"This Week". Or "Bad Poetry that is Not Well Thought Out". Or "I'm Tired."

Radio silence again.

Here is why.

Monday.
4 periods.
90 min staff meeting of being told what a shit job we're doing.
2 hours of report writing.

Tuesday.
6 hours of school.
45 minute welfare meeting.
2 hours rehearsal for closely pending play.
1 hour report writing.
Basketball.

Wednesday.
6 hours again.
4 periods again.
Piecing together emotional boys and refereeing minor conflicts.
2 hours rehearsal for closer pending play.
2 hours reports.

Thursday.
6 hours school.
Cancelled soccer training - one hour of Me time to chase the B Team before their player numbers increase.
3 hours duty.
2 hours report writing.

Friday.
4 hours of class.
2 hours of soccer training, but not my team.
1 hour of game, U14s vs the Privos from Up The Hill.
5 hours of watching/supervising football in various codes.

On morning TV
A giggly blonde woman said
That if you work more than 11 hours a day,
you are 64% more likely to have a heart attack.

Bring on Europe!

Return to the field. Or How my body is beginning to betray me

This here digi-tome has mentioned my efforts at coaching. I took the Mighty U13s to third 2 years ago, and last year the same boys (or mostly) went down 1-0 in the GF. This year I have taken on another squad of Mighty U13s, a new assistant supercoach and a different set of strengths and weaknesses. So far so good, one win, one loss, one draw. The team hasn't really played to its potential yet, but I have faith that they will finish the season strongly.

But even more importantly than my sideline encouragements and masterminding puppetry of young footballers is my own return to the park.

Moving back to West Bubblefuck four years ago, I was devastated to learn that there was no women's football competition. I think the words I actually spake (I'm teaching Shakespeare at the moment, and it is affecting my vocab) were "What kind of a backwards town am I living in?!" At the end of each game of coaching for the last two years I have ended up bubbling with unspent adrenaline, and each week I made a small curse (silently or otherwise) that there was no comp I could play in to spend the pent up energy. Sure, I could play with the blokes, but my serious lack of fitness kind of embarrassed me out of that.

This year, the West Bubblefuck District Football Association has finally got a 6 a side comp off the ground. Just.

In the last two months I have been palpable in my desperation to find players. I emailed parents, I mentioned it in almost every conversation "Do you know anyone that might be interested in playing women's soccer?" West Bubblefuck has a really great culture of sport - a thriving netball comp, a really successful basketball comp, hockey, tennis, austag AND touch, indoor mixed soccer, cricket and netball... West Bubblefuck women play a number of sports, and tend to keep playing them until their bodies betray them. As mine may well currently be doing.

Yes I have been getting my competitive kicks with the Flames on the baskeball court for a little over a year. But this has led to various joints of mine deciding they will no longer operate at 100%.

Betrayal.

But I have loved the round ball game dearly for over 15 years, and it is where  my sporting heart truly lies. Despite the fact that Sparky despises the game in an unworldly kind of way. So when I managed to get 7 ladies together, I contacted a club and poached a few more players, helped to coordinate a SECOND team and became a part of a women's football comp in my backwards town.

But then of course, not everyone could make it this week.

I showed up with 3 other girls, hoping desperately for some juniors to help us out. We found one. And then sneakily poached one of the keepers from our opposition.

Since I dinged my shoulder a month ago, I haven't graced the basketball court. I haven't been to body balance, or to the gym at all. I may have walked the dog a few times, but nothing that was really strenuous. Within three minutes of kick off, I was scraping the bottom of my lungs for breath. Turns out, a complete lack of exercise leads to a seriously diminished fitness. Who knew?

Betrayal.

I was delighted to be playing a shortened game. 30 minute halves instead of 45. Six a side instead of 11. Half field. As it was, I was wheezing and doing so much field walking that if I was COACHING me, I would have given myself a total blast at half time. Imagine if I had played the real mccoy? At the end of the hour, I was already aching. My stupid basketballed ankle was moaning, my niggly basketballed shoulder was whining (from the throw ins).

Betrayal.

As I limped to my car, my calves started to seize, and the burn set in to my quads.

