The start and perceived end of my coaching career.
Part two of my auto ethnography (i.e., creative reflections of my personal experiences) exploring some of the psychological processes involved in constructing, deconstructing and partially reconstructing a coaching identity. If you’d like to read the whole article you can do so here [an academic login is required].
As with part one, what follows is a brief narrative of my experiences as a young person trying to assert an identity within the role of an association football (also known as soccer) coach (McCall & Simmons, 1978). Stets and Burke (2000) define identity as the categorisation of the self as an occupant of a role, while incorporating the self into the meanings and expectations associated with the role and its fulfilment. As Oyserman, Elmore, and Smith (2012) suggest, identity can be focused on the past (e.g. what used to be true of the individual), the present (e.g. what is true of the individual now) or the future (e.g. the person the individual expects, hopes or feels obliged to become; or the person one fears one may become). Using an auto ethnographic approach, I explore my lived experiences through a number of rich, contextualised vignettes: drawing meaning and connections to
extend our understanding of identity (Ellis & Bochner, 2000).
The start.
“Psst” a noise comes from three desks across to my left, “gaffer… Joh[sic]’’ a hushed voice calls. “What?’’ I quietly, but abruptly bark. “How are we gonna play on Saturday?’’ the voice asks. We’re in a cold, white laboratory, which although set up for science lessons rarely sees them. Instead, like usual, my classmates and I frantically try to write what the teacher puts on the white board for an hour. However, I have three problems: (1) I’m shortsighted, (2) I’m sat at the back of the class and (3) I’m surrounded by friends who want to talk about our new football club. As I squint at the board and copy the person next to me a new voice comes from the right “am I going to start on Saturday?’’ I put the pen down. Since creating a team of my school friends, this is a question that I have been asked a lot, “you know I don’t tell the players until Friday’’. I look up and see the familiar sight of the teacher’s back. With her tousled brown, shoulder length hair she stretches for a space at the top right hand of the white board to continue the final leg of our writing marathon. Looking down at my writing I become aware of the white space left remaining on the page. I’ve tried to keep up, but have fallen too far behind. The lesson only has ten minutes remaining and I know that I’ll never finish copying what the teacher has written. Instead, I jot down a few formation ideas and pass them around “what do you think?’’ I ask. There may be ten minutes to go, but for us the academic lesson is over.
The end.
My eyes are open, strained and exhausted. I can almost feel the blood vessels swell and burst as they frantically twitch within my skull. The world is black and I have never felt more alone in my life. My wife sleeps soundly next to me, but my dry eyes, tired of staring at the blackness won’t close. I’m afraid. Afraid to let my mind wander, because if I do the demons will come back. My dad, best friend and number one supporter has terminal cancer. That evil fucking bastard of an illness has come back after ten years in remission. It’s not fair. At 49 years of age he’s too young to have had to face this twice. I have to coach in the morning, but it’s too much, I can’t deal with the utter pointlessness of the bickering; everything pales into insignificance. Should I quit, everyone would understand, everyone except perhaps my dad. When I first told him that I wanted to be a coach he supported the idea when most laughed. Am I being a coward and using my dad’s illness as a cover for my failure to make it as a coach? I’ve done ok, I’ve worked at a couple of professional clubs, managed senior amateur teams, and worked as a player development officer for Major League Soccer, but I’ve not really made it. I can’t quit, he likes coming to the stadium and chatting with the fans about being the assistant manager’s dad. My being a coach is usually the first thing he tells people when he mentions he has a son. I’m trapped. I can’t let him down, I need to concentrate on the football. I try to think about who should play up front on Saturday, but a voice inside my head won’t be silenced your dad is dying.
At 6am on Thursday the 31st of March 2010, my father passed away. I then spent the rest of that day and the next locked in a numb, tear soaked daze trying to understand what had just happened. On the Saturday I pulled on every ounce of strength in my body and went to manage the team. On Sunday, emotionally drained and feeling as if I had been kicked in the stomach I quit my role as manager and gave up coaching.
Did I return to coaching? Follow The Regista both here and on twitter for the next instalment to find out. Can’t wait until next week? Don’t forget that you can read the whole story and importantly, the psychological explanations of the processes experienced here [an academic login is required].
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