Shouts of cheer ringing
Shouts of cheer ringing
Warm sun broken by drizzle
Clouds of frustration
Sunday, the fifth of July, will be a day I hope never to repeat.
Not because it was a particularly horrible day. It was simply a frustrating one.
The morning was a little manic as we all got up and put the finishing touches together before leaving for Bullocksteads Sports Ground, where Max's Sunday team were taking part in a football tournament.
The tournament's name isn't important to the story, but the frustration began with the surprise of a £4 per player entry fee after we'd already paid £65 to enter the tournament. That resulted in an additional £52, which I'm still trying to reclaim from the parents of the players who attended. It's another frustration, but I know they'll eventually pay me back.
The venue itself is great. Sadly, it wasn't equipped to handle such a large number of people. Parking was limited, and it was busy. We did manage to find a space in an unofficial overflow area and, on the plus side, we ended up right next to the pitch where we were scheduled to play.
Max's team—the one I help coach—were placed in a group with five other teams. All of them should have been mid- to lower-league sides in the NFA Under-13 (2025/26 season). Based on our league campaign, where we finished second with only four defeats and conceded just sixteen goals, we expected to be competitive throughout the tournament.
Sadly, something just didn't click with the lads that day.
Was it the long break since the season ended that disrupted their rhythm? Was it the absence of a few players, leaving us with only one substitute, who unfortunately picked up an injury and left us with no substitutes for the final game?
Whatever the reason, we lost every match and failed to score a single goal.
The first couple of games were close, with only narrow defeats, but by the final whistle of the last match, the scorelines had become much heavier.
The most frustrating part wasn't the defeats themselves. It wasn't the constant uphill battle to keep the lads motivated. It wasn't even watching a team perform below the level we all knew they were capable of.
It was something much more personal.
In the final game, I watched Max give up. He barely chased the ball and seemed to accept defeat long before the final whistle. I tried hard to encourage him and offer positive reinforcement, but none of it seemed to get through.
I could see he knew, just as much as I did, that our chances of winning had all but disappeared.
I understand that feeling. Football can be cruel like that.
But as coaches, we've always tried to instil one message above everything else: keep fighting until the very end.
That was my biggest disappointment of the day.
Not the weather, which couldn't decide between warm sunshine and passing drizzle.
Not hearing cheers erupt from neighbouring pitches while we continued to struggle.
It was watching Max become completely deflated.
The car journey home was long and quiet. We didn't really talk about the day—or that final game—until we got home.
To his credit, Max admitted he wasn't proud of how he'd finished the tournament. He knew he should have kept going, even when the result felt inevitable.
That honesty meant a lot to me.
So we move forward.
Lessons have been learned. We process what happened, we regroup, and next time, we go again.
