15 – GOING THROUGH THE CHANGE
“Geez, I just played cricket because I loved the game. I never thought about it much, never really had any formal coaching.” Steve Waugh
It was gloomy outside and my hands were trembling; I was stood there clueless as to what I should do or say. Had I been drugged and abandoned at this bleak outpost? No, voluntarily there I was, in “control” of my very first game as a junior cricket coach, on a freezing cold April evening at a place called Adwalton Moor.
What had convinced me to do this? A lifetime spent avoiding kids and hormonal mums but there I was.
I remember the committee meeting that resulted in me surrendering. The unfolding crisis was typical of those up and down the country with the late withdrawal of our junior coach in typical pattern: last minute, no succession plan and therefore chaos.
The Chairman hopefully looked around the room a volunteer, prayed nobody would ask him, and waited…and waited.
Juniors? What Juniors?
Most of the committee had no idea we actually ran junior teams, some actually had no idea we played cricket. The usual carpet gazing began until, as if possessed by some uncontrollable inner spirit, I felt my hand starting to rise. What was I thinking?
I suppose I felt that it was important to put something back into a club and a sport that I had gained so much from. Overnight I became a junior coach, long before the explosion of the child welfare industry; it really was a much simpler affair.
Soon I became aware of the awful reality of the state of the nation’s kids, the alarming decline of standards in junior sport and the ignorance of the elite at Lords as regards grass roots cricket. The volunteer coach is almost powerless to do anything other than simply try to slow the decline.
How To
There are plenty of books about coaching but, frankly, the majority are a load of bollocks. None contain guidance as to how to cope with being assaulted by some nutty mother mid-pitch just because her kid has had another “off-day”.
The coach has to be a Jack of All Trades: a skills-coach, mentor, taxi-driver, child-minder, therapist, and counsellor to endless mums who want to know why their pride and joy is so totally and utterly useless.
The absence of school sport is so damaging; the club coach is merely plugging holes in a big, leaky dam. Talent is out there but in ever decreasing puddles. And talent is no guarantee of a kid sticking at it.
Coaching can be addictive, you want to do as good a job as possible. However, it is very hard to avoid the frustration most of us feel as to why so much responsibility lies with volunteers. How do you maintain a national sport like cricket when only around seven percent of kids have access to it at school, via the private school system?
The Welfare State
In the last decade or so a plethora of new “qualifications” have been required of the junior coach, most a work of duplicity, where simplicity would work far more effectively. We blunder on regardless.
Over the years we have had guidelines covering the number of kids you are allowed to be in a car with: a guideline requiring you to check individual car insurances before away games: and a requirement to get the tea ladies CRB checked. It has been political correctness gone mad.
Mums
One of the more entertaining aspects of coaching over the years has been the variety of mums you have to placate, nuts every single one of them. Even our current Secretary is still regularly reminded of when she throttled me mid-pitch after a game when her son – and my mate now – had missed a straight ball. Did anybody mention coach welfare?
Here’s a few “regulars” from over the years.
The Gaggle – a group of mums allegedly there in support of their offspring but would not know the result of the game unless told as the wine has kicked in already. Hacked off with their husbands, hence regular attendances at junior cricket matches under the pretence of supporting the team. Their kids will never make it as cricketers until Red Rum flies to Mars, but it is a good excuse to get pissed over a bottle of wine or two even if it is Sunday morning. The occasional cry of “good shot” gives the game away from Divorcee Corner as it’s usually the opposition batting.
The Flirt – the last days of youth have long since passed her by and memories of raunchy Sunday mornings in bed are now distant dreams with three kids, two dogs and next door’s cat all vying for her attention. Night club canapés and champagne have been replaced by high cholesterol, varicose veins and Mellow Birds at Molly’s café at the club. Husband number three has just fled so she turns up at the game trying to look twenty again instead of pushing fifty, as worried wives nudge husbands inside the clubhouse, out of danger from the wafts of Rive Gauche 1985. Molly wipes his spatula on his apron before a timely clip around the ear from wife Carol and the Coach makes a silent promise to himself never to put her mobile number in his phone.
The Dreamer – lives in hope that life holds more in later life for her prized one than the game of cricket seems to offer. Despite you gently suggesting her kid is totally and utterly useless, she insists on buying him more new gear each year than the local primary school’s annual sports budget. You hope that he will stick at it long enough for his annual hand me downs to fit you. She’s tried football, rugby, golf, tennis and now its cricket’s turn and you are her last chance to try and save the day and find something her kid may be half decent at.
The Highly Strung One – as common as the changing of the seasons. The best bit of every cricket season is trying to guess which mother will assault you at some point in the summer blaming you for everything from world famine to the inability of her kid to hit a straight ball. Generally needs an outlet for lots of stored up tension and, because there’s nothing better on offer, the coach will do. The tightening of her grip around your neck clearly evidences signs of tension as you ask yourself was I responsible for her offspring missing what looked like a straight ball. She clearly needs help, as you gaze into those bloodshot, manic eyes, unable to even remotely work your charms on this one.
The MILF – a mythical term as realistic as a cricket playing Dodo Bird.
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