So it becomes about development, and maybe that’s okaay?
Ireland got marmalised in the cool wind at Stormont – possibly not the first time this has happened? England, especially the leftie Kemp and the wee dutt Beaumont, battered them, before Cross and Filer cruelly underlined the distance needed to travel. Bat-in-hand, the locals were completely shredded by the pace and guile of the visiting attack.
The whole game was dominated by pace and power – maybe it’s always been that way? Kemp’s dreamy-but-thunderous hitting was visibly different-level. Filer’s raw (but in this instance, kinda wily) rockets similarly marked out this season’s soundbite for us pundits – the ‘point of difference’. Ireland couldn’t cope with the latter and had nothing – have nothing – to approach the former’s languid intensity. Kemp stood and struck – and I do mean struck – a typically entertaining 60-odd. It’s ‘her way’ to look like this is easy… but it was easy, for her.
Interestingly, Beaumont had been scuffling around, compiling what looked to be the worst or least satisfying major knock of her career. When Kemp took charge, it loosened (or freed?) her senior partner up to chip away, reach that milestone and then explode into cartoon character-dom. The opener finished on 150 not out. Kemp had already won the match, dismissing the Irish bowling pretty much at will. Those two were simply better than the women in green.
None of us have any real issue, I suspect, with the fact of Ireland being out-gunned. They look to have only one bowler who is manifestly in the genuinely elite international bowling category – Orla Prendergast. (Or ‘apprenticast/all apprentice/prenographs/oil Apprentice’ as the auto-subtitles thingamejigg fabulously called her, on the otherwise excellent live feed. See my twitter @sportslaureate.co.uk).
Batting-wise, it’s her and maaaybee captain Gaby Lewis and keeper Amy Hunter. Whatever; the detail and/or ‘the record’ could stoke a decent pub chat. There is, however, little or no doubt that we’re talking different strata, here. Beaumont struggled, relatively, then had the class and composure to regather, before assaulting the bowling in the later stages, getting England well beyond 300. The Irish can not get beyond 300: not currently. Not in an international game. *(O-kaaay. Not in an international game against strong opposition).* Which brings us to development.
Rather than bleat about it, let’s look to manage this towards a better day. We all know that England’s vastly superior resources (in terms of dinaros and players) make this a challenge. But it’s also how Ireland, or any other advancing/maturing/progressive or progressing nation gets to stand toe-to-toe. Meaningful games; games against better players; exposure to the scary-but-brilliant.
In practical terms this really might mean England withdrawing batters or bowlers from the contest – either before or during the remaining events. Yes Cross is almost my favourite cricketer but no maybe she doesn’t need to bowl; or play? Beaumont plays to ‘offer much-needed experience’ but is that need greater than that of young player X, who needs to bat? Or more than Ireland need to be able to compete? These ‘risks’ are only risky if your developing players ‘fail’. So coach them and support them… and then let’s see.
‘Course I know some of this is simplistic. There are points at stake and reputations at stake: league tables and salaries and growed-up stuff like that. Weigh things up.
Some of the above is mischief but not this idea that from now on, in this tour, a kind of generosity and understanding needs to be front and centre. What’s the maximum benefit we can all get, here? This is a competitive situation *in brackets*, not a(n entirely) competitive situation. Let’s get real about that but use the remaining edge intelligently to build experience/sharpness/comfort/discomfort/learning in our players. Let’s manage situations so as to maximise development.
Been a while – longer than I realised. And not sure if I’m back or if the mistiness of the grey matter will render this do-able, or not.
Haven’t written about cricket for faaar tooo long. But guess what? Been on a cricket coaching and playing rampage for months. (Maybe I should write about that?) Millfield/Aberystwyth/Shrewsbury/Cathedral School/Gowerton/Llandeilo/Tockington Manor/Llangennech/Crickhowell/Blaina and the rest. Buckinghamshire/Little Stoke (was that Staffordshire?)/Somerset/Gloucester, to play for Wales Old Fellas.
Missed out (and missed) most of the Pembs Seniors action, coz of all the coaching work; the usual madness, just more of it. Heatwaves, some proper exhaustion and crocked calves. Comradeship and disappointment. With the kids, yaknow… development.
How to go there without intruding, though? This may be more personal, more of the person than people imagine. Maybe just stay general. Talk about principles or things learnt rather than What Jonny Did. Maybe I can do that?
