My heart sank the first time I stood on the sideline of my 9-year-old son’s soccer practice in Costa Rica. Liam’s teammates ran circles around him. His little brother Reid was off the hook — at 6, he was too young for this Costa Rican team — and he gripped my hand on the sideline, reminding me at three-minute intervals that he would never play soccer in Central America. We watched as Liam nervously linked his arms behind his back and ducked every time the ball bounced near him.
For years, I had coached my kids’ recreation league soccer teams in Maine, but we are living in Costa Rica for the academic year. I felt sorry for my kid, but I was also perplexed: this team only practiced once a week; the kids would play four games over the course of the year, at best; and nothing about the coaching wowed me.
In Maine, I showed up at practices with notes detailing YouTube-researched drills: “Okay, kids, you’re minnows and I’m a shark and you try to dribble the ball away from me.” But even with predator-prey narratives, I had to change drills frequently to hold their fleeting attention.
And, yet, here was this Costa Rican soccer coach having the kids do the same monotonous drill — kicking the ball against the side of a balance beam and then shooting it into the goal — for 45 minutes, until they were exhausted, and likely bored, though they didn’t dare show it. This coach knew how to yell.