Football here gets played only in winter. My son was initially shocked and massively disappointed. Australians play cricket in summer because it doesn’t matter much if everyone stands around for hours. Better for handling the heat.
But even winter football works differently here. There’s “Community Football” and a “Skills Acquisition Programme” (SAP). Want to train more than once a week, to play “proper” football? That’ll be over $1,000 for half a year (about 600 euros). Our son played SAP in the first year. We didn’t know any better.
The club wanted to instill more game intelligence in the SAP players. The boys should be able to find their own solutions to difficult match situations by season’s end. Refreshing idea, so we went for it.
Self-organised football
Instead of coaching the kids into the ground, they should become a self-organising bunch. Good approach, I thought. Somehow quite “agile”, wonderfully self-determined. But what sounded so promising turned out to be a spectacular failure.
Because the other teams in the league had a competing philosophy. Simplified: “We want to win, no matter how.”
According to SAP rules, won or lost games weren’t supposed to count. But try telling that to eleven-year-old boys. While other teams were loudly directed, our boys stood around rather disorganised — and sometimes got chased off the pitch by double digits. Our coach watched this quite calmly but never intervened.
Remarkable. Probably a Stoic.
Sprint retrospectives at half-time
At half-time, the coach asked the boys: “How did it go — and what do you want to do better in the second half?” (a kind of “sprint retrospective”, if you will). The players said something. And the coach: “Okay, then try if it works that way.”
Same ritual with the same questions after the match. In the coach’s eyes, the result wasn’t important. Instead, he genuinely praised the team’s efforts and agility with concrete examples. I found this very impressive.
But the boys became less impressed and more discouraged with each lost game.
Great concept, but why didn’t it work as intended?
The structures and game understanding were missing: Often the boys literally stood on each other’s feet during games. They hadn’t learned to use space in training. Without (free) space, self-organising and improvising is naturally difficult.
There was no talking on the pitch, no leader: The kids were supposed to sort themselves out (which isn’t always easy for eleven-year-olds when parents give clear instructions all day, often repeatedly). This only works in a team if everyone constantly communicates. Instead: silence. Nobody ever shouted: “Hey, pass the ball here and we’ll play two one-twos to the goal…” There was also no leader who loudly motivated the team (“Boys, they always play on one side, let’s try it on the other side”). No friction, no fire.
Everyone only looked at their own ball: Until the end of the season, the team never managed to play as a unit. Whoever had the ball tried to dribble forward. Pass the ball? Overrated. I often wondered why the boys didn’t look left and right but just ran forward with the ball like rugby players. Must be in the Australian DNA, I thought.
After the season I understood: The kids get a “report card” with grades and an assessment at season’s end (so much for the sanctimonious “But we don’t count goals, wins and losses”). Then the kids have to reapply for the club’s SAP programme through “trials”. This means: The players saw themselves only as individual fighters who might be at another club next year. During the season they play for the attention of parents and coaches from opposing, better teams.
Eleven-year-olds as calculating mercenaries? Come off it. They should just have fun playing. Nothing more!
The others didn’t stick to the rules: The opposing teams wanted to win by all (robust) means. The opposing coach actively coached. Our boys had no chance against the finely choreographed plays of opponents drilled in training. It would have been interesting if everyone had stuck to the “No Coaching” rule. But apparently the clubs couldn’t agree.
What do you do in such a situation? Also coach actively or keep hands off? I find it admirable that the chief Stoic stayed true to his line. Some of the particularly ambitious parents on the sideline (“My son’s going to Manchester when he’s 16”) found that less convincing. Whatever, they’re at another club now anyway.
What can we learn from this in the business world?
Now comes my deep stretch into the business world. Because the football-SAP experiences are also valuable for business:
- Who wants to be agile and flexible must know exactly what they’re doing and why (game intelligence). Without experience it gets difficult.
- Without communication within the team, you lose every game (open, transparent communication).
- Who doesn’t give agile teams much time and trust should perhaps leave it alone (courage for changes and persistence).
- Who can’t cope with freedom and responsibility perhaps needs support, for example subtle coaching (enabling employees).
- The game must be fun. And the project too. The coach should at least take care of that (clear expectation management and celebrating successes).
My son now plays Community Football — also hoping the boys there will stay together as a team for many years. He’s finally having fun with football again.
And that’s what it’s ultimately about.
This started life in German on reinergaertner.de, my blog since 1997. The English version was AI-assisted. My German-trained eyes may have missed a few things along the way. She’ll be right.