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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