Andy Beers’s Soccer Blog
Challenges and Rewards of Coaching Youth Soccer
Chapter 4—Toilet Paper and Vomit
There was much to do the following week. Coach Kathy took the lead but was running out of ideas. On the other hand, I had a list of weaknesses that needed attention based on our performance in the game. One of them was our kickoff.
Soccer kickoffs are confusing to players and parents accustomed to playing American football. In American football, opponents kick off to the other team; in soccer, the objective is to kick off and keep possession. That can be accomplished in various ways; unfortunately, no one on our team had thought about teaching them. It was apparent to me that walking up to the center line and starting the game by blasting the ball to our opponent made no sense because they came right back at us. So, I studied and went to practice with a roll of toilet paper and a lecture in my head about maintaining possession.
There was no lined field at the schoolyard where we practiced. We made do by demarcating an area using cones, but lines would have been a better tool for providing reference points for our young players. Without lines, it was difficult for players to get a feel for the size of the field and where they should be relative to other teammates. So, when we finished our dribbling and shooting drills, and Kathy looked to me for suggestions of what we should do next, I whipped out my toilet paper and said, “I think we should practice kickoffs.”
Kathy stared at me in a way that expressed confusion and concern, probably because toilet paper has a specific purpose. Before she could ask an awkward question, I used it to make a centerline on our imaginary field. Then I instructed half our team to prepare for kickoff by toeing the centerline (which they did because they could see it) and arranged the remaining players in opposition. I explained that instead of kicking the ball to the other team, we would pass it sideways to one of our players so they could receive it and dribble toward the goal. That said, I picked a player to kick and got out of the way. The outcome was predictable: the first player blasted the ball straight ahead to the other team, like always. I stepped in and halted play. "Try it again,” I said as I repositioned players. A second chance was all it took. The kicker passed the ball across the field toward his teammate. The defending team knew our plan, so they jumped the ball and won it, but the seed of the concept was planted in those six-year-old brains. The toilet paper lasted long enough to give each team a couple of tries, and then we finished the day with a scrimmage.
That weekend, we blasted the ball to the other team on kickoffs, but we had orange slices at halftime, so we were on a roll. Shouting “Get the ball” still wasn't working, and we didn't win, but our first-time players were becoming more comfortable and aggressive. Owen seemed to be having fun. “Two games down, six to go. Just get through it,” Judy and I told each other.
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By the fourth week of practice, parent participation dwindled. That was okay because we settled into a routine. Our striking had improved dramatically from the first practice. "Step and kick,” I told players, and with each repetition, their kicks became crisper. All aspects of our game were improving, but unlike many opponents, we didn’t have a star player. That was the random factor in coaching a recreational soccer team. Teams were stuck with assigned players, and sometimes, no matter how hard they worked, they didn’t have the natural ability to go toe-to-toe with others. As coaches faced with that reality, all we could do was try to make soccer fun while teaching the fundamentals of dribbling, passing, and shooting.
It didn’t seem right that we had a star, Nathan, but he left the team because his parents didn’t think our group was competitive enough. They saw struggling coaches and weak players and intervened on their son’s behalf. Their actions disrupted the parity between teams established by the Soccer Club’s semi-random player assignment process, and we were the victims of their decision. I wondered how Nathan might have responded if his parents viewed the situation as a teaching moment and told him, “You have a chance to lead this team. Lead by example. Don’t flaunt your ability. Teach them what you know and help them get better.” Nathan was a nice boy and a good athlete. If he had been given the proper encouragement and stayed with our team, he could have learned leadership as well as how to kick a soccer ball.
Our game that week became etched in my memory because of one thing—chunky vomit. The event started well. Our team was focused and competitive, but by halftime, we trailed our opponent by a goal. As players came off the field, they grabbed a drink and looked for orange slices. Unfortunately, there were none because someone forgot their responsibility. There was a long, awkward pause as we all stared across the field at the other team devouring their energy-rich delicacy. The tie-dyed family had the end-of-the-game treat that week. It was a spectacularly large stainless-steel bowl filled with a great variety of granola bars and cookies, more than enough for every player. Not wanting to disappoint, they offered up the bowl. The gesture seemed like a bad idea to me because the bowl held more than required for a halftime snack, but Kathy was the coach.