Betrayal.

Delayed onset muscle soreness - which the professionals call DOMS, but I like to call Second Day Syndrome - will ensure that tomorrow I will be tight and achy. And even worse on Monday I will find it difficult to walk.

Betrayal once more.
But despite the fact that my body is kicking me back, and despite the fact that my team went down 6-0, and despite the fact that half a dozen dudes from The Boy Factory sat on the side line as a witness to my defeat (against the team in black and white, and against my body) setting my humliation up for further discussion over the course of the week, I had such a brilliant time.

I just hope I can get my body to work with me a little better next week. The South West Bubblefuck Womens Green Machine has started its epic journey and I hope it is long and fruitful and rich in great football.

2010 - The year that was

This has been a pretty roller-coaster kind of year. In the style of ACA, lets have a look, shall we?

January - 2 weddings in the sun, and a few weeks in Bondi. My relationship with Sparky was just new, and exciting and full of promise. The Festival, otherwise known as the West Bubblefuck Country Music Festival was full of dancefloor fun, and far too many bottles of Pure Blonde to be healthy. The Basics, Bob Evans and The Bushwhackers were highlights. The lack of school for the month was also a sparkling gem. Won the Guess the Hottest 100 comp at Sparky's Hottest 100 party. Competitive? Moi?

February - Possibly worked the hardest in this month. New Year 7s asking fifteen bajillion questions, and constant supervision, distraction and conversation for Boys away from Home, finding their feet at The Factory. Got incredibly sick in Week 4, followed by year 7 camp in Week 5. Tried to compete in Oscarsfest, but failed rather dismally (still blaming West Bubblefuck cinema for being so crap). Joined a basketball team, The Flames, in C grade of the West Bubblefuck Basketball comp, kind of made me feel like a local?

March - Slightly less manic than the first half of the term. Got my PERMANENT JOB!! Feeling very validated and grown up, and a little bit like all my hard work had paid off. Bought my couch, my first piece of proper real grown up furniture. Took an hour and a half for the delivery guys to get it into my lounge room. Neglected to tell them that I had negotiated for free delivery... The start of my beloved Couch Time. Cruised on in to Easter. The start of football try outs, the debating team kick off - or the Boy Factory First IV. Won most of the games with The Flames.

April - Turned 30. Felt exceptionally good about it. All grown up (new permanent job), all loved up, and all liquored up. Fantastic party at The Coast House, with a dozen or so of my closest friends converging for a BBQ and prawns, and a few frosty beverages. The night before party of curry, carrot cake and 30 year old port was also a blast. Sprained my ankle with The Flames - changed direction without telling my feet I was going to do so. Trip 1 to Melbourne for The Comedy Festival, slightly more hobbly than wandery due to ankle injury.

May - Slightly swamped at The Factory again. So much so that I have little memory of May at all. A weekend in Sydney. More basketball, more Sparky time, more Couchtime. The Mighty U14s kicked into gear and started playing like a team of teammates, which is just what a Supercoach wants. Games of local rugby in the freezing cold

June - The World Cup, and the ensuing sleep deprivation that goes along with it. A lot of bandwagon jumpers to the round ball game, and overnight experts in team configeration. Henry broke down in the drive thru of Oporto. The Flames won the C grade basketball grand final, but I damaged my rotator cuff in the semis.

July - More delicious school holidays. A trip to Sydney to celebrate the success/birthday/bon voyage of good friends. Read the Chaos Walking trilogy, and excellent book decision. Became addicted to MasterChef, despite my own desire not to. The Flames were promoted to B Grade, but I wasn't playing due to my body falling apart. More football Supercoaching, more rugby games.

August - Got to see my favourite Shakespeare play performed by my favourite Shakespeare company playing at the West Bubblefuck theatre - and love it. Got flooded in at The Boy Factory as the drought of the past 10 years decided to break with great vengance. More football. Started a list of 100 things that make me smile. Finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy, and wished it was more than 3 books, a la Douglas Adams.

