I imagine that coaching feels a bit liking teaching your kids to drive.  You talk to them, you train them, and you test them, but ultimately they've got to get behind the wheel and drive, and there you are in the passenger's seat, virtually powerless and hoping beyond hope that you've taught them well because you're going wherever they take you.  My oldest is only 8, so I haven't taught any of my kids to drive, but I am in the midst of second season of coaching his soccer team, and today I paced the sidelines while my team found itself in another fender-bender loss.

I started coaching for the same reason a lot of other parents do - guilt.  As I signed my son up for soccer last year I noticed a sign saying that there was some risk of not having enough spaces for all of the interested kids if more folks didn't volunteer to coach.  Soccer is the one sport that I feel remotely competent to coach because I played in high school, so I filled-out the forms and committed to one evening practice and one game a week for the next couple of months.

Guilt may have been my immediate motivation, but coaching was something I'd considered for awhile.  When I was my son's age I quit playing soccer because of a bad experience with a coach.  Back in the days before they were as concerned about equal playing time and inclusion, I was a flower-picking defender for a pretty good team.  I lacked aggressiveness, athleticism, or any real sense of the game.  We lost the championship game by a goal. I don't remember many details, except that my coach blamed me for the goal and the loss in front of the team and the parents.  I was devastated.  I didn't play again until my junior year of high school.  I wasn't a good player, but I enjoyed being part of a good team.  I always wondered what kind of player I might have been if I hadn't quit when I was so young.

I was determined to be a different sort of coach, and have tried to be.  My aim is to teach the kids sound skills, and have every one of them emerge from each game with a smile and finish the season feeling like a contributor.  It's easier said than done.

Today's game was very physical in the first half, and the refs weren't calling much.  At this level, a "physical" game looks pretty awkward.   There were a lot of tears and ice packs.  It was 0-0 at the half, and I had noted that my guys were letting up to avoid collisions, and consequently missing a lot of scoring opportunities.  Teams can respond one of two ways to a physical game - they can use it as a motivator or they can surrender.  I spent halftime urging the guys to "finish" and not merely kick the ball toward the other goal and hope something good would happen.  I had the team repeat after me "the ball is always ours."  Then I got in the passenger seat. I'm really glad that's only a metaphor.

We lost 4-1.  The ball was inside our 18 for almost the entire half.  They played as if I hadn't said anything at all.  They closed their eyes and stabbed their feet at balls while the other team drove the ball toward the goal.  They looked scared.  The game wasn't nearly as close as the score.  They just gave up, and it was frustrating.  To top it off, my son was somewhat responsible for two of the goals.  A lot of folks think that kid-league coaches have their egos wrapped-up in their team's performance.  I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us I think we feel connected to the kids, usually including one of our own, and we just want them to do well.  When they don't, it's hard not to feel like a failure.

As I walked from the field to the bench were we have our post-game meeting, I reminded myself why I was doing this, why they were doing this.  It's supposed to be a fun, healthy way to spend an afternoon.  They are supposed to make friends, to enjoy the spirit of competition, and to learn some skills.  They are also learning how to take a loss.  I told them that it was a tough game, but that I was proud of them.  I gave each boy a star for something he'd done well.  There's always something if you're willing to look.  They all smiled as they received their stars, seemingly more concerned about the snack than the score.

I got into the car with my son to go home, trying to think myself out of my frustration.  I looked into the rear view mirror - he's too little to sit up front, and I'll be driving for some time now.  He's going where I take him.

"Hey bud, did you have fun today?" 

"Yea Dad, my favorite part was where we scored a goal."

I hope they all felt the same way.