Been coaching U10s and U11s. ‘Regional kids’, on a pathway for which their families do have to pay. Have concerns about that and the concentration of activity around certain kinds of venues: the time may come when I am vociferous in this regard but that time is not now.
Now I can celebrate and absolutely unreservedly say that our various crews – been coaching four teams, with my outstanding partner-in-crime – have enjoyed massively, and developed massively. (If that’s a boast, don’t care). And though I do feel a bit head’s-gone and maybe post-energy-slump-tastic just now, my own level of enjoyment has been absurdly fabulous. (Again. Can hardly believe it). Outstanding kids and wonderfully supportive families: almost everybody buying in and letting us coaches do our thing. The Lads rowing that boat and being great company. On and off the pitch. Doing that thing where they try like hell then let go immediately of a battering – too much fun to be had.
Took an U11 side to Shrewsbury School, for an epic five days/four nights of cricket and an U10s side – two, in fact, but was personally responsible for one – to Aberystwyth, for three days/two nights. All this bigger than cricket. All this both a privilege and a pretty profound responsibility. Young lads, some of whom were tearful, come 10pm, at the prospect of mum and dad not being immediately at hand. Opposition that was often much stronger. But still masses of that precious, immediate, innocent commitment – the stuff that builds the team and that feeling that this is good, irrespective of scores, achievements or results.
Sure our team won an incredible, topsy-turvy T20 at Aber, and they were thrilled, meaning *they obviously cared*, but the several defeats either side flew from the collective consciousness a whole lot quicker than the steam train that chugged past. (Young kids can do that, yes? Wipe the slate and get on?) And this is wonderful; to be so undamaged. To go have a laugh, to grab the nearest ball and chuck or kick it, ‘anyway?’ Time enough to get real or rational. We can and did ‘review’ but it doesn’t have to be in the moment of deflation or disappointment. Let’s go jump in the ocean: (we did).
In my experience there are no rules, but ten and eleven year-olds are likely to be able to scoot past ‘failure’ in a way that us Fully-growed-up Humans might do well to recall. Yes they maybe should revisit in order to learn – to develop – but no there’s nothing wrong or inadequate or concerning about the switch back into play or banter. As coaches, we are maybe a bit stuck with the idea that we have to host an instant post-game review (or maybe be seen to host one) but as always this will depend on how present individuals are in that moment. What gives the most value? Have words later, if you intuit that gazes are a bit blank, or players need food or family or freedom. It’s a blessing that the result or the performance isn’t everything, aged ten: let that sense abide, for now.
We Westies often go into fixtures or festivals expecting to be out-gunned by regions who have more and more highly-developed players. Some of this is geography and some of it is privilege and opportunity. Neither of these factors are likely to change(!) so we are left with two broad options: fight like hell or capitulate.
I like to think that we engage option one, but do it with what we might (in foolishly retro language) call a generous or comradely spirit rather than coming over all chopsy and adversarial.
Ah. There may be those at the back of the class here fearing that my insistence on ‘being great company’ as well as bringing top competitive energy necessarily nudges us towards capitulation but no, not for me. I get that this is by nature an adversarial situation and that it may entirely healthily challenge folks’ toughness and resilience – accepted, no issues. But I’m holding out on a kind of faith in sport. Cornier still, I’m gonna say that because I believe the essence of sport is romance (not conflict), there should be a way to compete wholly and powerfully, whilst being a good opponent. Someone who’s good company, even in the heat of all that stuff. It’s possible and I aspire to that – I urge my teams in that direction.
Some may of course think this is naive madness; outdated, outmoded madness. I don’t. I’m a competitive guy but this, for me, is how sport should be understood. Yup – at all levels. Play fair; play to win.
Aberystwyth is a triumph – a word I rarely use, or take care with – every year. A 10s festival, about a hundred young lads (in our case, the girls followed) playing six games of cricket. But also starting their #bantz journey, and their being independent journey, and their eating in a big communal space adventure. Battling (a little, or maaybee a lot) against fear of the ball/fear of the bed/fear of strangeness. Needing and then finding a mate or twelve. Like magic.
But who knew that coaching was so much about getting people comfortable; being nice; being friendly?
