I can’t believe it, I’m walking across the quagmire that is to be the pitch for my youngest son Alfie’s first ever cup match for his Under 9’s team. It’s windy and cold, the parents are putting a brave face on it, but it’s one of those blow your umbrella inside out kind of days.
The weather though, isn’t what concerns me. It’s 10 minutes to kick off and Butch, the under 9’s manager, is nowhere to be seen. It’s a bit weird because his son is here, but he’s not. My phone rings, it’s Butch. ‘Hi mate, sorry but I’m running really late, youse know what to do, can you sort it, y’know, pick the team and that?’ ‘Erm OK, how long will you be?’
‘Not long mate, I’ll be there soon, maybe 20 minutes, just pick the team.’ And then he’s gone.
Oh dear, I don’t want to do this, it’s not my age group, and I don’t know the kids all that well. I figure I should get the boys warmed up, so I call the lads together and ask them to form a circle, which they do but it is the most unlike circle shape I’ve ever come across. You will see this warm up drill done up and down the country at most junior games, it’s a very basic version of a practice called a Rondo. It is a great way to get the lads going because it allows the kids to still chat and joke amongst themselves before the game starts while at the same time encouraging them to focus on their passing and movement. It’s a bit like piggy in the middle.
The circle of players has to pass the ball to one another across the circle without the player in the middle intercepting the ball. If your pass is intercepted, you then swap places with the player in the middle. The object of the game is not to be the one in the middle, but inexplicably all the under 9’s want to be in the middle.
They all start chanting “Can I be in the middle? Please let me be in the middle!” The circle is breaking; the kids are moving towards me, I’m surrounded by blood-thirsty children chanting “Steve” in unison. Arms in the air, eyes wide, some of them are so close; they’re actually tugging at my jacket. The circle is now non- existent, I am surrounded; it wasn’t meant to be like this, I only came to watch my son play football. The chant goes on Steve, Steve, Steve. Oh God, I can’t breathe, someone help me.
I look over to the parents in desperation but they appear to be laughing. Just as I think I’m going to black out, a hand lands on my shoulder. ‘Alright mate? I’m the referee.’ I turn to face my saviour. ‘Thank God’ I say, and without thinking, give him a hug.
Imagine being the captain of a sinking ship, and telling the last remaining passenger that there is no more room in the lifeboat, and that they’re probably going to drown. The look on that passengers face? That’s the same look you get from an 8 year old who you’ve just told is going to be a substitute. In this case Oliver.
‘Ollie, you are starting as my super sub today, OK?’ ‘Oi, Ollie, don’t cry mate, honestly you’ll be on very soon.’ ‘Where’s Butch?’ he asks tearfully. ‘He’ll be here soon, but he told me that you were starting as sub’ I lie. Such are my feelings of guilt at seeing little Oliver’s distraught face, I actually contemplate sneaking him on when the referee isn’t looking.
Tye the self-appointed captain and probably more importantly, Butch’s son, wins the toss and opts to take the kick in the face of a wind so strong, that the ball refuses to stay put on the centre spot and keeps rolling away.We kick off; the ball is played back to the edge of the centre circle, so far so good. We’ve been playing for 5 seconds when I get a tug on my sleeve, it’s Oliver, ‘Am I going on yet?’ ‘Soon Ollie mate, soon.’
This interaction between caretaker manager and the worlds most over enthusiastic substitute continues throughout the opening 5 minutes as Oliver matches me, stride for stride, stalking me up and down the touchline.
By this time we are 2-0 down and I give up on any chance that I might shake Ollie off. I turn to face him, his pleading eyes looking up at me beneath his rain splattered specs. ‘OK mate, I’m bringing you on’ His face beams. ‘Listen Oliver, you are going to play on the right side of midfield. So that is on this side, where we are stood. But remember Ollie, you’ve got to hold your position and you must get back and help the defence.’
I look into his eyes; he seems to have understood what I’m saying. I literally have to hold him back from running straight onto the pitch, explaining that we have to wait for the play to stop. It gives me one last opportunity to relay my instructions once more. ‘Right midfield mate, just in front of where we are, up and down yeah?’ ‘Yes’ he beams whilst performing such obscure body movements, that I actually look round wondering if someone has tasered him.
The ball goes out on the far side ‘Ref, sub please.’ I look to Oliver but he’s already moving. He runs onto the pitch, star jumping whilst simultaneously shouting ‘yes, yes, yes.’ Finally he comes to a stop, focuses on what we’ve discussed, and takes up his position, on the left …
My début as under 9’s manager ends in a closely contested 8-0 drubbing, which at one point saw our goalkeeper, Evan standing in his net, facing the wrong way sulking, because in his opinion, the last goal didn’t count. He offers no explanation why this is, he’s just simply decided.
Unfortunately the referee didn’t see it that way and awarded the perfectly good goal to the opposition.We also conceded one goal because he’d spotted a worm in the six yard box and didn’t want to step on it. ‘Save the ball, not the worm’ I wanted to shout but for all I know, I may be looking at the next Chris Packham.
By that stage Oliver had wandered upfront, I knew this because he was talking to the opposition’s keeper who, incidentally, was wearing the cleanest kit on the pitch.
Two minutes after the final whistle Butch telephones telling me he’s just pulling into the car park …
This article is an extract from Steve O’Donoghues’ new book It’s not a man’s game. Buy a copy for £6.99 by clicking the image below.
