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 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 muddy touchlines, and if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that most of the “expert” advice on how to coach mixed ability groups is absolute rubbish. You’ll see these glossy coaching manuals suggesting you split the squad into “elite” and “developmental” tiers, as if you’ve got a fleet
I’ve spent thirty-five years standing on pitches that would make a mountain goat weep, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that your shiny, laminated coaching manual is utterly useless when the wind is whipping sideways and the ground has turned into a soup of mud and grit. I see these “influencer” coaches online
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 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 once watched a young lad—bright kid, decent engine—spend an entire Tuesday evening standing in a puddle of mud, staring at his boots while his coach delivered a fifteen-minute lecture on the “nuances of transitional spacing.” By the time the man finished his sermon, the players weren’t thinking about tactics; they were wondering if they’d
I’ve sat through enough coaching seminars in drafty community halls to know when I’m being sold a load of rubbish. You’ll see these young lads in crisp tracksuits, waving iPads around and using fifty-cent words to explain how constraints led coaching works as if they’ve discovered fire. They’ll talk about “emergent representative design” and “ecological
I’ve spent more Sunday mornings than I care to admit standing on waterlogged pitches, watching coaches walk around with laminated tactical sheets and expensive GPS vests, thinking they’ve solved the game. They treat small-sided games like some sacred, complex science that requires a PhD to execute, but most of the time, they’re just making it
I spent twenty minutes last Sunday watching a coach in the park try to explain “transitional phases” using a whiteboard and a handful of expensive, colour-coded cones, while his players stood around looking like they were waiting for a bus. It was painful. Most of the modern literature on how to coach transitions reads like