Diary of a Mad Youth Football Coach

When Kenny Chesney made this appearance a Patriots camp last week, it kicked in a ton of sense memory for me. Because his song "Boys of Fall" is a staple of every youth football program in America. It's required by law to be the background music for the slideshow at the breakup party:

"When I feel that chill, smell that fresh cut grass
I'm back in my helmet, cleats, and shoulder pads
Standing in the huddle listening to the call
Fans going crazy for the boys of fall."

That hit me this week, when we got the first couple of chill nights of summer. That this is the time when practices are getting into full swing. That the Saturday of Labor Day weekend will be mandatory, league-wide weigh-ins. And that I've now been out of coaching football longer than the 11 years I was in it. 

Before I go another paragraph, I need to not make myself the hero of my own story. At no point in that decade-plus of coaching both of my son's teams was I ever more than a defensive assistant. I never had any ambitions beyond that. I never saw myself as head coaching material. I had no desire to design plays or spend my nights and weekends trying to sort out who can throw or catch a football. I always preferred figuring out how to stop the guys who invested all that time and burned all those mental calories. And the moments where I was able to pick up on someone else's offensive tendencies - say, some kid had a tell like he'd hold his hands up pre-snap if he was going to be getting the handoff - were golden to me. 

And what I can confirm is that signing my sons up for tackle football was as good a decision as I ever made for them. Despite all the blowback the sport's been getting over the past decade or so. In the words of the great Adam Carolla, "Sure there's risks in playing football. But what about the risk of your kid growing up to be a pussy?"

But it's not for the faint of heart, as I'll get into. Between them, my sons' experiences ran the gamut. The entire spectrum of good to awful. From Alpha to Omega. The best of times, the worst of times. 

The first one started out great. But over the years, the program got taken over by maniacs. And it grew so toxic that, by the time those kids graduated, the whole group of parents was so cliquey and filled with animosity that it was a challenge to look around the audience and find someone you didn't have contempt for. Oh, they suck. Can't stand them. Get a load of those assholes. She's a drunk and he's an imbecile. And so on. 

And as far No. 2 son? His situation was so much better at his graduation, moms were in tears that it was all over and were talking about having reunions just for the parents. 

The point being that there is no activity designed for kids that psycho parents cannot ruin. Sports. Dance. Theater. Cheerleading. Name it. There is no limit to the ways the well the funtivity well can be poisoned by adult jackassery. But if you somehow manage to keep the feral wolves at the door and make it be about the players, it can be the best experience of young lives. 

To illustrate the point, here's a random sample of stories, every one of which I swear is true:

--My older son once had a head coach who worked for a bookie. When we had Saturday morning games, he'd be on the sideline, answering his phone and taking college football bets. While the clock was running and the team was breaking the huddle. I also have a vivid memory of him being kicked out of a game and suspended for the next for pausing one of his calls to tell the referee - who was making like 50 bucks a game - to fuck himself. The kids standing next to him were 9 years old. 

--That program got taken over by three dads. One of whom used to complain to us all the time how soft these kids nowadays are. Even though his Stay Puft Marshmallow Son once asked out of a practice. And when I asked what was wrong, he held up his pinkie and wiggled it. 

--I had signed up to coach once again, and didn't get a "No," never mind a "No thanks." After years of working with these bozos, I just showed up to the first day of practice, no one said anything to me, so I went home. It didn't take long to figure out why I'd outserved my usefulness. Because my coaching style and theirs didn't exactly mesh. By the first game, it was clear they didn't give a Tuppenny damn about whether somebody's kid went to every practice but never saw the field for a game. There were a good 20 players who worked hard all week, and then on game day didn't even have to throw their uniform in the laundry hamper. While a good eight or so kids played every down, on offense and defense. 

--One time I was got to the field a couple of minutes into the game. Our team went from offense to defense, and only three players got subbed out. If you've read this far, it won't shock you to learn all three of the coaches' sons stayed out there. Then I heard the PA system asking for a volunteer to call the game.  I knew what was coming. One of the dads asked me. I said no. A mom of one of the Golden Boy coaches' favorites asked me. I shook my head. One of the coaches asked. "All you have to do is say, '1st & 10, 2nd & 5,' like that." And I said back, "Believe me, the last place you want me to be right now is in front of a microphone." 

