of course, I picked them up for a look. The same goes for his notepads with the training drills. I saw what went into putting training sessions on, often helping to set up the cones. We didn't necessarily always talk about the games we'd been involved in when we got home, because I think he just wanted to be Dad. Especially if we lost. But I've always been analytical when it comes to football, and Dad would often point things out on TV when a player did something he thought was notable. I got used to watching football this way. As I got older, I would be the person who relayed tactical instructions to people on the pitch. I understood what Dad wanted and why when he asked for a higher defensive line, for example.
Ultimately, though, I'm now at the point where I think it would be nice to give something back. These first steps are indeed tentative. I'm primarily nervous about the commitment, and whether it will fit into a lifestyle that I already struggle to balance. I'm not sure it will be worth it if my kids don't come on the journey with me. At the same time, I don't want to force that upon them.
But the first hit is free. I signed up to the EE Playmaker course on the FA website, which costs nothing more than a few hours of my time. Let's see where this thing goes.
TME