Amazing, year after year, to find reinforced that (aged ten/eleven) what’s needed is to be seen; to be encouraged; to be given a chance. Yes we are conscious that *our job* is to develop cricket skills but that bigger picture seems ever clearer. Because these guys are young, because things really do need to be appropriate, we’re confidence-building; we’re in the wider, looser, lovelier business of experience and enjoyment. First imperative? We want these lads/lasses/however they may identify to fall in love with this sport, and (zoom out again, bro’) be ready and inclined towards a life built around activity.
So me and my mad partner-in-crime almost always bowl ten bowlers; almost always rotate the batting order; always know when Jonny or Dafydd ‘needs a bat or a bowl’, or when somebody’s homesick. We’re there, we listen.
Soon as, we muck in and we have a laugh – has to be done. Sometimes, on those ‘residentials’ it’s us that leads the mischief, into the sea, into the arcades. We’re invested in that smiley, woolly stuff as much as the technical gubbins, because this IS bigger than the cricket. The players need, in their individual ways, to feel settled. They need a giggle.
It’s gonna be a glo-o-orious da-a-aay. For me, you and Thom Yorke, probably. But maybe bit conflicted for our friends at the local cricketmob, who have just put back the first two weeks of the season, twenty-four hours before this prolonged blast of windy sunnystuff kicks in. Hey-ho. Funny old game.
Meanwhile, I’m spending all my money on cars – old, unfortunately, not new. Have somehow (albeit medium-temporarily, I hope) dropped into the Struggling Artist category, having forked-out again to indulge another self-published book. Should know better. Have been shocking at this capitalism lark all my freaking life but few things have suddenly conspired and yeh, am back worrying about buying son a pint or whether or not I should go down the caff for a restorative chat with a human, or a coffee. Makes me sad and makes me angry.
But this self-pity will pass; in part because I absolutely know which things have real value; in part because it won’t be long before a wedge of the see-me-through variety lands. Goddabe within a year. Plus cricket and walking and writing kaleidoscopic cobblers will keep me going. I am grounded and tough and hold top-notch CSE’s in living-on-the-cheap and witless defiance.
Still loving coaching on the national pathway. Great kids and overwhelmingly supportive families; outstanding colleagues to coach with or under. First *proper tingles* starting up, after an enjoyable but occasionally frost-bitten winter of indoor nets, as that first selection of the year launches into the Whatsapposphere. Midweek game may even happen, now that the monsoons have abated. Would be fabulous.
The limbs are currently willing, so it’s feasible that I may even play for three different sides, this year: local club, the mighty Pembs Seniors and maaaybee even one of the Wales Oldies representative sides. (Weird and embarrassing truth is some of this may be contingent upon money, as well as the increasing likelihood of mechanical breakdown – whether this be mine or the motor’s). Travel and socials are a wonder of the sporting realm, of course, but both imply expenditure. It may be hard to find or justify – but don’t tell the lads that.
Senior cricket in particular has been every bit as wonderful and daft and enriching and daft as you could ever imagine. Great blokes; good players; just oldish. Ploughing on, for now, under the delusion that the Gods of Happiness and Reward might trump the Get Real, Donkey cohort: it’s nailed-on that pain or pathway coaching will offer a break at some stage.
I don’t agree with everything that happens around our national junior pathway but I quite like the idea of players/families being able to submit video evidence as a sort of pre-trial gambit. (Dislike the word ‘trial’ but there’s no escaping the need to select, as county pathways sharpen towards excellence. Do I need to note that as someone who spent a decade or so as a Community Coach, I get that *opportunities* of a different sort are every bit as important as what the Candidates are doing?) Wee videos, shot by mum or dad on a phone, really might be a way of widening access (and not missing Real Players!) Believe counties in the Midlands piloted this idea a year or two ago: happy that our lot are accepting submissions of this kind for 13 year-olds and above.
Cricket does have particular issues to do with class/money/access/comfort-in-the-environment. I’m hoping that video can winkle open ways in for individuals who might not otherwise get their moment.
Probably indiscreet to say too much about the groups I’m involved with… but they tend to be junior juniors. So I can be loose and friendly and welcoming: the straight drive ain’t exactly incidental, but Priority Numero Uno is to make this a place these young humans wanna be. Even on a regional pathway. Sure it might be true that (depending on your catchment) a good number of the players coming in are club level, rather than ‘regional players’ but this only increases the imperative to get them confident.
