Denver, Colorado

So I am taking this “soccer” coaching course in Denver, Colorado.

It’s a fucking nightmare.

For a start I have to share a room with some dude who snores. The last time I shared a room with another man was when I was 12 and that was with my brother. My brother probably wanted privacy so that he could wank in peace. I did notice that he started watching films like “The Bitch” starring Joan Collins once he had his own room.

The bloke in my room probably hates me being in that room, just I as much as I hate him being there. He probably can’t wait to get back to wherever he came from – probably some suburban hole outside Kansas inhabited by soccer moms – and sleep in his own bed – because I certainly do. The room itself is very basic. My bed is a mattress with a pillow that was donated by the local hospital. The walls are yellow and plain. The room stinks of sweaty socks and soccer boots but you can’t open the window for security reasons.

The course itself is ridiculous. Let’s deal with what is being taught: Systems of play, phase play, shadowing, functional play – it’s the Pythagorean Theorem “soccer” meets mathematics formulas – and I say Fuck Off. But unfortunately I am surrounded by these English and American “soccer” coaches who practically suck this shit down their throats. God they think they’re something special. Let’s get a really check on these wank fucks.

1. You coach an under 12 girls team in Nothingville, PA.
2. You’re an Assistant coach at a Mickey Mouse Never Heard Of It College in the place where the “Children of the Corn” was filmed.
3. You will never coach a professional team – College teams don’t count pal.

Every morning I wake up with my room mate in a college dorm or house or bungalow or should I say prison cell at 6:30. I get up first and don’t bother looking at my room mate for obvious reasons. I then walk across this Two-Bob-Bit University campus that not even the people of Denver have heard of to get breakfast. I am still wearing my jeans and jacket from the night before because I sleep in them every night – my room is cold as fuck. By this stage of the day I am a zombie. I need a piss, my hair looks like it’s been microwaved and my clothes look like a crumpled up newspaper.

I hate walking across campus because I know that I am going to bump into some fuck on my course who is has showered, is wearing his black Adidas track suit, a backpack with all of his notes and some snide Adidas sandals. This Mother F will eat breakfast and digest his “coaching in the game” notes while I will struggle to find my pass that will allow me in the cafeteria – only to realize that I left it back in my hell hole smelly, cold, room.

The food here is crap. Seven Eleven serves up a better breakfast. So missing breakfast is not a bad thing. Still I get back to my room. The bathroom is occupied with some toss taking a dump. It smells out the whole house. I therefore decide to get changed into my “coaching” gear and go to my first lecture which starts at a ridiculously early time. Who decides to have a lecture at 7.30 am?

The clowns that run US Soccer do, that’s who.

Get me out of here – I am a Gooner.

Later.

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