Every Sports Coach is Unique
And that's exactly how it should be.
It’s 15:56, and I’m sweating. I’m cycling up the only known hill in the city of Copenhagen. The ascent isn’t the steepest, but the longevity is what gets me. Every. Single. Time. My u14 football (as in Soccer) team happens to practise on top of the god-forsaken incline. I started off with vigour, but now — half way up — the lactate in my quads is burning. The lady zooming past me makes eye contact for the briefest of moments. She smiles. This is her smug justification for buying her costly electric bike, which glides silently into the distance.
The two wheeled hike is made harder by the fact that I’m lugging a 50L rucksack on my back. Sherpers don’t work this hard. The bag carried my essentials in 2007 when I travelled around the world. It has seen the markets of Southeast Asia, the beaches of the Caribbean and the hustle and bustle of Tokyo. Today, its job is to carry footballs, cones, bibs and hand sanitiser. I have a traditional large, draw-stringed football bag at home, but it’s easier to understand Manchester City manager Pep Guardiola’s pitch side fashion choices than cycle with it safely.
“Claus and I are different. If we were both to handwrite a letter, he would reach for his calligraphy set, whilst I would scribble with a cracked biro, leaking ink over my fingers”.
I’ve arrived. It’s 16:00pm. Theoretically, training starts now, but the field is empty with the exception of three primary school children practising penalties. My squad hasn’t arrived yet. Most coaches wouldn’t be happy about lateness, but it gives me a moment to reconstitute fluids and shed the excessive layers I’m wearing — the very same layers that I deemed suitable when I left work just 20 minutes ago. Any lost time can be made up in today’s 2 hour practise session.
The keenest squad members appear first. Benjamin is already in his kit and receives a fist bump as a greeting, a welcome that will extend to every player when they eventually arrive. He says hello, asks how I am, gestures to the rucksack and politely asks for a ball. He’s the kid who runs the farthest in matches, inspires his teammates and correctly gets every drill when shown. A 12 year old version of a model professional.
16:16- Prithvi arrives. He’s throwing out a smorgasbord of excuses about his lateness (the train was delayed; I missed the first one, so had to wait for the second; I couldn’t find my boots). All are presented to exonerate him from any responsibility for running on what my mom calls “Caribbean Time.” Concurrently, he is munching on an XL bag of newly purchased chips, which other kids work hard to get a share of. The can of Monster he sips smells like drain cleaner. Incredibly, it’s a step up from the 1L bottle of orange cordial he mistakenly brought last week. Before the end of training, he drank a quarter of the contents, despite being unable to mix it with water.
As more squad members arrive, balls are blasted everywhere. There are only five, but I feel like I’m standing in a storm where the hailstones are size five and branded with Adidas logos. My centre back stands in goal and saves shots rifled in from the team goalie, whose kicking power has been nurtured from launching goal kicks up field. The strikes are the equivalent force of water spraying from a fireman’s hose. I’m convinced they would knock me off my feet. I yell “calm down” to him from a distance. Just last week, Conrad fractured his wrist when he courageously placed his arm in front of one of his jet stream shots.
“OK, let’s make a start.” This is where structure takes over. Players gather close and listen. Daniel leads the warm up. He has done it before, but so has everyone else. The session blends routine with both new and revisited activities designed to address the defects from our last fixture.
With 30 minutes of left of training, I gaze towards the corner of the pitch closest to the car park. I start waving to Claus before I see him. That’s how certain I am he’ll be there. He’s the coach who, at 6pm, trains his team immediately after us. Lean and trim, he’s in his 50s. His club tracksuit is well used, but smart and professional. I take a moment to walk over, ask how he is and deliver a fist bump. I can’t stay, because I’m coaching and he needs to set up for his session, and for Claus, setting up is a labour of love. He organises cones into colour groups. Coloured vests are placed on the ground like a maid fluffing bed sheets. He lays out 20 regulation footballs in a row. The SELECT branding of each facing the same direction. They wait like troops in formation, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice. If they were ever inspected, each ball, I’m certain, would be inflated to FIFA regulations. His players are early and are noticeably quieter than my group. He uses the term “friends” when addressing his players. If the eye is in the detail, then Claus is a Cyclops.
In a brief pause, I wonder what would happen if I were, just for once, detail oriented like Claus. Would my players play better sooner? Would they have more fun? Would I be a better coach? Not one second later, I giggle to myself out loud. “Christ, no!” The outcome of such an absurd experiment would only be detrimental to ourselves and, most importantly, the children I coach.
Claus and I are different. If we were both to handwrite a letter, he would reach for his calligraphy set, whilst I would scribble with a cracked biro, leaking ink over my fingers.
The letters, however, would be read exactly the same. He and I have chosen our philosophies. They suit us as individuals — they just happen to be on either side of the spectrum. I would suggest that it’s best for everyone involved that it remains that way.
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