THE COACH
Whoever you might support, it’s more than likely that you’ve seen something like this unfold. It was written with a nod to that great old song ‘The Windmills of Your Mind.’
It begins in late November with the fresh young raw recruits
And discussions with old has-beens ’bout hanging up the boots
Ruthlessly you weed out the loafers and the lairs
As a coach with ambition and a suite of new ideas
You see a youthful champion but he’s still a little green
He’s handy, a big unit and he’s good below the knees
So the months of summer training are exhausting and intense
Like your efforts to explain how much is one per cent
A background irritation is your dealing with the press
They hunger for bland comments on your chances of success
They bother you with queries ‘bout how you’ll structure up
But won’t want to know when you’re struggling, in a slump
All the things so intertwined…within a coach’s mind
Then the slow disintegration of a hollow hopeless dream
A loss of form, you’re losing games and crippling injuries
‘Coach my shoulder’s buggered, I don’t think that I can play’
You have to blood a youngster off the bench this Saturday
Like the questions without answers that remain eternally
Like the microscopic fragments floating in your full back’s knee
Where’s the inside 50s, the traffic’s all one way
You mumble in press conferences, the fans they drift away
The circles within circles how your midfield covers ground
With endless chains of handball the pill goes round and round
Like a vivid apparition in a startling midnight dream
You see the gaping holes in your defensive strategy
All the threads that may unwind…inside the coach’s mind
Like a spiralling torpedo evades your ruckman’s hands
At game’s end you deftly dodge projectiles from the stands
The season is derailing, the finals out of reach
The senior group’s a shambles they’ve lost all self-belief
The players now despise you and leak stories to the press
You know the axe is coming, so to end this awful mess
All the doubts that you will find…inside the coach’s mind
You ask more of the players but receive stunned mullet stares
Your half time pep talk met with sniggering and ‘Who cares?’
The fans have lost the faith and the empty stands are mute
This tragic sorry saga has borne a bitter fruit
Torn and tattered memberships are drifting through the air
The leaden sky, flat and grey like the colour of your hair
And finally it’s all over, where did your hopes all go
What’s left’s a crumbling shell of a man grunting…
“Yeah…yeah…no.”
Read more from Philip Peel (Reject Phil) HERE
To return to our Footy Almanac home page click HERE.
Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.
Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help things keep ticking over please consider making your own contribution.
Become an Almanac (annual) member – click HERE.
Leave a Comment