I’ve spent more Sunday mornings than I care to admit standing on a patch of frozen mud behind a primary school, staring at a group of twelve restless kids and a space no bigger than a garden shed. You’ll see plenty of “expert” coaches online telling you that you need a full-sized pitch and a
I’ve spent enough time on freezing sidelines to know that most of the “expert” advice on how to fuel during a match is absolute rubbish designed to sell expensive, neon-coloured powders to parents who have more money than sense. I’ve seen kids walk onto a pitch with a stomach full of nothing but sugary energy
I once watched a lad spend three weeks begging his parents for a custom-printed, moisture-wicking professional kit, only to spend the entire match tripping over his own laces because the shorts were two sizes too big. We get so caught up in the aesthetics of the modern game that we forget the basics; people spend
I’ve spent thirty-five years standing on touchlines, watching players with more talent than sense crumble because they treated their bodies like a rubbish bin. I’m sick to death of seeing these modern “nutritionists” on social media peddling expensive powders and complicated fasting windows that nobody actually has time for on a Saturday morning. If you’re
I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit standing on waterlogged pitches in November, watching coaches run “revolutionary” drills that involve more talking than actual football. You’ll see them online, peddling some fancy, expensive complete guide to small sided games that promises to turn your U-10s into mini-prodigies through complex geometric patterns and color-coded
I spent twenty minutes yesterday listening to a young lad in a designer tracksuit explain how inverted full-backs are the “revolutionary key to unlocking modern positional play,” as if he’d discovered fire rather than just reading a Twitter thread. He made it sound like some magical tactical alchemy, but if you actually try to implement
I remember standing on a touchline in mid-November, watching a lad try to execute a delicate, thirty-yard diagonal ball through a driving sleet that felt like it was made of gravel. He’d spent all week practicing his “technical precision” in a pristine training park, only to find that the reality of a waterlogged pitch and
I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit standing on waterlogged pitches, watching “modern” coaches blow whistles and launch into five-minute lectures that leave half the squad staring at their laces. They think they’re being pedagogical, but they’re really just talking to themselves while the game passes them by. Most of the glossy manuals
I’ve spent thirty-five years standing on touchlines where the wind bites through your jacket and the grass is more mud than greenery, and if there is one thing that makes my blood boil, it’s watching a coach buy a fancy tactical tablet just to solve a problem that a bit of common sense could fix.
I’ve spent thirty-five years standing on touchlines in the freezing rain, watching talented lads throw away a lead in the final ten minutes because they looked like they were playing in wet concrete. You’ll see some fancy-pants sports scientist on television talking about “circadian optimization” or selling you a three-hundred-pound weighted blanket, but let’s cut