Thoughts of a youth sports coach

My oldest son, who begins the school year next week as a junior at Elk Grove High School, started T-ball in kindergarten.  For the 10+ years since, part of the title of who I am has included youth sports coach.  Father-husband-attorney-writer-runner-baker-coach.  Somewhere in the jumble of words that define who I am, it's in there and it's a part of who I've been for many years.  It's not just for him, but also for my other son, who has followed a couple of years behind. Coach. Coach. Coach.

Soccer in the heat and sun of Sacramento in the late summer and fall, leading into the rain and mud of November before the season ends.  A break for December, but then the indoor season begins in January and runs for a few more months. 

Add baseball to the mix.  Most years, fortunately, it was just the spring.  But, add in a few years of fall baseball, and other than a month in the middle of winter and another month in summer, I've been coaching pretty much non-stop since my little boy was six and first trotted out on to the green with a glove on his hand and a desire to hit the baseball as far as he could.

I'm certainly not complaining.  Many of my fondest memories over the past ten years have come from my time coaching my kids: The sight of my oldest son striking somebody out and pumping his fist so slightly that most people probably wouldn't have noticed.  The smile on his face when he made a good play or scored a run.  For my youngest, who gave up baseball far too early to devote himself to soccer, it's the sight of him making a save or scoring a goal and running back down the field with that face-splitting smile.

But it's not just my kids I remember.  It's all of the others.  It's Ryan Boyd, the subject of my first post here on Elk Grove Patch, who just went out and played baseball for us, quietly.  Who was always respectful of us old coaches.  It's Aaron Ortiz, who has played soccer off and on over the years with both of my kids.  He's simply the most passionate, energetic, commited soccer player of any age I've ever seen.  He never stops, never gives up, and I would go into any battle with him at my side. 

It also isn't just about the superstars, it's about the other kids who come out year after year, showing slow and steady growth.  After ten years of coaching, the names of these kids could fill a telephone book.  But I loved coaching all of them.  Nathan.  Anthony.  Pockets.  Wheels.  Nick.  Choach.  Whiskers.  Scotty Law.  Sukpreet.  Dylan.  Za-Za.  These boys, I hope, will stay with me forever.

Why am I writing this now?  It's pretty simple.  There are also frustrations that come with coaching youth sports.  The biggest frustration for me was always the lack of communication from parents.  Too many kids show up late for practices or not at all, with no message from a parent.  In the modern age of cell phones, texting, Facebook, and every other form of communication, it's impossible to understand why it is so difficult to let a coach know, "Hey, my son (or daughter) isn't going to be at practice today."  Planning a practice for fifteen kids can be dramatically different than planning a practice for ten kids.  Every coach I know has pleaded with parents to get their kids to practices and get them there on time.  Too many times it doesn't happen.  Every coach I know has expressed a willingness to do whatever they can to help get the kids to practice.  Almost never is that offer accepted.

Communication. Every season I always told parents, pleaded with parents, to let me know if there was anything going on that I needed to know.  Were their kids happy with how things were going?  Were the parents OK with things?  Was there something I could do to improve my coaching?  Feedback, feedback, feedback.  It would be so wonderful to get it.  But more and more, particularly as the kids get older, parents drop them off, disappear, pick them up, and hardly a word is exchanged.

Communication.  One year, with a group of kids who were probably around eight or nine years old, we spent most of the season trying to work with one particular boy who struggled more than any others to hit and catch a baseball.  With a few games left in the season, we finally learned why it was such a struggle and why we all had pulled out so much of our hair on this particular kid.  He had vision issues in which his eyes didn't track with each other.  Here's a novel idea: If your son or daughter has a disability, or any other issue, that may impact their ability to play the sport we're trying to coach them in, it might actually help to know that from the outset.  Which kids have ADD, ADHD, or something else going on?  Are there other issues we, as coaches, should know? 

A couple of years ago, I had a boy whose father had died a few years prior.  The other coach said something to him about practicing at home with his dad.  At the next practice, his mom approached me and let me know that his father had passed away.  I was thrilled she had let us know and we never made the mistake of suggesting practicing with his dad again.  A little communication can be a beautiful thing.

I don't know a coach out there that doesn't want this type of feedback from parents, and I don't know a coach out there who gets it.  It's a shame.  Our jobs would be easier, we could be more successful, and your children would have a better experience, if we only knew these things, if we only got feedback from parents.

One final thought.  The gifts at the end of the season are wonderful.  But the gift cards are unnecessary.  Not every male coach has an addiction to Home Depot.  Not every coach drinks coffee and goes to Starbucks.  What every coach I've ever known appreciates more than those gift cards is a signed baseball or soccer ball, or something that is from the kids that a coach can remember the season by. 

Those are the gifts that I'll keep and look at every once in a while and remember that year—when my son was nine, and this band of misfit kids got together for a few months and laughed and ran and had fun and experienced a little success along the way.  Or when my other son was twelve, and we struggled through a winless season, but won our first game of the post-season in a tension-filled 1-0 squeaker.