The Draft
Whenever bag boys at my local supermarket help me load groceries into the trunk of my car-a trunk that’s full of soccer balls, whistles, and those little orange cones year-round-they always make the same comment: "A soccer mom, huh?"
No, actually, it’s worse than that: I’m a soccer coach.
I’ve coached for years, and the season always starts the same way-with The Draft. When I first started, I was amazed that, like professional sports teams or the horror that was high school phys. ed., the coaches actually had to select kids through the draft process.
Unlike high school, though, the kids aren’t present when we do our picking. Which is good because the first thing we do is rank the kids on a scale of one to three-a one being "yowser, can we clone her?" and a three being "good luck convincing him to take his finger out of his nose."
The object of the draft-at this age, at least-is to try to distribute the talent (and the not-so-talented) as evenly as possible among the teams. That’s the idea anyway. But no matter how often you remind yourself that it’s an instructional league, you can’t help but wish for as many "yowsers" and as few nose pickers as possible.
Another consideration is the parental factor. For instance, after the championship game last season, one mother gave me a box of chocolates as a thank-you gift for coaching. You can bet that I drafted her daughter again. Not only is the child a gem, but she comes attached to a box of Godivas.
And then there are the other parents. For instance, the ones who call and try to wheedle you into changing the entire game schedule because one night conflicts with family wash-the-dog night. Um, let me think about that. I’ve got 11 other players willing to wash the dog on another night, and I only need six players to field a team. If little Billy or Janie absolutely must wash the dog, well, you do the math.
Another favorite are the parents who play armchair coach after the game. One father came up to me after the first game of the season (which was played in the freezing rain) and began a critique with, "If you want the team to win, what you really need to do is…" I was exhausted from trying to keep the kids’ spirits up as they proceeded to get trounced by the other team and hypothermia from the frigid downpour. So I might have been a little more, um, brusque than usual. "No," was my only response, as I trudged, soaking wet, toward my car.
Actually, I thought I handled that particular incident rather well. What I wanted to say was, "I just froze various body parts off for an hour and a half, all the while trying to teach your child that when the soccer ball is coming towards him, he should remove his finger from his nose!"
I think every parent who has a child in athletics should be forced to coach at least one season-except for the ones who pace the sidelines muttering threats to the pre-teen referees. You know who you are.
Personally, having been a coach makes me respect all of the other parent-coaches who volunteer their time for my child. When basketball season rolled around last January, Jesse’s new coach called to tell me about the game and practice schedules. He politely requested that I let him know if Jesse was going to miss any games. "Don’t worry," I said. "Not only will he be at every game, but he’ll probably be there before you."
I also assured him that we had no dog to wash, I didn’t know diddly-squat about coaching basketball, and that Jesse’s fingers would always be free to dribble, pass, or shoot the ball. TPW
No, actually, it’s worse than that: I’m a soccer coach.
I’ve coached for years, and the season always starts the same way-with The Draft. When I first started, I was amazed that, like professional sports teams or the horror that was high school phys. ed., the coaches actually had to select kids through the draft process.
Unlike high school, though, the kids aren’t present when we do our picking. Which is good because the first thing we do is rank the kids on a scale of one to three-a one being "yowser, can we clone her?" and a three being "good luck convincing him to take his finger out of his nose."
The object of the draft-at this age, at least-is to try to distribute the talent (and the not-so-talented) as evenly as possible among the teams. That’s the idea anyway. But no matter how often you remind yourself that it’s an instructional league, you can’t help but wish for as many "yowsers" and as few nose pickers as possible.
Another consideration is the parental factor. For instance, after the championship game last season, one mother gave me a box of chocolates as a thank-you gift for coaching. You can bet that I drafted her daughter again. Not only is the child a gem, but she comes attached to a box of Godivas.
And then there are the other parents. For instance, the ones who call and try to wheedle you into changing the entire game schedule because one night conflicts with family wash-the-dog night. Um, let me think about that. I’ve got 11 other players willing to wash the dog on another night, and I only need six players to field a team. If little Billy or Janie absolutely must wash the dog, well, you do the math.
Another favorite are the parents who play armchair coach after the game. One father came up to me after the first game of the season (which was played in the freezing rain) and began a critique with, "If you want the team to win, what you really need to do is…" I was exhausted from trying to keep the kids’ spirits up as they proceeded to get trounced by the other team and hypothermia from the frigid downpour. So I might have been a little more, um, brusque than usual. "No," was my only response, as I trudged, soaking wet, toward my car.
Actually, I thought I handled that particular incident rather well. What I wanted to say was, "I just froze various body parts off for an hour and a half, all the while trying to teach your child that when the soccer ball is coming towards him, he should remove his finger from his nose!"
I think every parent who has a child in athletics should be forced to coach at least one season-except for the ones who pace the sidelines muttering threats to the pre-teen referees. You know who you are.
Personally, having been a coach makes me respect all of the other parent-coaches who volunteer their time for my child. When basketball season rolled around last January, Jesse’s new coach called to tell me about the game and practice schedules. He politely requested that I let him know if Jesse was going to miss any games. "Don’t worry," I said. "Not only will he be at every game, but he’ll probably be there before you."
I also assured him that we had no dog to wash, I didn’t know diddly-squat about coaching basketball, and that Jesse’s fingers would always be free to dribble, pass, or shoot the ball. TPW