Counting down to the big one.

He hadn't set the alarm; he knew that the following day would probably be a long one. After forcing himself to sleep for a few additional hours, he hopped out of bed around 10:30. As usual, he pulled the scale out from under the couch and weighed himself: 277. "Whatever," he mumbled dismissively. "I've weighed more."

His volatile stomach usually prevented him from consuming much caffeine, and because of this, he had forgotten to change the auto-brew on the coffee maker. A thick, brown liquid which had already been sitting in the pot for three hours poured into his "World's Greatest Coach" mug. "Oh, well," he thought, "I'm used to cocoa, anyway. I'll just choke it down."

All season, he'd grown accustomed to sleeping on the office couch; there was just so much to prepare for. His wife had barely seen him, but he had warned her about this time of year and she'd been a trooper. He plodded into the conference room, towering over his six of his most trusted protegés, who sat reviewing the game plan. Laptops littered the conference table.

"Hey, what's up, guys? How's everyone feeling?"

Silence filled the room. His lead coordinator spoke first. "Coach, we're tired, we're a little stressed...but let me tell you something: We are ready. The world will never forget the performance they're about to see."

"And that's why you're sitting here right now" Tears welled in the boss's eyes. "I don't need to tell you this, but even though you're the best in the business, every darn one of you is family. We've had our disagreements, our little crises, but in my opinion, we're truly on the verge of greatness. Lombardi, Wooden, Rockne—they had nothing on us. Now let's get out there and show some pride in the red and green."

"Coach," if you don't mind, "I'd like the honor of feeding Rudolph his pre-game meal." The number one elf looked up yearningly at Santa.

"I wouldn't want it any other way," Herbie. "Ho, ho, ho!"

His thunderous guffaw rattled the conference room.

Coaching tweens: one man's struggle

I can't really get a read on these people.

They're referred to as "tweens," but they're actually a compilation of almost every year of their lives from zero to ten.

I've signed on, yet again, to coach kids' indoor soccer. This time, it's a gaggle of eight- and nine-year-old girls, including my daughter. We practice every Thursday night in an archaic, dusty elementary school gym, where the parent-spectators hug the sides and try not to get nailed with an errant line drive to the chest.

We are the Blue Fire. I guess that's a good team name, since it implies scorching hot play, so hot that it's...blue? My teenage daughter is the assistant coach, and it's a good thing, because she handles the warm-up exercises and plays good cop to my impatient, old school bad cop. Every practice, she assembles the kids into a circle for stretching, but before long, about half the players are just sitting, cross-legged, chatting. Here's an example:

Teenage assistant coach: "So...how was everyone's day at school?"

Player #1: "It was good. I got in trouble yesterday. It was my fault, but it wasn't my fault. You know what I mean?"

Teenage assistant coach: "Oh, yeah. I know what you mean."

Player #2: "I got in trouble, too."

Player #3: "I got in trouble, too."

I watched the girls as they sat and talked. It seems like girls this age are just a bit off in their appearance. They're all really cute and bubbly, but their hair always seems a little stringy and oily; their shoes aren't usually tied all the way.

A few of them wore their shin guards on the outsides of their socks, and it reminded me of a kid I knew in seventh grade. On the first day of gym class, each boy was issued a shirt, shorts and an athletic supporter (jock strap). This poor kid walked out of the locker room wearing his jock outside of his shorts. Luckily for these girls on my soccer team, they will never be stigmatized for wearing their shin guards over their socks they way that poor kid in gym was. His name was Chuck.

We always try different drills for the first half of practice, like dribbling, passing and shooting at the goal. Again, half the girls usually pay attention, while the other half try strange things with their soccer balls. As I demonstrated how to properly trap a soccer ball, one girl decided to stand on hers with both feet. Naturally, she fell, landing hard enough on her side to break the hip of your average eighty-year-old.

"You guys. Please don't stand on your ball," I said. "See what happens? It's really dangerous."

Another kid stood on her ball and wiped out hard. Then another one.

"Okay, let's start our scrimmage early."

I really do love this team, an I try to be patient with them. They attend school all day, where things are segmented and structured, so soccer practice is a great opportunity to blow off some steam. Plus, this is a YMCA, free-to-be-you-and-me activity, not the ultra-select, premier, all-star platinum soccer league.

But next time one of those kids stands on a ball, we'll see how well a nine-year-old can do push-ups.

The colors of coaching

Whenever August rolls around, I ask my daughters what types of physical activities they're planning to fill up their time with in the Fall. Usually, their response is "I don't know," followed by "I'm going to school. Isn't that enough?"
Then I'm forced to clarify. "No, walking around at school isn't enough. Do you guys want to play soccer, or maybe brush up on some swim lessons, or how about a dance class or something?" That's usually met with a thick silence, like I've asked them to deliver calves out back.
I've learned that if I throw something out there and then shut up, the girls will actually mull over what I suggested. A couple of times, Lauryn has said she wanted to play soccer, and it would be really great if I coached her team. That was usually followed by the familiar pang of family/community obligation in my fatherly gut, and before you can say "over-sized shin guards," I'd signed up yet again to coach YMCA co-ed kids' soccer.
Coaching can be really fun, as long as it's soccer, and not a sport that utilizes lethal weaponry, like T-ball. I won't expound on my lone T-ball coaching escapade; I'll just say the combination of a four-year-old with an aluminum bat is like, well, a four-year-old with an aluminum bat. By the time the season ended, one of my kids had been hit in the face by the ball so many times, he didn't even cry anymore. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
With kids' soccer, there really isn't a lot a kid has to know. You just instruct them to stay on the field (not run to the bathroom when they see one of their friends do it), and think about soccer the whole time. One kid walked over to me while he was supposed to be playing and said, "My brother punched me in the junk this morning." I remember saying, "So are you okay now?" He replied, "Yep," and then ran back onto the field. It would be pretty funny if adults were that blunt, but also a little creepy.
I've found that these kids prefer really accurate names for their teams. When I told one team that their uniforms were going to be red, they became the Red Flames. On another team, Purple shirts meant it was Purple Panther time. We've also been the Green Limes (like there's another color of lime) and the Yankees (not sure how that happened). Lauryn was once on a team where they couldn't agree on which yellow thing they wanted to be, so they became the Banana Lemon Lightning.
We'll see what my daughters choose this Fall. I've finally reached the point where more knowledgeable people are coaching my kids, so my sports mentoring days are probably behind me. I guess I could always try coaching that dance class.