--That same coach was famous for chewing out other kids for supposed infractions of whatever Galaxy Brain strategies he'd come up with. While at the same time constantly screaming praise for his own kid. Even if there was a pile of bodies on the far sideline, he knew from 53 1/3 yards away his Pride and Joy did something heroic that deserved being singled out. On this particular day, one dad had had enough, and let him know it. The two started screaming at each other, and had to be separated by the detail cop. There was talk of "I'll deal with you after the game!" which unfortunately never materialized. Instead, there as a series of emails. A meeting was set up at the bandstand next to the practice field with the guy who ran the entire program. I showed up to count the torches and pitchforks, but sadly, they were only metaphorical. The gazebo was divided between the parents who thought these coaches were their sons' ticket to a full ride to a DI school and the first round of the NFL Draft, and the ones who figured that since they wrote the same check as those other parents, they at least out to get to see them get in the game once in a while. The head coach actually had the audacity to argue that everyone DID get to play. Because those other 20 or so were put on the kickoff teams. Anyone who knows what a kickoff is like at that age knows the ball usually skids across the dirt for 12 yards or so until a fat kid falls on it. One mom I liked asked me to speak up and try and ease the tension. I told her no way. That for me, this was the Iran-Iraq War, and I just wanted to see massive casualties on both sides. 

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--That meeting ended with the three coaches agreeing they'd coach the final game of the season, then step aside and let someone else do it next year. When gameday arrived, one of them showed up at the house of another player, handed his father the playbook and said none of them was showing up. The team was on its own. A hastily-arranged group of dads picked up the pieces (I couldn't make it), got everyone in the game, and lost by a touchdown, which was better than they'd done in a month or more. The review I got from my player was, "Dad, I'm sorry we lost. But that was the most fun I've had all year."

--There was one kid on that team who would get his ass kissed like he was piloting the last chopper out of Saigon. His father was the ultimate hardo, and my late brother's next door neighbor. The boy was athletically gifted, there's no question. But he was good for maybe five minutes of practice out of the six hours we held per week, because his dad had him involved in so many other sports. And when he'd show up on gameday, he too never came off the field. Those three coaches treated him like the son they wished they had. And one day, he showed up at halftime, since he was coming from lacrosse or some such other activity. So they got the officials to open the equipment shed and give him a special and unprecedented weigh in, just for him. Strike one. And he showed up wearing the home jersey to a road game. Strike two. So the coaches made another another kid take of his jersey and give it to their little superstar. Strike three. And it would have to have been an extinction level asteroid strike before I'd ever allow anyone to do that to my son. I wouldn't care if the player in question was 2011 Rob Gronkowski. They'd have had to kill me first. 

--One other note about this kid's hardo dad. One time before a game, we had the entire team stretching and doing calesthetics. It was raining, and his kid chose instead to stand off to the side in a poncho to stay dry. I told him to get in line with everyone else. That week in practice, dad asked if he could have a word with me. Despite the face he was rocking a fanny pack, I agreed. And he accused me of trying to undermine his boy and take playing time away from him, insinuating I did it to get more snaps for my son. I told him, "First of all, the playing time isn't up to me. Second, you're wrong. Third, I've been doing this for years. Giving up overtime at work, missing dinners, breathing in dust when it's hot and standing out here in the rain and snow. And these are the first words you've ever said to me." He said that's got nothing to do with it, while the head coach who was responsible for fooking up the program stood by without setting him straight. If I do somehow manage to get into heaven, it's going to be because I told the guy I don't care what he thinks and walked away. And DIDN'T tell everyone the truth. Which is that when my brother helped him move some furniture once, he found the stack of "Chicks With Dicks" magazine under the bed. You never know with these surburban sports dads.  

--This didn't happen to either of my sons, but to a grade younger than theirs. This coach used to play a fairly high level of college. Maybe DII or something. Anyway, he was a mountain of a man and ran a tight ship. The families all had to pay extra for official-looking practice unis with their names and numbers on the jerseys, which nobody else does. And his team was good. 

Somewhere along the way, this guy lost the room. For reasons I either never knew or didn't care enough about to remember, he was not invited back to coach the following season. And when an entire town's worth of players showed up for the aforementioned preseason mandatory weigh in, not one of their names were in the database. That's six grades. Maybe close to 200 kids. Now ineligible to play without getting weighed in for safety (players too heavy for their grade have the option of either moving up, or getting off the Fruity Pebbles and shedding some pounds). All their data now mysteriously gone from the system. 