September - Supervised 2 dances in one week. No-one busted drinking on my watch. Saw my cousin get married, and nearly cried making a speech. Finished writing the list of 100 things that make me smile (100 is a big number! It took some time!). Got to hang out with The B team. Made a return to the court with The Flames, but tentatively - fitness an issue, and plagued by injuries. Mighty U14s narrowly lost GF, 1-0. A sad but proud Supercoach, here. Powderfinger, superb  Aussie band, started their farewell tour, including a brilliant night in West Bubblefuck, despite what the cynical locals say. Brought to tears by Bernard and the boys. Drowned a little in report writing. End of Term 3 insanity with Year 12, including the Annual Staff v Students Soccer Match and the Formal. Big month.

October - Marking marking marking of Year 10 trial exams. Sheesh. Almost total holiday wastage. Brilliant few days for Trip 2 to Melbourne with Little Red, with the excuse of seeing Tim Burton's exhibition at the ACMI. 80s dress up party for by boss' 40th. I looked AWESOME as Dana from Ghostbusters. Year 11 Leadership Camp. More report writing.

November - Not one single blogpost. Drowning in report writing. HP7 came out. Road trip with The O Team to see the Ultimate Powderfinger concert in Brisbane. Informed that I would FINALLY be teaching a DRAMA CLASS in '11, tres excitement. Quick trip to Sydney under the guise of learning to be an English teacher. Also a brilliant excuse for tax deductable flights to a Mad Men party - the birthdays of several excellent friends. Took Year 7 camping - like PROPER camping, in tents and stuff - by the side of the river.

December - River we were camping beside flooded, camp moved at midnight on day 2 and evacuated on day 3. High stress situation. Grandfather died. Took year 7 on tour to Dubbo, which was flooded. Sparky's mum died. Got close enough to a giraffe to touch it (but didn't because it was against the rules) but patted a wombat. Came home from Dubbo early due to flooding/weather. Fardy's funeral. Family friend died. Sparky's mum's funeral. Wagged presentation day. Family friend's funeral. One year anniversary understandibly ignored/forgotten. Well earned holidays. Caught up with friends who flitted home from OS, including engagement party. Enormous Christmas with Paternal Tribe. New Year's Eve long weekend with burgeoning Chosen West Bubblefuck Tribe.

And now I am here.

Supercoach: The Road to The Finals

As I have bemoaned before, The Mighty U14s haven't really been up to scratch since Round 1. The first game we played reflected the pre-season training. Trust. Passing. Space. Talk. The 4 cornerstones of my coaching rants.

This week was do or die. And other such sporting cliches. After 2 weeks of nursing injuries (a fight with a bathroom sink for the skipper, a fractured footbone for the right back) and illnesses, thanks to The Boy Factory Plague, and wet weather and exams affecting our training schedule,  we have been receiving results that reflected our complete lack of fitness and confidence.

And with The Green Machine trouncing us 2 weeks in a row, they have been nipping at our heels, closing our healthy gap of 9 points down to 1 point. With West Bubblefuck Football Association (rant about them to be found here) have canned the usual semi-finals season, due to so many wet weather weekends, a second place finish is essential.

So this weekend we faced Top of The Table. We have been comprehensively beaten by them before. We've also given them a touch up once, and then drawn in another game. One might say - specifically, my striker - we're pretty evenly matched.

Coming in to the match, there were nerves. A few golden rev up speeches by myself and my sidekick-supercoach.

For 80% of the game, they played like warriors. Focused. Energetic. With sharing and talking and teamwork. There was a moment in time that I turned to my sidekick and said "They're asleep. They've switched off." And within 20 seconds, Top of The Table had scored the softest goal I have ever seen. The backline were caught napping, and a not-that-hard ball was put through past the too-far-forward keeper. It barely rolled against the upright before dribbling across the line. My boys had their heads down, and at half time, we were down 1-0. At one point, I actually saw stars. A little too much shouting, and not quite enough inhaling.

More rev up speeches about intensity at half time. Sidekick got a little loose with some profanities, and lied to say that The Green Machine were up 1-0 in the game on the other side of the park, in an attempt to put some fire in their bellies. The striker tried to have a gripe about the sloppy defence, which may have been warranted. But I hit back with the instruction that the front line needed to share with each other more.

