I’ve spent more Sunday mornings than I care to count standing on waterlogged pitches, watching coaches set up these ridiculous, expensive ladder drills that look more like a circus act than a football session. They’ll have kids dancing through plastic sticks, thinking they’ve mastered agility, only to watch them turn like a heavy-duty lorry the
I’ve spent far too many Sunday mornings watching eighteen-year-olds trudge through mud, looking like they’re trying to sprint through a vat of thick porridge. Most of these lads have been told that the secret to speed is some expensive, high-tech plyometric program or a pair of carbon-plated boots that cost more than my first car.
I’ve lost count of how many “elite” training programs I’ve seen online that involve players sprinting in expensive, neon-colored gear on a pristine synthetic track, only for them to look like they’re running through wet cement the moment they step onto a muddy pitch in November. Most of these experts treat speed like a laboratory
I’ve spent far too many Sunday mornings standing on touchlines in a freezing drizzle, watching a perfectly good tactical plan go to absolute ruin because the central midfielder couldn’t find his lungs by the sixty-minute mark. You see it every week: a coach spends hours on shape and passing patterns, only to watch his team
I remember watching a lad back in the late nineties—bright kid, plenty of pace—who spent his entire pre-season running five-mile loops around the local park. He came to the first training session looking like he could go all day, but by the time we hit the sixty-minute mark in our first friendly, he was completely