In which I compare myself to a World Cup football coach

We're going through similar things, tbh.

I wish I could say I had the commitment to get up at 3 am yesterday to watch the Socceroos —the Australian men’s soccer team (yes, I’m sorry we call it soccer here because we also have Australian Rules Football) — play their first knockout game in the World Cup against Egypt.

However, as a middle-aged mother of three, sleep is simply more important to me than, well, anything, even (and especially) televised sport.

So I’m sorry, Socceroos. We were all behind you — me, sending positive vibes via my delta waves and the rest of the nation cheering you on from their sofas. I was just a little bit heartbroken to wake up on Saturday morning to the news that we crashed out on penalties. A cruel way to go.

One thing that has struck me, though, while watching the World Cup this time around, is how stressed the coaches and managers are. Pacing up and down the side of the pitch, flailing their arms around, yelling obscenities and probably getting as close to a heart attack as a human can without actually having one.

And it’s a feeling I know a lot about because I coach my nine-year-old daughter’s netball team.

That’s right, people.

Where Tony Popovic, the Socceroos manager, has the hopes of the nation and the eyes of the world pinned on his team’s performance, I have 10 third graders who sometimes want to play netball and other times are just hungry, tired or emotional.

I’m honestly not sure whose job is harder.

I mean, does Tony have to deal with his players storming off because no one is passing them the ball, needing a poo during a game or disappearing halfway through training to get a doughnut?

To be clear, this coaching malarky was all very unplanned. I played netball in primary school a few times, 30-something years ago; however, like most volunteer coaches of kids’ sports, I said yes because no one else wanted to.

And I don’t blame them.

First, unlike my mate Tony at the Socceroos, the job is unpaid. Second, the games are all on Friday night in winter, where you’d literally rather be anywhere than a cold, windy and sometimes wet netball court. And third, it involves something even harder than dealing with your own kids — dealing with other people’s kids.

And yet, there I was.

They’re just kids, I told myself. It’s just about learning skills and having fun, I tried to convince myself. It didn’t matter if we lost every game, I lied to myself.

I must confess, I am a highly competitive person. It would be fine, though. All I had to do was train a group of young kids to become an elite force in a game that none of us had any experience with, while containing my insatiable desire for victory and keeping it totally fun and light.

Easy, breezy, babes.

Well, it took me pretty much all of our first season to re-learn the positions and understand where each player can go on the court. Training was planned using a combination of YouTube videos and sugary bribes to motivate the kids to follow instructions. It was mostly like herding cats.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to manage a group of kids (hats off to you, teachers), but there’s one thing that makes it particularly difficult.

THEY DON’T LISTEN.

Kids don’t listen.

And my own kid was often the worst. Likely because my voice has simply become white noise to her by now.

Over the course of that season, there were multiple emotional breakdowns (sometimes the kids, more often me), hours spent trying to get out of the netball centre carpark every Friday night, and one game in the most apocalyptic weather that left the kids shivering, crying and unable to feel their fingers.

Suffice it to say, I was self-medicating after the game every week and really questioning my life choices.

Somehow, though, we survived. We won some games, we lost some games. I mainly contained my crazy inner World Cup coach. The kids seemed to enjoy it, and much to my horror, everyone wanted to do it again this year.

The next season rolled around far too quickly, and chatter in the netball WhatsApp group started up again. Then my daughter announced that she wouldn’t play unless I coached her team.

Seriously, these kids.

I know sports are good for them, but this could truly be the death of me. And because I enjoy the feeling of impending death, I relented and agreed.

Luckily, one of the other mums took pity on me and joined as co-coach. Yes, we were still outnumbered by the kids, but now we had one person to coach and another to manage the various calamities —like a sore finger, an intense rage over being allocated Goal Keeper instead of Goal Shooter, and the need, four minutes into training, to lie down on the court and “rest”.

So, yes, it’s all going well.

We’re currently about halfway through this season, and I’m swinging wildly between despairing that the kids aren’t absorbing a single thing we say, then being totally blown away by how well they play in our Friday games.

One day, I’m cursing under my breath, the next I’m hugging them all and telling them how proud I am of them.

It’s an emotional rollercoaster, similar to what World Cup coaches must experience, I imagine.

But of course, it’s JUST FOR FUN! IT’S JUST KIDS’ SPORTS! IT DOESN’T MATTER WHO WINS OR LOSES!

Except, who are we kidding? Each week, I find myself on the side of the court screaming “GET IN THE GOAL CIRCLE, EMILY!” or “YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY, JAMIE!” one minute, then following it up with a big smile, two thumbs up, and shouts of “WELL DONE, SWEETIE!”

It’s completely unhinged, as evidenced by something that happened last week that I’m really not proud of.

We have one boy on the team who also plays basketball and is an all-around excellent sportsman. His lovely parents had a chat with him last season about teamwork and giving other players a chance to shoot, which he has done so beautifully this season.

However, at last week’s game, with only a few minutes left until the siren, we were one goal behind the opposition. The pressure was on.

Our boy was in goal with a newer player, and each time he expertly moved the ball into the goal circle, he would pass it to her so she could take a shot. This is, of course, exactly the type of teamwork we should be applauding.

HOWEVER, knowing the score, my inner psycho escaped, and I started screaming, “JUST SHOOT, JUST SHOOT!! DON’T PASS THE BALL!!!”

Which was utterly terrible behaviour from a grown woman who should know better, but also REALLY WANTED TO WIN.

In the end, we drew, and I honestly don’t think the kids were too bothered either way.

What can I say? I guess we’re all still learning how to manage our emotions, even the World Cup coaches.

Love,

Coach Sara xo

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