You awaken at 7:30 AM, your head throbbing not from a night of festivities but from an incessant pop song that’s been stuck in your mind since your daughter’s carpool days ago. It’s Saturday, or as you’ve dubbed it, “Dad Day.” In just three hours, you’ll be leading your son’s soccer team in what will likely be their eighth consecutive loss, concluding a season where they’ve been outscored 49 to 1. At least, you think, this grueling experience of volunteer coaching will soon come to an end.
From the bedroom, you hear the TV blaring in the living room. Your seven-year-old is glued to cartoons, surrounded by remnants of junk food he’s clearly been indulging in without supervision. Wrappers scatter the floor, and you realize his sugar rush will likely lead to a crash just before the longest game of the year. You had hoped for a taste of victory this week, but it seems they’ll be facing another round of defeat, and likely a hefty dose of disappointment.
Your first order of business is coffee. As you peer out the window, the familiar dark clouds hang over the horizon, a reflection of your own frustrations. You can’t help but feel resentment towards your spouse, who persuaded you to take on this role—and every Saturday, she’s absent while you scramble to locate soccer gear and muster any semblance of enthusiasm. Yet, she’s at her “boot camp” to support a busy working mom, and sacrifices are part of the dad experience. If you can endure the day’s cold and wet conditions while juggling all three of your children’s games, maybe you’ll snag a brief nap while catching college football later.
Miraculously, you manage to get everyone dressed and out the door by 8:30 AM. As you pull away, you see your spouse returning home, energized and smiling from her workout. You should feel happy for her, but instead, you drive off while your youngest starts crying for her.
Just one win would make this all worthwhile.
Upon arrival, you notice none of your six little players have shown up yet. Perhaps they’ve given up hope, a sentiment that seems to have taken root since the first practice. Yet each week, you’ve seen flickers of determination and talent you tried to cultivate. Every time you think they care more about the dirt than the game, they surprise you by knowing exactly how far behind they are—usually by eight points (though you lost count long ago).
As your team trickles in, you greet them with high-fives and optimism. The league has scheduled a longer game this week in hopes that the kids can “put it all together.” You decide to start with shooting practice, even though they haven’t scored since their first game—a lucky shot from midfield. The only goals they’ve managed were unfortunate own goals. Forget passing and fundamentals; today, you want them to feel the thrill of scoring, hoping it’ll lead to that elusive win.
Predictably, the kids ignore the drills. You dislike raising your voice in front of their parents, and your whistle seems powerless. The soccer balls fly everywhere but toward the goal. Instead, they are more interested in inventing their own games, something you encouraged in the early weeks. By the time you hear about their elaborate drills involving cone stacking—hardly related to soccer—it’s already game time. Well, here goes nothing!
The opposing team appears small and beatable, and you almost feel bad for the inevitable onslaught. But two minutes in, your team is down 3-0. As has been the routine, the other side has at least one skilled player; today, they have two. Meanwhile, your squad’s talent lies in their ability to taunt.
Before long, it’s 8-0, and with 45 minutes still to go, you fight the urge to give up altogether. You consider tripping an opponent as they charge toward another goal. The other team’s coach, a high school girl, tries to help by limiting her star players’ time on the field. One of your team’s dads can’t hold back any longer and reprimands their star for celebrating a goal.
You sense the opposing team might show some mercy, possibly out of kindness or boredom. Yet, despite your best efforts, that ball just won’t go in. Your son claims he’s hurt and sulks on the sidelines. Eventually, the game is called, marking the end at 10:31 AM.
Afterward, a kind parent provides donuts as a treat, and your players suddenly bounce back, excited for their sugary reward. They munch on their donuts while you attempt a post-game pep talk, expressing pride in their improvements over the season. You wonder if they even hear you. One parent prompts them to cheer for you—“Hip hip…” and then silence. No thanks, no acknowledgement. You’re left questioning whether the parents appreciate your efforts or blame you for the disappointing results. You clean up the remnants of the snacks they left behind and return the soccer gear, avoiding the other coaches heading off to their celebratory pizza parties.
And just like that, it’s over. You hoped for a happy ending, a lesson learned, or even just one solitary goal to cap off this experience, but none came. You tried everything—inviting older players for practice, asking for help from parents, listening to unsolicited advice from other coaches, and even offering treats as incentives. Above all, you aimed to make it enjoyable, despite the undeniable fact that it rarely was.
Ultimately, the league pressured you into coaching to prevent your son from spending Saturdays on the couch watching TV. Whether it was worth it remains uncertain. You’re resolute that you won’t take on this role again, but you’ve said that before after previous coaching stints. At least no one was physically harmed.
Who’s ready for basketball?
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In summary, the experience of volunteer coaching can be both rewarding and challenging. Despite the trials and tribulations, the effort to engage children in sports is commendable, even if the results aren’t always what one hopes for.
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