I once watched a young lad, bright enough to play for the county, collapse on a baked training pitch because his coach was too busy staring at a tablet to notice the boy’s skin had gone the colour of a wet sheet. We’ve become obsessed with fancy electrolyte powders and high-tech wearable sensors that tell
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood on a touchline in a freezing downpour, watching a group of lads congregate around the corner flag like they’re waiting for a bus. They all have the same idea: stand in a clump, pray for a deflection, and hope the ball hits someone in the face.
I’ve spent half my life standing on waterlogged pitches in November, watching “expert” coaches walk around with clipboards and expensive iPads, lecturing kids about ‘spatial awareness’ and ‘cognitive load’ while the players look like they’d rather be anywhere else. If you think you can solve the mystery of how to coach teenagers by downloading a
I remember a Tuesday night in mid-November, standing on a pitch so waterlogged it felt like we were coaching in a marsh, when a lad in my under-twelves went down with a snap that sounded like a dry branch breaking. In that moment, nobody cares about the tactical nuances of a 4-3-3; all anyone thinks
I’ve spent thirty-five years standing on touchlines where the wind bites harder than the referee’s whistle, and if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t protect a player with a thick binder of laminated paperwork. Most people looking for a complete guide to safeguarding in football expect a lecture on bureaucracy and
I’ve spent enough Sunday mornings standing on waterlogged touchlines to know that most of the “expert” tactical analysis you see on television is absolute rubbish when it comes to the actual grit of the game. They’ll show you these pristine, color-coded diagrams on a screen, but they never show you the chaos of a crowded
I remember standing on a windswept patch of grass in mid-November, watching a “certified youth specialist” try to explain the nuances of spatial awareness to a group of five-year-olds who were more interested in a passing beetle than a football. He had a clipboard, a whistle, and a textbook, but he had absolutely no idea
I’ve spent thirty-five years standing on touchlines in the pouring rain, and if there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s the nonsense sold to coaches about “advanced electrolyte recovery protocols” and expensive, neon-coloured sports drinks. I once had a lad in my Under-16s, a brilliant player who could see a pass before it even
I remember standing on a touchline in mid-November, shivering in a soaked tracksuit, watching a lad I’d coached since he was eight years old get sent off for a challenge that was about as violent as a wet paper bag. The referee didn’t even look him in the eye before pointing to the tunnel, and
I’ve spent thirty-five years standing on sidelines where the wind bites through your coat, and if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that most of the “science” being sold to youth coaches today is absolute rubbish. You don’t need a £50 designer electrolyte bottle or a complex spreadsheet to understand how hydration affects football