I'm Coaching 4th Grade Soccer: III
I'm Coaching 4th Grade Soccer: III
and it fucking sucks
Welcome back. If you haven’t read the first parts of this series, they are attached here:
We left off last time after a terrible first practice and an even worse first impression. Walter, my son, was about to share some feedback on how I might make a comeback. That is where we pick back up, below.
Walter paused. He seemed to be struggling to find the words.
“I think maybe coaching just isn’t… for you. It’s not your thing.”
We were quiet for some time. His observation was not something I had considered.
“You know what I mean?” he asked cautiously.
Silence.
He went on. “It’s just... Why did you talk so much? We didn’t even play soccer.”
“I thought we should spend some time getting to know one another!”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’ —”
“And why were you so nice? You can’t just ask a kid to do something, you have to tell them to do it. It’s like you don’t even know how kids work,” he said.
All of his points were valid. I had no ground to stand on. “Okay, okay. I get it. I know what to expect now. I’ll do some research! At least tonight was our rock bottom. It can’t get any worse than tonight,” I said.
I didn’t sleep that night. The heads of each of my players were swirling in and out of my brain, taunting me with their evil laughter and snide remarks. Succumbing to a sleepless night, I began searching the internet for answers.
First-time coaching tips.
Overcoming a bad first impression.
How to make children respect me.
Each search grew more unhinged. It was 2 a.m., my eyes were dry from hours of blue light exposure, and there I was, buried in a 2016 Reddit thread on how to get young kids to blindly follow my inept teachings.
The stuff of an FBI agent’s dreams.
Game Day
On Saturday afternoon, we drove to the field. The family hype song was on full blast: Space Jam by the Quad City DJ’s.
Upon arrival, Walter and I headed to the side of the field designated for players and coaches. Alex joined his parents on the opposite side. I gave them a timid wave. Nervous smiles from my in-laws. From Alex, a smirk. Followed by a thumbs up.
That side of the field was teeming with parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Soon, these people would become my greatest supporters or biggest adversaries. Only time would tell.
Tamping down my season-opener jitters, I assessed the situation. Twenty minutes to kickoff. I did a headcount. Eight children for a 7v7 game. One substitute.
Looking at the competition, I counted three coaches and fourteen children. Circled up in perfect formation, they began a synchronized jumping jack routine. Christ almighty.
Meanwhile, the Fireballs were running rampant. I barely knew their names, let alone which positions to put them in. I had no choice but to wing it.
“Fireballs! Circle up!” I called. The team began forming around me. “Which of you are interested in playing goalie this season?” I asked.
Immediately, Max raised his hand. “Me. I’m goalie.”
“Okay, Max. Position is all yours. If you’d like, you can —”
“DAD! GOALIE GLOVES!! GET MY GOALIE GLOVES FROM THE CAR!!” Max was shouting toward his dad on the sidelines. Within seconds, his dad had sprinted to his car, back toward our team, and began putting Max’s gloves on for him. Max flashed me a contemptuous smile.
Meanwhile, I doled out the remaining positions. Two forwards, two midfielders, and two on defense. It was time for a motivational speech.
“Team. Only a few rules today. I want you hustling on and off the field. And I want you demonstrating sportsmanship. Who here can explain what sportsmanship means —”
Something had caught my eye. Oscar. He had an eight-inch string of spit dangling from his mouth. At the base, a massive puddle of phlegm was soaking into his shorts. I shot him a horrified look; he gave a sheepish grin and slurped up the string. The phlegm puddle slowly seeped down his leg.
“— Anyway, sportsmanship is —”
“— Teacher? I forgot my water. Can I go get a drink from my dad?” Without waiting for a response, David ran to his parents on the sidelines. Seconds later, he returned with a 64-ounce plastic cup in hand.
“Look at me! I’ve got Coke,” he bragged to the rest of the team. David began chugging the soda at a beer-bong level rate.
“Um. I don’t think you should be doing that,” I attempted.
The rest of the team cheered him on. “David! David! David!”
After the team had finally settled, I began again. “Okay. As I was saying —”
“HEEEEY! DON’T DO THAT!!!!!” Ethan had just kicked the soccer ball from under Dylan, which he was using as a makeshift chair. Ethan began laughing hysterically.
“Ethan,” Dylan began calmly, “It seems you are under the impression that you’re the most popular person on this team. Though you may be the biggest, that trait alone does not define popularity. In fact, I’d suggest that you’re nothing. but. a. GIANT. DICK!”
Collectively, the team gasped. They looked at me in anticipation.
What could I say? Dylan had a point. We all know the boys that grew too fast and dominated the rest of us in our early years.
Suddenly, I was transported back to middle school.