When the bowl hit the ground, it was like hungry lions on a dead zebra. The sound of ripping wrappers and ravenous chewing shattered the peaceful halftime break. The tie-dyed player must have been coveting the treats for days because he stood over the bowl and stuffed in one after another. Ten minutes were enough for the carnage to subside and our eight boys to get their fill. Then the referee called us back to the field. The team played well at first. Our opponent pressured hard, but we fought off the attacks. Players were working and doing a lot of running, but their circulatory systems could not simultaneously supply the needs of their legs and digestive tracts. It took about six minutes for the tie-dyed kid's stomach to reject its contents. He was near our sideline when he suddenly stopped running and started coughing. It was an ugly cough, the kind that attracts a parent's attention. His back was to me, but I saw his body hunched over, silhouetted against the morning sun as he began to hurl chunky granola.
The ref stopped the game and signaled to our sideline for help. Parents and Coach Kathy converged on the afflicted player cautiously, careful not to get too close. I was confused and greatly concerned. Then as the second kid started to heave in a less spectacular fashion, I realized what was happening. All that running on a full stomach was not a good combination.
Fortunately, only three players suffered that day because of bad parental judgment, and Owen was not one of them. There was no penalty for delay-of-game due to chain-reaction barfing. The referee let the clock run while the pukefest proceeded, so the second half went fast. We didn’t win. Nobody cared. We were just glad that it was over.
The rest of the season was a blur of practices and games. By the end of October, it was over. We managed to win two games, and our players improved. Owen was addicted and loved soccer. He had a knack for dribbling the ball closely in a crowd and was becoming the standout player on our team. A new soccer ball would be on his Christmas list, and more coaching was in my future.
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Why do humans feel joy when they work together?
In Chapter 3 – Hooked for Life, I blogged that my son enjoyed his first game even though the team was defeated. I attributed his enthusiasm and joy to intangible properties, like overcoming a novel challenge or working together to achieve a common goal. Owen enjoyed physically challenging himself, and the day provided many new opportunities. A few opponents were stronger than him; others were less talented, and I’m sure that some of his enthusiasm after the game was due to the thrill of the skirmishes he won. However, I think the other intangible, which involved cooperating with others to achieve a common goal, was the factor that most inspired him at the game's end. I have always wondered, Why?
Owen cooperated with two entities on that game day: his teammates and me. As my son, his link was obvious, but there was more to our interaction than a familial dependency.
Our collaboration started weeks before the game as we began to kick a ball around and play together. At practices, he helped me introduce new ideas and work with players until some semblance of understanding and ability emerged. On our first game day, Owen and I continued to prepare. We woke early enough to have breakfast and warm up in the backyard. Then, we arrived at the field in time to watch the end of the game played before ours. Neither of us had played a soccer game; observing one reduced our uncertainty and calmed our nerves. During his game, Owen was on the field surrounded by teammates who hopefully cooperated and succeeded with him.
When the final whistle blew and the handshake exchange was concluded, Owen, the team, and I had successfully worked together to achieve a common goal—we survived our first game. We had avoided embarrassment and at least played a competitive match, even if we did not win. Those events combined to produce a sense of accomplishment, but I still wondered, What aspect of human nature produced the joy we felt because we worked together? The answer to that question was much bigger than the game of soccer and required the application of scientific principles from psychology and neuroscience. Despite my curiosity, those fields were not my area of expertise; I had to accept the possibility that I might never know why Owen smiled and leaped into my arms that day after our first game—years passed, then a decade.
Five months ago, I read something that changed my mind. I was thumbing through a popular science journal and happened upon an article entitled Synchronized Minds*. The piece was about collective neuroscience, which investigates how our brains synchronize when we converse or share experiences (Yes, you read that right—brain synchrony is real, not science fiction).
