Coach As Conduit, Not Commander

A good coach is a conduit, not a commander.

Competitive sports are such a microcosm of life; they are an arena for creativity, independence, autonomy, boundaries, play, and emotion. Too tight a grip on the leash of learning, and you cut off essential oxygen. Ever had a boss who just could not sit back and let you do your work? A parent who couldn’t let you try and fail? Or a coach who just could not sit down and watch the game?

I have not seen one example where micromanaging left both parties happier, better, or more satisfied than when they started. You get unhappy kids, frustrated adults, resentful teams, and tense learning environments. You end up with losses that feel like your fault and wins that feel like vindication. 

The belief that learning happens by instruction, that someone improves by being told how to do it, is a gross oversimplification, especially with children. But you don’t always know that until you try it, and fall flat on your face. Or at least that’s how I figured it out. 

The first tournament I coached was in early summer, and it was the kind of hot that scorches through the soles of your shoes. I had just started to get to know this team, and we were so fresh and green to each other in a way where I really had no idea what was about to happen.

Game after game, the girls battled it out on the field as I watched. I took notes, offered some ideas, facilitated conversations after halftime, and handed out cold washcloths when I substituted a player off the field. I let them go find their parents right away after each game. I felt a deep sense of imposter syndrome: I was quiet and positive and I asked for their input and for the most part, I let them do their thing. They told me where and how they wanted to play and I let them. Yes, I wanted to just see what they were capable of, but I was also nervous to impose myself or my “style”, whatever that even was or meant.

I used my tactics board once or twice to model an idea, and after three successful games, we had fought our way to the final – the winner of which would win their division and take home a trophy. I showed up to the match with my best friend and my parents; I too needed some support on the sidelines.

Tired, bruised, and battered, they played until the whistle blew and we went straight into penalties. After we scored the winning goal, I ran onto the field, elated and excited and so damn proud. Hugs were given, tears were shed, and we celebrated together before filling the trophy with water and passing it around, cheering. I wasn’t sure what I could take credit for, if I had really done anything that contributed to their success. Even so, it was a great weekend and I was relieved we could start the year with such a happy memory together.

Our last tournament was in August, and I felt the pressure of that first tournament win humming underneath my fingertips as I pulled up to the stadium. This time around, we knew each other better and we had been training hard all summer: I ran fitness sessions, created passing patterns, set up and drilled set pieces like corner kicks and penalties, talked tactics, and armored them up with video analysis and game footage. I whipped out every tool in my toolbox and dumped them on the ground for all to use.

By then, I had enrolled in my USSF D-License program and surrounded by men who had very strong ideas about how things were supposed to go, how I was supposed to work. How soccer was meant to be played, and what a good coach should look like, what a good coach should do.

The sun raged on overhead and we went to battle again. This time, I don’t think I sat down once. I stood on the sidelines and pointed, yelled, instructed, and taught. I told them what to do, drilled concepts into the girls at halftime and I subbed players off to talk through mistakes and send them back out there.

I felt like I was really coaching, that I was really modeling what I had seen from other coaches, that I was finally contributing something valuable or at least real. I grilled them in our post-game debriefs and asked them what they thought we could do better next time. I wasn’t mean but I was firm and tough and hard to please.

My girls were miserable. They played tense and tight, like they were afraid of fucking up. They barked and bristled at each other on the field. They were so focused and locked in that they were completely unable to enjoy themselves. They weren’t even playing well – it was brutal to watch us unravel.

I saw the weekend go from a place to have fun playing good soccer to a weekend where winning only saved them from the wreckage of losing. And they kept losing. I was joystick coaching, and it had completely sucked the joy out of the whole experience, for both of us.

I should have known better, but I didn’t. I’ve been in their position and I knew what it was like to be overmanaged and I knew how much it sucks and I did it anyways and I didn’t realize until it was too late. We were losing and they were unhappy and I was fed up and exhausted.

 In our last game, I finally sat down and shut up. Thank God. They relaxed just slightly and we were able to come together as a group after the game and talk in a big circle about the things we did well over the whole weekend. I brought them cupcakes and watched them walk over to their parents, treats in hand, aching and tired. Then I climbed in my car and put my forehead on the steering wheel and cried. My boyfriend had come to watch the final game, and I drove home unable to speak to him; he knew exactly why I was upset. He could see it too, and I was deeply embarrassed.

I apologized to the team at our next practice, explained a little bit why that happened, and swore to them that it would never happen again, because a good coach is not a commander. A good coach lets things flow. A good coach takes in her team’s input and puts together a plan and clues them in and then lets them have at it.

A good coach sits down and shuts up. A good coach knows when to step back. A good coach takes notes. A good coach’s words mean something because they only speak when they are needed, because a good coach knows when their players need them and when they don’t.

My style can’t come from anyone else. Not the men in my licensing classes, not professional coaches on television, not my parents, not my colleagues, not YouTube, not my old coaches. I have had to work really hard to find my own style, and if it works, when it works, to really step back and let it work.

In that first tournament, I was blessed with the strange gift of inexperience; it let me step back and give my players space and grace do the work, make mistakes, and tune into me for adjustments along the way. I didn’t realize it, but that is my style. In my inexperience, I let my instinct into the drivers seat, and it was right all along.

Since then, I have made a conscious effort to give myself the space and grace to do the work, make mistakes, and tune into mentors for my own adjustments.

It’s never perfect, but it’s been beautiful.