southerncross
12-04-2007, 05:24 AM
All grown up
(http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/all-grown-up/2007/04/11/1175971180422.html)
Robert Murphy
WHEN I was a wee lad growing up, it seemed that apart from sleeping and eating all I was ever doing was competing in some sort of sporting event, be it football, tennis or cricket. All my memories from this time are the ones you cherish and have a real Wonder Years feel to them.
These blissful childhood memories have failed to acknowledge losing — at least the pain of losing anyway. I know I suffered some defeats in junior sport … didn't I? I certainly recall a heavy 10-0 defeat in only my second appearance for Warragul United Soccer Club. It was to be my last appearance in the shin guards, although I don't think I stopped playing due to the pain of defeat … In fact, as I recall my teammates and I slid down the muddy banks of the soccer ground on our bellies at game's end, apparently oblivious to the fact the opposing team were enjoying the spoils of victory.
Fast-forward 12 years and defeat brings with it a whole new feel. Gone are the mud slides (rightly or wrongly), and in their place are team meetings, sleepless nights, anxiety and in-depth analysis. In this age of professional sport, when you put so much time, effort and passion into one thing and fall well short on the big stage, deflation will follow.
My team's loss on the weekend was quite severe, and the feeling in the rooms afterwards was closer to that of a funeral than a football game. The post-match address from our coach just confirmed our poor showing, and as my teammates and I trudged towards our cars to go home, we knew there was a bit more pain to endure before next weekend's game.
Monday morning starts with the ocean swim to get rid of the sore spots. It's funny how after a loss the water seems to drop a few degrees, and how your Speedos seem minuscule as you go to put them on in front of the TV crews huddled on the beach.
The team review meeting scheduled for later that morning looms as a possible triple root canal. The meeting is spirited and home truths fly. It is a necessary evil, and while it is a tense half hour you can feel the mood of the whole club lift. By the time we leave the meeting room we all have a bounce back in our step and it feels like a weight has been lifted off our collective backs.
The next day also begins with a dip in the sea, this time at Williamstown instead of Port Melbourne. The water, while still freezing, seems to have warmed a degree or two. Some players believe this to be due to a geographical change from one beach to another. Others believe the water is warmer because the review meeting is not only over, but also that it was positive and their bodies have responded accordingly. Or it could be global warming. It's hard to know.
fter pacing up and down the beach, a few of us dive under and the ice hits our lungs. It's invigorating. It almost feels as though we are washing away our sins from the weekend's game. It was Easter, after all, and it seems we have now risen.
Thankfully, after a pretty miserable couple of days the sun has come up, and we can finally move on to more pressing matters. The coaching staff is in full swing for our next opponent. Theories and tactics are given to players to pore over. This got me thinking about the tactics and strategies I was receiving 12 years ago.
Most young boys starting out in the game will be heavily influenced by their fathers. Advice is passed on much like our coaches do now; obviously Rodney Eade's instructions are somewhat more sophisticated than what Dad was passing onto me, but you get the picture.
I loved junior football. I loved the unpredictability of the game even then. My home town Warragul is surrounded by a dozen or so smaller towns, all surrounded by rolling green hills. And so on Saturday mornings there was always a short drive to the game.
I'd ride up the front with my dad. My knees would bounce with excitement for the whole trip. Every week he'd have the same advice: "Kick with both feet and hold onto your chest marks." Sound advice. I think Dad must have known not to overburden me with too much theory. My school reports alone would have helped him make that judgement.
The game has changed so much, and losing has taken on a whole new face. But as I drive to the game by myself this week I'll still hear my dad's words in my head: "Kick with both feet and hold onto your chest marks." Will do, Dad. Thanks, mate.
Robert Murphy's column appears every Thursday.
(http://www.realfooty.com.au/news/news/all-grown-up/2007/04/11/1175971180422.html)
Robert Murphy
WHEN I was a wee lad growing up, it seemed that apart from sleeping and eating all I was ever doing was competing in some sort of sporting event, be it football, tennis or cricket. All my memories from this time are the ones you cherish and have a real Wonder Years feel to them.
These blissful childhood memories have failed to acknowledge losing — at least the pain of losing anyway. I know I suffered some defeats in junior sport … didn't I? I certainly recall a heavy 10-0 defeat in only my second appearance for Warragul United Soccer Club. It was to be my last appearance in the shin guards, although I don't think I stopped playing due to the pain of defeat … In fact, as I recall my teammates and I slid down the muddy banks of the soccer ground on our bellies at game's end, apparently oblivious to the fact the opposing team were enjoying the spoils of victory.
Fast-forward 12 years and defeat brings with it a whole new feel. Gone are the mud slides (rightly or wrongly), and in their place are team meetings, sleepless nights, anxiety and in-depth analysis. In this age of professional sport, when you put so much time, effort and passion into one thing and fall well short on the big stage, deflation will follow.
My team's loss on the weekend was quite severe, and the feeling in the rooms afterwards was closer to that of a funeral than a football game. The post-match address from our coach just confirmed our poor showing, and as my teammates and I trudged towards our cars to go home, we knew there was a bit more pain to endure before next weekend's game.
Monday morning starts with the ocean swim to get rid of the sore spots. It's funny how after a loss the water seems to drop a few degrees, and how your Speedos seem minuscule as you go to put them on in front of the TV crews huddled on the beach.
The team review meeting scheduled for later that morning looms as a possible triple root canal. The meeting is spirited and home truths fly. It is a necessary evil, and while it is a tense half hour you can feel the mood of the whole club lift. By the time we leave the meeting room we all have a bounce back in our step and it feels like a weight has been lifted off our collective backs.
The next day also begins with a dip in the sea, this time at Williamstown instead of Port Melbourne. The water, while still freezing, seems to have warmed a degree or two. Some players believe this to be due to a geographical change from one beach to another. Others believe the water is warmer because the review meeting is not only over, but also that it was positive and their bodies have responded accordingly. Or it could be global warming. It's hard to know.
fter pacing up and down the beach, a few of us dive under and the ice hits our lungs. It's invigorating. It almost feels as though we are washing away our sins from the weekend's game. It was Easter, after all, and it seems we have now risen.
Thankfully, after a pretty miserable couple of days the sun has come up, and we can finally move on to more pressing matters. The coaching staff is in full swing for our next opponent. Theories and tactics are given to players to pore over. This got me thinking about the tactics and strategies I was receiving 12 years ago.
Most young boys starting out in the game will be heavily influenced by their fathers. Advice is passed on much like our coaches do now; obviously Rodney Eade's instructions are somewhat more sophisticated than what Dad was passing onto me, but you get the picture.
I loved junior football. I loved the unpredictability of the game even then. My home town Warragul is surrounded by a dozen or so smaller towns, all surrounded by rolling green hills. And so on Saturday mornings there was always a short drive to the game.
I'd ride up the front with my dad. My knees would bounce with excitement for the whole trip. Every week he'd have the same advice: "Kick with both feet and hold onto your chest marks." Sound advice. I think Dad must have known not to overburden me with too much theory. My school reports alone would have helped him make that judgement.
The game has changed so much, and losing has taken on a whole new face. But as I drive to the game by myself this week I'll still hear my dad's words in my head: "Kick with both feet and hold onto your chest marks." Will do, Dad. Thanks, mate.
Robert Murphy's column appears every Thursday.