Having had crashing lows and inching highs over the past few weeks, I feel as though I am working my way towards a point where I know my place. And I don't mean that in a Harry Enfield-esque manner. I mean that LittleBear's football coach and I are gradually finding our feet as a working partnership, and I'm feeling more confident about what exactly my strengths are. I'm also becoming considerably more convinced of where my strengths aren't. Though I am prepared to change my mind on the latter given a bit more practice.
I had what can only be considered a baptism of fire on Tuesday, when training rolled around. Fortunately I went out of my way to be sure I arrived early. This was mostly with the intention of having a chance to discuss with Coach exactly what we'd be working on this week, and which part I would be best placed to take on. The best laid plans o' mice and men however... The traffic was abominable and Coach was stuck in it. So there I was, with no plan in place, and twenty-two small boys demanding to know what they should be doing.
With my newly-minted FA training, I did have half a clue of what I should be doing, and attempted to arrange them into mini "arrival activities" as they turned up. Which would have been a great plan if it weren't for the fact that by the time I'd organised three small boys, I turned round to find that another six had arrived. As I sorted those six out, the first three turned out to have no idea what they were doing, and another five were clamouring for attention.
And it didn't get much better. There were tears. There were fights. Occasionally moments of football broke out. Eventually Coach arrived, and a sense of relief washed over me. Except he didn't rush in and take over, despite my expectations and hopes. In retrospect, I am very glad he didn't. He even said, "No, you're doing great, I'm not going to take over. You do your thing." And that alone has done an enormous amount to help me have a bit more self-confidence and a bit more belief that it's all going to be just fine. No, I didn't do a stellar job, and yes, having all the parents watching what felt like a riot rather than training was deeply daunting. But after half an hour, we split the boys into two groups and ran two activities - me running one and Coach the other, with a swap after another fifteen minutes. I can confidently say that 11 boys is approximately five times easier than 22 boys.
But I did it. I didn't have a plan, I didn't have a well-thought out session. I didn't, in fact, manage very many of the things I was taught on my course. But the boys went home happy and (mostly) uninjured, which was top of the list of priorities from the FA, so I'm giving myself a tick for now.
Wednesday presented another challenge, in the form of a match for our new team. Normally Coach would take charge of such an event, except that we needed him as our referee, so instead I took charge.
The stress of trying to decide who should play in which position, if and when to substitute players, and what manner of instructions to shout was almost as great as herding 22 boys around in training. It became hard to tell if the boys were failing to respond to my instructions because they couldn't hear me, or didn't really care what I was saying. I suspect a spot of both. I also discovered the same problem that Coach has always had - you don't have a chance to do more than yell a couple of words as an instruction, so limit yourself to such imprecations as "get up the field!" or "back post!". And it is at that point that I found that that none of them were entirely sure which way was "up" the field, and the concept of "front" and "back" posts was utterly lost on them. The far side of the pitch is also a very long way away, and I do not appear to have a voice which projects well, so I screamed myself hoarse trying, and failing, to communicate with them.
It can't have gone too badly, as not only did they leave the pitch happy, but I even had some parents come and thank me. I don't think they were just being kind to the crazy-eyed lady who'd been screaming at their children, but you never know.
And finally, we came to the weekend, when Coach and I took our boys to their first under-seven tournament. This was yet another whirlwind experience, with the boys playing in a group of five teams, with every team playing every other team once, in a series of twelve minute matches. This took from half past nine until midday, and also involved having to leave the house at 8am to reach The Middle of the Fens.
Keeping the boys under approximate control, without strangling each other, breaking too many things, or getting lost was as much of a challenge as coaching them on the pitch. But between us, and with a lot of support from the parents, we kept them in place, and to my immense joy they played brilliantly. We had a few silly mistakes in the first match as they got used to the slightly different rules being implemented at the tournament, but they didn't let it get to them and even LittleBear played with enormous enthusiasm whether they were winning, losing or drawing. Not once did he collapse in tears, and not once did he give up sprinting after every ball. Nor was he alone. They all played their socks off, were absolutely buzzing by the end, and fully deserving of their participation medals.
So I feel that this week has blooded me as a football coach. But more importantly I feel that there has been a step change in how things are working between Coach and I, and I am much more confident about the coming season. Let's just see how training goes tonight...
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