You awake at 7:30 am with a throbbing head. It’s not the aftermath of a Friday night out; instead, it’s the relentless echo of a catchy pop tune that’s been stuck in your mind since your daughter’s carpool days ago. Saturday has arrived—“Dad Day.” In just three hours, you’ll be coaching your son’s soccer team, who have unfortunately faced a string of losses, culminating in a winless season where they were outscored 49 to 1. But at least your nine weeks of volunteer coaching will finally come to an end.
From your bed, you hear the loud chatter of the TV. You find your 7-year-old, Leo, glued to cartoons, having indulged in junk food and screen time long before breakfast. Wrappers litter the living room floor. Great. The inevitable sugar crash will hit just before the longest game of the year. You had hoped for a sweet taste of victory, but it seems they’ll only be savoring dirt and disappointment.
Your first task: brewing coffee. Peering out the window, you notice those ominous clouds that have haunted the past five weeks. You’re frustrated that your spouse, Sarah, convinced you to coach, leaving you to tackle the pre-game chaos alone—searching for cleats, shin guards, and a sliver of enthusiasm. But since she’s off at her Saturday workout, you must support whatever keeps a busy mom energized. Sacrifices, right? If you endure the next six dreary hours filled with your kids’ games, maybe you can sneak in a twenty-minute nap while watching college football.
Miraculously, you manage to get everyone ready and out the door by 8:30 am. As you’re about to drive away, Sarah arrives home, beaming from her workout. You should feel happy for her, but instead, you pull away just as Leo begins to cry for his mom.
Just one win. That would make it all worthwhile.
You arrive at the field on time, but none of your six misfit players appear to be there. Perhaps they’ve thrown in the towel early. It felt like they gave up during the first practice. Yet every week, you catch glimpses of determination and skills you tried to nurture. Just when you think they care more about playing in the dirt than the match, they surprise you with an awareness of the score—usually down by 8. But you stopped counting long ago.
Slowly, the kids arrive. As usual, you greet them with high-fives and enthusiasm. The league scheduled a longer game for the final week, hoping they might “put it all together.” Right, as if they’ve mastered those complicated soccer techniques. You decide to focus on shooting drills, despite them not scoring since their first game—when a fluke shot rolled in from mid-field. Unless you count the own-goals, which have been abundant. Forget passing drills! Today, they’re going to feel the joy of scoring and hopefully snag that elusive “W.”
As expected, none of the kids pay attention to the drills. You dislike yelling in front of parents, and your whistle seems ineffective. Balls are flying everywhere, but none are headed toward the goal. Their only interest lies in creating elaborate games that have little to do with soccer, an idea you encouraged back in week three. Just as you begin to hear about their intricate “drills,” it’s already time to play the game. Oh well. Let’s do it!
The opposing team looks small and beatable, and you almost feel sympathy for them when your team unleashes their pent-up energy. Two minutes in, however, you find yourselves down 3-0. As has been the case every week, if the other team has even one skilled player, they prevail. This team has two. Your players? They excel at taunting the competition, and that’s about it.
The score quickly escalates to 8-0. Kids lose their motivation both on the field and off, with 45 minutes still to go. You fight the urge to give up or trip the opposing player on his way to another goal. The other team’s coach, a high school girl, tries to help you by limiting her star players’ time on the field. One of your team’s dads can no longer watch and chastises the other team’s star for celebrating after scoring.
You sense the other team might allow some mercy goals, whether out of kindness or boredom. You try everything, and so do your players, but that darn ball simply won’t go in. Your own son claims an injury and sulks on the sidelines. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the whistle blows. Time of death: 10:31 am.
As a treat, a thoughtful parent brought donuts, and suddenly, your players are ecstatic. Leo makes a miraculous comeback and joins them for snacks as you attempt to deliver a post-season pep talk. You tell them how proud you are of their growth throughout the season. Who knows if they even hear you? One parent prompts the kids to cheer for their coach with a “Hip hip…” (crickets). Not a single “thank you” in sight. You can’t tell if the parents appreciate your efforts or if they blame you for the losses. Cleaning up the trash left behind, you turn in the equipment, steering clear of the other coaches who are heading off to their celebration parties.
It’s finally over. You wish for a happy ending or even a moral to this saga—but there isn’t one. You tried everything: bringing in older kids for drills, seeking help from parents, absorbing unsolicited advice, and even bribing the kids with treats. One parent even offered cash for a goal. Most importantly, you aimed to make the experience enjoyable, even when it often wasn’t.
In the end, the league coerced you into coaching to prevent your son from spending every Saturday on the couch. Was it worth it? You’re certain you won’t do it again, though you said that the last time you volunteered as well. At least nobody got hurt—physically, that is.
Ready to switch gears? Who’s up for basketball?
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Summary: This reflective piece captures the ups and downs of volunteer coaching youth soccer. Through humorous anecdotes and relatable struggles, it explores the challenges of managing a team of inexperienced players, the quest for a single victory, and the often-overlooked sacrifices made by parents. In the end, it conveys a sense of camaraderie and resilience, even amidst disappointing outcomes.