The Pressure to Win (at kids' football)

It’s Saturday morning at the football pitch. 10:30 am. The drizzle is just getting everything wet enough to make me shiver underneath my four layers. Instead of lazily drinking two cups of coffee while I read and the kids play (okay, let’s be honest, while they watch TV), I’ve slapped on mascara and rushed everyone to get dressed and eat breakfast, much like on a school day. All for the sake of a kids’ football match.

The thing is, I love watching sport, so I would never (not true – nearly never) complain about another chance to watch a football match, even if it does encroach on my beloved slow weekend morning.  

I’m that parent who, I’m sorry to say, can’t keep their mouth shut, jumping up and down with ‘go, go, go’ when the ball is racing towards the goal, and then crouches in a ball with a deafening ‘noooo’ when it just skims outside of the post. Even though it’s just kids playing for fun, I’ve been transported to Wembley Stadium watching the English Football League championship. It’s that kind of emotion.

But what I absolutely have come to hate about kids’ football is what it brings to the surface in both myself and other people.

Let’s start with how it brings up all my worst competitive qualities.

“Just let them have fun,” goes the phrase everyone says. Yes, I know logically that my children will never become elite footballers. That sport is important for so many reasons other than winning. So really, I should just let them have a bit of fun, a laugh with their friends, a kick around. All about f-u-n.

I hold that narrative in the fun hand, but the other hand, the one that holds the phrase “must win at all costs”, smacks its weight down on the fun hand, completely obliterating it.

“Sport is about winning,” this forceful hand says. Not just sport, all of life. Life is a game that must be won.

This winning hand is the one I typically hold in high esteem. You (I) must win at mothering. You must win at work. You must win at friendship. You must win at house, body, and fashion primping. You also must win at, everything else.

This hand typically wins, clearly, in the battle between having fun and winning.

But over the years, this has been to my detriment when it comes to kids’ sports, especially football. I feel myself putting a pressure on my kids that they don’t deserve to have. I usually catch myself and silence my eager tongue before it does any long-term damage, but then instead of bursting out, my desire for my own children to win eats me up inside. I replay all the ways they could have performed better, how they could have trained more, how they could have avoided that mistake. In my inward mulling, I ignore supplying them with the endless encouragement they need to build confidence.

And what am I teaching them about sport? Not that it’s about having fun, socialising, and learning to work as a team, but that’s about winning. And if they aren’t winning, then what’s the point of playing?

All a bit much? Greetings, you’ve entered my perfectionist, competitive brain. Go hard or go home.

Fortunately, I have clocked this behaviour, with the help of their dad, and am actively trying to squash it for the sake of my impressionable children. On the road to recovery.

The other facets I hate about kids’ football I frustratingly can’t change or control.

There exists, even as far down as 7-year-old football, the A and B teams. The A team consists of the more skilled players. The B team could still be quite good, but its players aren’t at the same level as those in the A team.

I understand the reason for this separation – group the kids together of similar ability levels so that kids are challenged, but not challenged beyond the level they can perform at.

What I can’t fathom is why more attention is given to the A team. Why A team is given preferential treatment when it comes to game time, coaching, and selection.

Then there is favouritism. If you live in a town full of people who know each other, and have known each other for generations, you will find there are outsiders and insiders. Insiders (especially men in football) get the nod on the pitch, outsiders don’t.

Finally, there are the mean boys who happen to be outstanding little footballers. The ones who play really well but aren’t very nice. But they get the glory, because they are the club’s hope of having a child play professionally one day.

I’ll stop there so as not to go into details that would merely be, stirring.

It’s a world (the world of little boys’ football) I’ve entered with hopeful intentions to change. But the thing is, it’s a world that has existed for history (and has given us some exceptional athletes and teams who are absolutely entertaining to watch play). A world where who you know and what you can achieve for the team ultimately wins. As much as I’d like it to be different, I reckon it will stay the same.

All I can do is check myself (which is why I have to actively work to not be so competitive) so that I simply watch the culture without participating in it.  

To see the little boy who shows up for the first time without a clue. To see the little boy who helps a friend up when he trips. To see the little boy laughing in the corner with his friend. To see the pure joy when a little boy manages to get the penalty against all odds. To see a little boy’s face light up when the coach gives a ‘well done’. To see the acceptance of losing without losing heart.

Amid all the things I don’t love about kids’ football, there is so much to love.