Researchers have studied the brains of mice, bats, and humans, all social animals, and found that when they are exposed to the same sights and sounds, their brain waves synchronize. Investigators who study this phenomenon use various high-tech instruments to image brain activity in test subjects tasked with completing predefined activities. The findings are the same regardless of whether the study animals are in the same room or separated by hundreds of miles—brains that simultaneously experience the same stimuli respond similarly and become synchronized. Moreover, when test subjects are allowed to communicate and cooperate, a feedback loop develops that increases brain synchrony, which, in turn, may improve communication and cooperation. Humans who participated reported that the predefined tasks were more enjoyable when they cooperated than when they completed the tasks independently.
That finding was my eureka moment and suggested a likely answer to my question: Why do humans feel happy when they work together to achieve? My answer is that we feel gratified when we work together because our brains contain evolutionary baggage inherited from our hunter-gatherer ancestors, who gained a survival advantage when they learned to communicate and cooperate. Over millions of years, those behavior patterns became ingrained in our brains and genetics. The joy we feel when we cooperate successfully is our brain’s way of rewarding our body so that we continue working together. Nowadays, when we play soccer, succeeding doesn’t produce a survival advantage like it did when our ancestors cooperated in killing a wooly mammoth so their clan could eat. However, the brain-chemistry reward response is still with us.
Much about the phenomenon of brain synchrony is still unknown. What’s certain is that brains are not like quantum-entangled particles that mysteriously communicate faster than the speed of light via an unknown mechanism. Brains synchronize based on the stimuli they receive through our five senses. Then, higher-order thinking processes interpret the information. One of those processes is known as a mirror mechanism. When I watch a player kick a ball, mirror neurons in my brain are activated, which are also activated when I actually perform the same task. Those dual-purpose neurons play a role in perception and action and seem a likely mechanism for brain synchrony.
Not surprisingly, brain synchrony seems stronger between socially close individuals, and it is probably involved in more than cooperation and conversation; it may also play a role in teaching and learning, cultivating friendships, and maybe soccer coaching.
Brain synchrony explains why Owen and I felt joy at the end of our first game, even though the match was lost. We spent weeks working, practicing, planning, and jointly preparing for the game. When it was over, and I approached to congratulate him, our eyes met, and our brains synced. I saw his nonverbal cues: dilated pupils, fast breathing, skin flushed from exertion, and smile. It is no wonder that we had the same idea at the same time. When he jumped into my arms, I experienced one of the best moments of my life.
*Denworth, L. (2023). Synchronized minds. Scientific American, 329(1), 50-57.
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Chapter 3—Hooked for Life
It would be an overstatement to say that Owen’s hug hit me like a lightning bolt, but it did hook me deeply. That hug and the surge of dopamine it produced in my brain convinced me that soccer was good for him. His reaction persuaded me that he had enjoyed the experience and that positive things could be achieved regardless of whether a game was won or lost. He had a great time; I saw it in his eyes and behavior.
Why he responded the way he did was unclear to me. It wasn’t scoring a goal or attaining a tremendous victory—neither of those things happened. It was something else that had to do with his brain perceiving a reward for intangible properties like overcoming a novel challenge or working together to achieve a common goal. Intangibles were not in my thoughts that day after our first game, and they wouldn't occur to me for years. My decisions were made in the blind as I forged ahead without experience, doing what I thought was right.
The other thing Owen’s hug did was put me on a collision course with other soccer participants, especially coaches, because we were motivated by different interests. I was participating to parent my child; some other soccer dads and moms were there to lead their child’s team to victory. They dreamed of the day when they could field eleven players on the big field, win it all, throw up their hands in triumph, and get drenched by the contents of a Gatorade bucket. That was not my dream. I hoped for wins but was motivated more by physical fitness, fair play, teamwork, and fun.
Those contrasting philosophies pitted us against each other and produced conflict that often confronted me before I could respond effectively. Solving a problem while still learning the game's rules was difficult. To become an effective coach, I had to live the experience while investing effort to build a foundation of knowledge and, perhaps, wisdom. Amid that struggle, children were looking to me for guidance and leadership. That was a sobering responsibility, but there was a silver lining: it was soccer for six-year-olds. How hard could it be?
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How Should a Coach Respond to Frequent Losses?