Boys using their huge bodies to push their way through a crowded hallway.
Boys throwing speeding dodgeballs at us in P.E. while we cower in the corner.
Boys threatening something terrible unless we hand over our neon purple Giga Pet, securely fastened to our belt loop. And even though we biked helmet-less across two highways to Toys 'R' Us after having spent our life savings from bottle returns, we spare our lives in exchange for Sparkles, our prized digital pet.
Then, an epiphany: Puberty is the great equalizer! Between sophomore and junior year, we late bloomers catch up to — and often surpass — those early-peaking boys. They end up average-sized at best, and, having relied solely on their size to dominate the social scene of our formative years, they’re left with zero personality and a boring identity. No sense of humor. No charm. No emotional intelligence whatsoever.
Put plainly, they become inarticulate boneheaded clowns.
Duds.
I was about to explain this insight to the team when I saw Dylan walking slowly toward Ethan, his HydroFlask water bottle in hand. He tapped it strategically into his palm with each step. Eyes unblinking. “This steel water bottle will hurt your face a lot worse than my fist could,” he explained slowly, stalking his prey.
“What the —”
Ethan began to run.
I intercepted Dylan and his murderous plans just in time.
Then, a whistle from afar. The referee gestured to me, annoyed. Everyone — coaches, opposing team, fans — was staring at us. It was time for the game to start. My team joined the opposing players on the field.
Time for kickoff.
As the game progressed, I noticed how at peace I was. It made sense: I had put everything into our single practice and pre-game warm-up. Work from the Head Coach is all in the preparation. It’s the time spent on the drills. The strategy. The speeches. It was time for my team to realize their individual and collective potential that I alone had fostered. It was time to revel in the masterpiece that I had created.
In the end, we lost the game six to zero.
After the ref called the game, each player slowly sulked to the sidelines. I greeted each with a high five and a slap on the back. “Great job, you guys! You all tried so hard!”
Oscar looked at me and burst into tears. “We looooooost,” he wailed. He sat on a ball and put his head in his hands, continuing to moan and wail.
When I say moan and wail, I am not exaggerating. It was a cartoon level of wailing - in both volume and length. Twenty second wails at the loudest volume you have ever heard in your entire life.
“There, there…” I offered, patting his shoulder. Oscar wailed some more. I stood over him and feigned sympathy. I’m not good with emotional breakdowns. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I am Daria playing volleyball. A half-hearted shrug, at best.
Backing away slowly from Oscar, I was met by another problem. “Teacher?” It was David. “I don’t feel so good.” He, too, was crying. He was also very pale and sweaty. “I think I’m gonna barf.” The Coke.
“Ohhhh God,” I said. “Uhh. Why don’t you just sit over there for a minute and get yourself together.”
Leaving David to dry heave into the grass, I walked over to the rest of my players. It was time for the end-of-game handshake with the opposing team. They had already formed a line, and were ogling at our chaos.
“We got crushed!”
“Those guys were cheaters!”
“Max sucks at goalie!”
“Whoa! Guys! We can’t talk like that,” I attempted. “Huddle up here and let’s say ‘good game’ to the other players. On the count of three, okay?”
For a fleeting moment, silence fell across the entire field, broken only by Oscar and David’s sounds in the background. With wails and gagging echoing behind us, the team gathered in a tight circle around me. “One… Two… Three…”
“Good game!” we said in pitiful unison.
Later that day, our family went to dinner. We reflected on the most obscene moments of the day. Laughing, we attempted to re-create the wailing sounds.
“You should have heard what the parents were saying,” Alex mused.
“Wait. What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” He was holding back.
“Tell me!”
“It was nothing, really. I just overheard one mom making a comment that even though you’re trying really hard, it makes sense that the kids wouldn’t be taking… a… teen mom… seriously. She didn’t know I could hear her.”
My heart sank, and my eyes filled with tears. Here I was, almost forty, facing yet another moment of being under-estimated. In this case, it seemed justified. We did suck. Well, I sucked. I was humiliated.
How was I going to overcome this obstacle? I couldn’t quit. What would that teach Walter?
I decided to carry on. I had seven weeks to right this ship. After all, some of the greatest coaches of all time lost their season opener.
It wasn’t over.
Only one one team would win its final game.
Don’t miss part 4 of I’m Coaching 4th Grade Soccer (and it fucking sucks). Will I overcome these teen mom biases? Did Oscar ever stop wailing? Will any more children barf on my watch? Only time will tell. Be sure to subscribe:
If you know someone that would enjoy this post, please share it, here:
In your defense, you had one practice before your first game, that's coconuts!
you're doing alright
thanks for the update, cant wait for next part!