I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood on a touchline in a freezing drizzle, watching a lad come on in the 75th minute only to look like he’s just woken up from a long nap. You’ve seen it: the sub has spent the last hour huddled in a tracksuit, scrolling through Instagram or
I’ve spent more years than I care to admit standing on waterlogged touchlines, watching coaches try to solve the problem of a congested schedule by throwing more “high-performance” drills at their players. They see a heavy run of games and think the answer is a more intense conditioning block or some fancy, data-driven periodization model
I’ve spent thirty-five years watching lads try to fix their conditioning with expensive GPS trackers and high-tech interval programs that look great on a spreadsheet but fall apart the moment a winger starts sprinting at them in the mud. They think they can just buy their way back into shape, but let me tell you,
I can still feel the damp chill of a Tuesday evening in mid-November, standing on a pitch in East London where the frost was already turning the grass into something resembling a sheet of glass. I remember looking at a group of sixteen-year-olds, their breath blooming like smoke, and realizing that half my session was
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 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’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
I’ve spent thirty-five years watching lads walk off a pitch after ninety minutes of heavy ground, only to head straight for the nearest chippy or, worse, a lukewarm fizzy drink and a bag of crisps. I see these “nutrition experts” on social media peddling expensive, neon-coloured powders and complicated supplement stacks that cost more than
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’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