Onto the field again, a little more hungry for the ball. A soft call of being pushed over at the top of the box led to a beautiful penalty that was near impossible to save. And then we're down 2-0.

But as if from nowhere, desperation became hunger, which was converted into 2 quick goals.

2-2 at the whistle!!!

And The Green Machine drew with Bottom of the Ladder!!

At this stage, we're in the final. Sure there is the small matter that we have played 3 games less than all the other teams in the comp, but I really don't see how that can be recitified by next Saturday. Just like Mr Shue in Glee, I feel like I have pushed my team all the way to Regionals. Except we're not going to do a Journey medley.

Supercoach Strikes!

Previously on TMM, I have proclaimed my desire for coaching success. Living up to the self-given moniker of Supercoach has been somewhat eluding me this year. Despite a tea,mlist that on  paper looks tighter and more skilled than last year, the Mighty U14s were not really living up to their name either.

The West Bubblefuck Soccer Fraternity have also been conspiring against me, penalising me three points for fielding an unregistered player. Named Connor McKillop. Who the hell is Connor McKillop, you may ask...? As do I. I have never met nor heard of anyone of this name. Let alone written his name on my team card. And I said as much to the President of the West Bubblefuck Soccer Association, in an email. Funny thing when the Pres is running for election as a local member, seems very willing to be of prompt assistance in such matters. And three points were reinstated. Victory tasted pretty sweet.

And then today...

There is a fair amount of daylight between us and first place. And not a a whole lot of room behind us to third. So playing #1 today was going to be a pretty big deal.

The Supercoach pre-game speech was about confidence. About not worrying about what we DON'T have today. A striker away at City To Surf. A star midfielder not shown up at all - only to turn up three minutes before kick off with a raging case of tonsillitis. A sweeper wearing borrowed boots because he left them on the bench at home (honestly, who does that??!?). But rather, thinking about what we DO have. Good teamwork, high skill and pace. Rep quality players. Last time we played top of the table, we choked. Sure, we didn't lose (score 1-1) but the boys (and girls) in maroon had only 9 players on the park. I reminded the M.U14s that we play best when we think we can win.

The first 25 minutes, they played with mighty effort. They moved the ball around, they called, they passed, they peppered the goal. But in the last 5 minutes, they began to think that their efforts were wasted. They stood flat on their heels, waited too long to receive passes, too many touches before getting the ball away. It was infuriating to see.

Half time was a blessed relief, as the Nemesis Team began their counter attack. My Supercoach sidekick took the reins in the half-time speech. All about increasing the energy in the centres, and lifting the midfield. I spoke about intensity and energy and hunger. The boys had some more specific things to say about using some more physicality in the tackles and setting up through balls.

My boys in green and gold started the second half valiantly. Weight in their toes, lots of communication. Great passing, good trust.

And a very tidy little goal about midway through the second half.

They didn't suffer their usual over-confident counter-attack after their goal this week. They kept tight, kept together, kept the intensity. One striker rolled his ankle right in front of their goal. My sweeper got his calf kicked, right behind his enormous shin pads.

But my rookie defensive midfielder made his very first non-foul free throw. And my never-played-a-team-sport-before everywhere man put some beautiful passes through, with some accuracy and power. The superskilled trusted the kids with less experience. They talked and ran and dived and tackled and the keeper did some beautiful saves.

I came home a Supercoach. I have had this warm feeling in my belly, that only beating the top of the table can give.

And is if by some divine intervention by the deities of Disney, or some fantastical coincidence, D2: Mighty Ducks is on Channel 7 this afternoon. Coach Gordon Bombay, such an inspiration!

The quest for an 'S' on my chest

Amidst the Football Fever that has taken over the world (not just the town, or the state, or the country... as OTHER football fevers (note:lower case) have done before), the Mighty U14s took to the park today for the first time in a month. And while I have enjoyed my Saturday mornings to myself, I have missed them playing. Have missed barking instructions from a sideline, and have missed getting to the end of a fairly fruitless hour, full of adrenaline and frustration.

Unfortunately, there are only 4 teams in our division this year. Which means there is only 3 weeks in each round, and we revisit the same faces quite frequently. Again, contributing to the frustration.

