My little teachers

I’ve just finished coaching a team of 5-year-old soccer players, so do me a favor: back up, show me some respect, and get me a whiskey.

Make it a double.

I’m a father of three so I’m no stranger to chaos and commotion. But channeling the unbridled energy, the blink-of-an-eye attention spans and the tender psyches of 10 kindergarten and pre-K whippersnappers requires an inner peace deep as the ocean.

Our coaches’ orientation class was taught by Marvin Smith, a Trinidadian who has taken local teams all the way to Europe to compete. I was eager to enter the sacred world of soccer strategy.

“Don’t coach them,” Smith said in his deep, island accent. “You need to ensure they have fun. That’s your job.”

That’s it? No formations? No set plays? So much to learn.

On the field, I was quite proud of the fact that I didn’t snap or throw any chairs.

And I certainly looked official as I wheezed up and down the pitch with my whistle and stopwatch, but inside I almost snapped several times. The kids taught me a lot, which saved me.

Like when in mid-game I realized that three of my four field players were enjoying a rousing game of tag. During the match! This was just incomprehensible to me.

When I played high school football, a group of underclassmen once made the foolish mistake of playing a little football game off to the side while the head coach was teaching something to the starters. Problem was the coach spotted them.

“You’re playing football during practice!?” he bellowed. “Get over here!!!”

I always thought his reaction was kind of harsh. My friend Bobby Boudreaux, now an adult, is still a little scarred by it. How can playing football during football practice be all that bad?

Yet I reacted the exact same way.

“Stop it!” I heard myself bellow at the sweet, befuddled little faces staring up at me.

“What’s the matter, Coach T?” one of them asked. A deep breath later I found the inner peace I would draw upon and just about drain by the end of the season.

Another time I was explaining something at practice, but three of the boys were oblivious, staring intently at something over my shoulder. Frazzled, I spun around and blurted “What are you looking at?!”

I saw nothing. In unison they pointed up at the sky. I squinted and saw that way, way, way off in the distance was a jet about the size of a fire ant. Their 5-year-old little-boy minds were captivated. I had to chuckle, and they taught me to chill out.

I have this thing about kids paying attention. That is, if they ignore me, I find myself acting like one of them. So it used to drive me bananas when they interrupted while I was addressing the team. I’d squash their wishful blurts like that arcade game where you whack the little moles with the mallet.

But one of my boys, bless his heart, just kept trying, grabbing my wrist for emphasis.

“Coach T! Coach T!” When I’d finished my pre-game speech, which was no doubt brilliant and awe-inspiring, I asked, “OK, what is it?”

He was breathless. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna—I’m gonna kick the ball real hard today!”

His eyes were wide with wonder and confidence and joy.

Magnificent.