I recently watched Ted Lasso, season one, episode three, for the first time. Spoiler alert: it made an impression on me, so if you have never seen the show, you should consider bingeing the first three episodes before reading on.
I learned about the show last week when Judy started watching it. I walked into our living room as she finished the episode. She had a laughing glow about her, the kind of glow people have when they watch a feel-good show with a happy ending. She encouraged me to watch, “You’ll like it. It’s about soccer and positive coaching.” I’m not totally stupid—when my wife of thirty-six years, who is also a psychologist, tells me that she thinks I will like something, I try it. Days passed before I found the time to start a new series that I might be tempted to binge-watch.
My hesitation evaporated today. I watched the pilot as I ate my lunch, then chased it with episode two. At first, I was confused by Ted’s demeanor. The show was humorous, of course, but his behavior was odd. It left me wondering if Ted’s goofy behavior was intended to be funny, or was it supposed to be a natural part of his character? Three episodes in, I concluded that Ted Lasso’s character is supposed to be a seriously optimistic, positive coach. He is a charismatic extravert with a good heart who wins people over with his behavior. The first two episodes are about introducing characters and Ted’s profound optimism. Episode three is about Ted’s dedication to the idea that a team and its players should not be concerned if they win or lose but should care about how they play the game and that even at the professional level, a coach’s responsibility is to prepare players for life beyond soccer. Ted achieves that objective by helping them rediscover what is already within them so they become better people.
Like Judy, I was glowing after episode three because when I coached, I tried to teach my players more than soccer. I wish Ted Lasso had been trending twenty-five years ago when I began coaching. I doubt it would have changed my approach, but it would have given me more confidence that what I was doing was right.
I was rarely exposed to ideas like Ted’s during my coaching time. There were a few occasions when I attended soccer clinics and encountered old soccer sages who contended that recreational soccer shouldn’t emphasize winning but should be about teaching the game of soccer and mentoring. Their recommendations made enough of an impression on me that I embraced the idea of trying not to care about the outcome of a game. I followed the advice of those old soccer dogs because I knew they had years of experience and must have succeeded in coaching to achieve their positions. I also embraced what they taught because being defeated by an opponent is part of playing soccer—every game has a winner and a loser unless the contest ends in a tie. Novice coaches experience more than their share of defeats. The philosophy espoused by those soccer clinic instructors provided the only answer to self-imposed questions like, If winning is all I care about, what do I take away from a loss? What do I do if I coach a team saddled with players who don’t have the skill to defeat others in the league? How do I inspire players to return week after week if they lose every game? Those tough questions needed answers.
For me, tackling what to do after a loss was easy—keep coaching. Show up at the next practice with a positive attitude, a mountain of enthusiasm, and a list of drills that addressed the team's weaknesses. Turn the crank and keep working in preparation for the next game.
For the team, composing an answer to the question of how to inspire after a loss was more difficult because I wasn’t sure what would work. My solution was to be honest with players and set goals that could be accomplished. I made it clear that I respected hard work regardless of individual skill level, and I encouraged players to be resilient. When we lost a game, I tried to highlight positive things that occurred during the contest, like personal-best moments or mastering new skills. I emphasized that I was proud that the team kept battling when we fell behind during matches. I reminded them that nothing could be accomplished if we stopped playing, but if we kept working, there was a chance of a win, and at a minimum, we could “use the other team for practice” and improve our game. My intent was not to coerce the team with false words. I meant what I said because I wanted them to learn the reward of working to achieve an objective, improve, and consistently win. My words worked. Players returned week after week and year after year.
When we won, we celebrated. When we lost, we kept working. When we faced a familiar opponent that we knew outclassed us, we met the challenge together, took our lumps, and moved on. Adversity highlighted our weaknesses and gave us the opportunity to work together to achieve personal and shared goals. Accomplishing that took coping skills, mental toughness, effort, discipline, and teamwork.
Keeping practices fun was a challenge. Despite my vision for the team, the reality was that I was coaching children who participated because they wanted to play soccer, not learn coping skills. Consequently, I had to curb my expectations and chip away at weaknesses using fast-paced drills that players enjoyed. At times, the pace of improvement was painfully slow. However, using positive coaching and fun games to teach players was more productive than training them using rigid drills and criticism. Ultimately, players improved and seemed to enjoy practices and the challenge of games.
