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
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
I’ve spent far too many Sunday mornings watching eighteen-year-olds wander around a pitch like they’re walking through treacle, all because they think a single protein shake and a nap is the magic answer to how to recover between matches. I see these kids—and their coaches—chasing after expensive compression leggings and fancy electrolyte powders that cost
I’ve sat on enough freezing touchlines to know that most of the “science” being sold to coaches today is absolute rubbish. You see these youngsters coming in with their GPS vests and their shiny apps, talking about “optimising physiological output” as if they’ve discovered fire. They’ll spend a fortune on data while completely missing the