And when one of my midfield rep-player stars has a heel injury that we are waiting to heal (that would be the 5th time I have made that lame joke... but the first time I have made that one), and when my stopper injured his back last night at rugby, and my sweeper's thumb is being "gay" (I am interpreting this as "not straight", for fear of launching in to another lecture), and one of my strikers got belted square in the eye by a now suspended Year 10 thug... We weren't fielding a team running at full strength. And ended up drawing 2-2, when on paper we really should have run away with it.

Interestingly, both teams seem to have been watching plenty of SBS. So much diving and tumbling, and even a little bit of too-far-up-the-field offside-traps reminiscent of Lucas Neill. An ex-Mighty U13 player even got a yellow card. Good to see the boys are as inspired as I am by the World Cup.

Last year, we started weak, and the Mighty U13s built and grew over the season to finish 3rd on the ladder. This year, we started really strong. Our first cut was the deepest. And since then, we have hardly scratched the surface.

I quite like to refer to my sidekick and myself as Supercoaches. But I fear this title is not deserved at this stage...

Round Ball Fever

The Boy Factory is not usually a hospitible place for The World Game. The round ball has been booted for many more centuries than that weird egg shaped one. There are millions more players of soccer, billions more viewers and supporters. There is more money in the salaries and sponsorships than any other sport (though golf has the biggest prize money). And the World Cup Finals are the Biggest Sporting Event in the world.

And I love it.

Last World Cup, with Guus, and Viduka, and the new A League, Australia was on a football upswing. Things were good. Unreasonably good, really. We were punching well above our weight and made it through some very lucky games. I have hope, and I have belief in the Socceroos, but I would never profess to having a depth of confidence in them. I mean we got really lucky, but we are really not a footballing nation. Rugby? Yes. League? One of the few. AFL? The only (though Gaellic is similar...). Cricket? Carve it up. Speed skating...? Well, our Socceroos are a little like Steve Bradbury.

George Negus, self confessed football tragic, describes us as a bit like a third world country when it comes to development in football. As our focus is split between codes and sports, our athletic talents are divided and conquered. Hence the long times between trips to the World Cup Finals waterhole.

The Socceroos tragic opening this year was very tricky to watch. What with the sandpaper lining my eyelids at 4am, it wasn't just the emotional impact of watching the boys in blue (and NOT green and gold???!?!? What is WITH that??!?!?) impale themselves on their own mediocrity. Germany really are a superb team. With their crisp white uniforms (a little too white, perhaps?) and brilliant ball skills. And a vast depth of experience playing as a team.

I was bitterly disappointed in the way that Lucas Neill's boys played. There was no trust. There was no passing. There was great gaping corridors opening up in the back line. I was almost surprised the Aussies weren't laying down strip lighting so the Germans could see their way towards the goal a little better. There were so so many failed offside traps. There was so much backchat to the ref.

And then there was the ref dishing out cards to all and sundry for the minorest of taps and slides. Timmy Cahill was sent packing on a red for a nothing tackle based more on momentum than malice. The tiny ex-Samoan really holds the hopes of the nation on his fairly low-to-the-ground shoulders (hey! look at the judgement from the tall girl!!.... he is probably about my height...) and with the red, Cahill was promised a few extra days holiday.

And of course there is the coach blame. Verbeek actually didn't field a striker til about 3/4 the way through. Cahill was playing up front, but he is a midfielder...? There was no towering Josh Kennedy... and Kewell (also a midfielder) was decidedly noticable in his absence from the field.

The Mighty Under 14s have the benefit of my watchful yet inexperienced coaching eye each Saturday morning. They hear my ladylike bellow from the sideline; encouraging, cajoling, instructing. Dramatically falling over when breakaways miss the goal mouth. Biting my fist when the ball sneaks behind our backline. And each week we talk about trust. We talk about passing. We talk about filling the gaps, about letting each other run out, about picking up the slack behind each other. They still need me to talk about the importance of shooting - you can't score if you don't shoot (the same advice applies for chasing tail, too).

On Saturday morning, if my boys play like the Socceroos did, they will be seriously punished at training next week.