But the mystery did not last long. It was a simple matter of tracing the URL of the hacker back to its source, which of course turned out to be this titanic butthole of a man. He ended up getting charged with Criminal Mischief in the court where I worked. And if there's any justice in the world, is now doing hard time in a Super Max or was sent off to a CIA Black Ops site in some country with no extradition treaty to the US. Either way, the problem was solved, the program was saved, and he'll never be near a youth athletic field ever again.

--Then there was another coach who loved the sound of his own voice so much that his practices were nothing but him going down the line of his players, discussing their reads and blocking assignments and all these subtle nuances of the game he was so impressed with. When the truth is, boys want to strap on the pads and hit each other. They're like lion cubs on the savanna who want to get their aggression out by crawling all over each other, claws and teeth bared. Never once in all my years did we say, "OK, line up for a hitting (or tackling) drill" and hear them complain. It's what they sign up for. And when Coach Genius McStragedy's team reached their senior year of high school, there were four of his kids still playing. Out of about 40. He'd bored the fun right out of them. 

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--With all this as a backdrop, when I signed up my younger son to play in third grade, I did not check the box to volunteer for coaching. I'd rather have  had enough to last 10 lifetimes. The head of the program sent a message home that he'd like to talk to me about it. Reluctantly, I came down the next day to hear him out. He understood what a clusterfudge that other grade had been, and said he was coaching this team, and it won't be a repeat. That he was forming a JV team so the kids who legitimately can't compete against the best athletes will still get playing time. And he sent me over to talk the JV defensive coach I'd be working with. The first thing he said to me was, "The way I look at it, if every one of these kids signs up again next year, we've done out job." Finally, I'd found a home. 

--And they all meant it. It wasn't just that thing you say to appease the other parents so you can make this whole enterprise about compensating for the fact your dad never said he loved you or whatever. You know how I knew? The sons of both head coaches, varsity and JV, were on the offensive line, not the quarterback. Statistically speaking, that's like hitting two Powerball jackpots in the same week. 

--I saw my job on that team to mix in a combination of a few fundamentals (teaching the 3-point stance) and keep the defensive players who get bored while the offense is huddling up to not punch each other in the nuts. Mostly I did it by imitating lines from The Simpsons with another coach. And a thing I invented, where if they had a good practice or won a game, I'd give them a Spit Take. For example, "The President of the United States is ... Miley Cyrus?"

--As far as my son, he was the smallest kid on the team. And football was not coming easy to him. He was most put at free safety for his own … well, free safety. And for the first week of practice, he was most definitely not feeling it.  Running at someone and lowering your shoulder pads into their midsection is not the not the most natural thing in the world for everyone.  It wasn't for him. And he came close to quitting. Then one day I was late to practice (relax, I ran a lap), one of the coaches asked if I'd seen what just happened. I hadn't. "Your kid just tackled Michael!" Who, it should be noted, was from a family of athletic, Nordic supermen, was about two inches smaller than me, and barely made weight. A light switch went off in my kid's head and he had begun to figure the game out. Anyway, he was having fun doing it. A time or two they put him up on the line of scrimmage because he was too small to block. And one time in the red zone, he got to the ballcarrier at the same time as the handoff, and dropped him where he got the ball. It was proudest I'd ever been of him on an athletic field. 

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--And it happened because a coaching staff was more interested in teaching kids the game than admiring our own brilliance or making it all about out what perfect genetics we'd passed down to our children. To be crystal clear, we took it seriously. (Apart from The Simpsons stuff.) This wasn't Circle Time at preschool. It was tackle football. It was competition. There was a working scoreboard, wins and losses, and playoffs. But if the price of winning was degrading an humiliating one of your neighbor's 9-year-old, I decided I'd gladly lose every game and be able to look myself in the eyes in the mirror when I shave. 

What I learned from both experiences with each son was that it isn't. Acting like a depraved, ego-maniacal crackpot with delusions of grandeur isn't conducive to winning. Being a good coach is. 

Don't be assholes and you too can win Super Bowls. Have a great season, everybody.