Winning was always my objective, but sometimes wins were elusive. Still, individual skills improved over time. Because practices were fun, players returned whatever the outcome of games. Consistent attendance and a fun environment helped us become a team. Regardless of the score, we all shared the successes of conquering physical challenges, building friendships, learning to overcome adversity, and working together.
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Chapter 2—First Game, First Great Moment
Owen and I both felt uneasy about our first game. Although we spent a couple of weeks practicing soccer, neither of us had ever played a game, and we were uncomfortable not knowing what to expect. I was thinking about coaching-related things like how to kick off or interact with referees. Owen was worried about playing well and avoiding embarrassment. On game day, we ate breakfast, then Owen put on his uniform, and we warmed up for a while in the backyard. As game time drew near, Judy and I loaded Owen and his little brother, Wade, into the van and headed to the park.
We arrived a few minutes early so Owen and I could watch the end of the game played before ours. It was a cool but sunny September morning. We arrived at a field surrounded by shouting parents and populated by six players from each team. Our players were small, and so was everything else. The pitch was about forty feet wide by sixty feet long; the goals were about four feet tall by six feet wide. The convention was that teams occupied opposite sides of the field, and parents stayed with the teams. A single referee regulated the game with the help of one parent from each sideline to act as a side judge when the ball went out of bounds. Games comprised four ten-minute quarters with a ten-minute break at halftime. Lastly, there were no goalkeepers for our age group. Every player was supposed to be actively involved in the game. However, some always wanted to stand in the goal and defend it regardless of where the ball was.
Parenting is a process bursting with first-time experiences. Most adults do not spontaneously decide to attend a child’s soccer game, even if they are unusually curious. I was no different from most. Because I never played soccer and lacked an enthusiastic niece or nephew who invited me to one of their games, I needed to learn quickly to succeed as a first-time coach. I felt nervous as I watched because some players were much better than ours, but I grew more confident as I learned how games progressed. Finally, the referee gave his whistle three long blasts, signifying the end of the game. The two teams lined up at midfield, and players and coaches shook hands. Then, the event was over. Players and siblings ran everywhere while one group of parents started to depart so the next set of parents could move in. Coach Kathy directed our players to a spot on the sideline near midfield, and parents arranged their blankets or folding chairs in a row behind the team.
The day's first challenge was that the grass was wet with dew, an inconvenience for those who had neglected to bring something to sit on or were sensitive to clammy toes. The second challenge, the other team, was a more significant concern because they were better prepared and more capable than us. The first half was a blur as our inexperienced players and coaches struggled. Kathy mostly let the team play because she didn’t know what else to do. When the referee signaled halftime, we trailed and regrouped as best we could. Once again, the other team was better prepared with a snack of oranges; we managed with water and Gatorade. During the second half, Kathy became frustrated and often shouted at players to “Get the ball.” Her instructions went unheeded. Every parent was yelling. I doubt any player could perceive helpful information through the noise. Ultimately, we did not win, but the game was competitive.
For me, the highlight of the day came at the game’s end. The final whistle blew, and the two teams headed to the middle of the field to shake hands. I did not go because I was just a helper parent; Kathy was the coach. As I watched, an incredible feeling of relief came over me. We had made it through our first game, and Owen had done well. With a sense of accomplishment, I felt the urge to hug and congratulate him, so I started to walk out onto the field. He was halfway back from the handshake when he saw me. We made eye contact, and he must have read my mind. He broke into a run, carving out an arcing path across the field before leaping into my arms. It was a solid chest bump that transformed into a hug and a Disney moment. He wrapped his arms around my neck and clung to me with his sweaty little body, like a ball of muscle and energy, his scratchy soccer cleats against my legs. I hugged him back. The moment didn't last long. Then he was gone, passing it on to Judy and Wade. The combination of relief and a sense of accomplishment, coupled with my child's gratitude, made that moment one of the best of my life.
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