We try to make it a giggle – unashamedly. Then have *friendly words* about shapes or strategies. We know what The Fundamentals are so maybe they get lots of goes at x and y. Lots of goes – feeling; adjusting; finding stuff – quite possibly un-instructed. Until some things are grooved, until there are instincts/movements which may or may not be the same (or as valuable as) understandings. The articulation of things can maybe come after the exercise or practice of things.
This week’s soundbite for coaches appears to be something about ‘making good shapes’: I can live with that. Are you seeing or feeling that shape, Johnnie? Are you, Sara? Does it feel balanced – do you feel like you can do it forever and ever, or hold that pose… and give the bowler a cheesy grin? Good.
Coaches are all different, thank god. It’s not natural for all of us to project Friendly Comedian-dom. I do reckon, though, that mostly, for small earthlings, we need to avoid the dry and the preachy. Preach enthusiasm – or preach with enthusiasm, maybe – but be open about the idea that everything depends. Depends upon whether they’re Jos Buttler. Depends whether they can time things, outrageously. Depends on their body-shapes and levels of fluency at *this stage of their development*. You may be coaching a genius or a clown. Both probably need to have lots of goes to find what works: ask good questions, offer your things to consider. Take care not to make them sound like instructions – they may know better than you!
One of the fellas coaching alongside is a) top and b) a former headteacher. (They’re all top but we two have spoken about modes of learning). We both like the idea of offering a whole lot of responsibility over to the kids, letting them take charge: once they’ve settled; once we’ve done drill z a couple of times, maybe. Junior juniors can sort out a meaningful practice on the theme of (say) attacking in the vee. You can ask them to organise it. They can talk or watch their mates; they can find a way. You can make it explicit that the coaches ‘are stepping out of this for fifteen minutes’ but that they/you are hoping for productive and helpful practice.
Watch for a bit. Review and compliment and ask more questions: ‘what kind of feed can you use? What kind of shot do we think we’re looking at, here? Oh – attacking – yeh, we did say that. Does that mean on the ground or aerial – do we know what aerial means? Both? Ok. So how about you decide whether in the next few minutes you’re going to go BIG, for six, or drill that baybee hard past the bowler for four. But fellas we are attacking, yes?’
We’ve done this. It’s worked. The kids have done minimal faffing abart. Typically they’ve tried hard to make it work as an exercise but maybe struggled to provide helpful feeds. Maybe talk about that: offer reminder about drop feed/bobble feed options. Stress that it’s important to help out your team-mates. They can’t practice this if the feed is two feet down leg. So part of being a player is helping your mates get better, yes? Our experience has been that a) they can make this work and b) it’s probably a very good way to learn.
Included below; the audio from our Beautiful games book launch, at The Mariners, Nolton Haven, Pembs, on Sat 23rd March 2024.
Hosted by my good friend the treble-fabulous Mr Stephen Hedges, it features some daft bloke warbling about sport and the Meaning of Everything – as he does – plus some background noises and a wee bit of ambient pre-amble. Would’ve *really loved* to include the genuinely brilliant and hugely generous #pubchat that immediately followed the talk, but certain individuals shared some personal stuff about family experiences that it just wouldn’t have been right to include. So cut.
We had intended that the aforementioned #pubchat would dig in to and expand upon the Waltonian propositions… and it certainly did that. Some concerns were raised about school experiences in activity needing to ‘mirror real life’ rather than ‘just look to cater for all’. I hear that argument, and respect the need for (for example) competitive sport. I grew up – and I do mean grew up – through competitive sport, where (amongst other things) I learned to value guys in my teams who found little support or encouragement elsewhere, because they were either fully-fledged or aspiring football hooligans. Don’t ask them to spell much, or do their French homework but stick ’em on a sports field and watch the fekkers fly. Suddenly brilliant; suddenly selfless; suddenly valuable. I get how magnificent organised sport can be, for shedloads of reasons including that one.
But only about 20% of schoolkids are getting it: or only about 20% are developing a culture of lifelong activity. Twenty per cent. This means that BIG THINGS ARE IN PLAY. It means that (without sacrificing opportunities for ‘organised sport’) we have to include everyone – get everyone active.
The speech and the book then, have to come over all philosophical. I think there are moral imperatives in play as well as economic arguments: society cannot afford for zillions of people to be physically or mentally un-healthy. We all deserve a lump of happiness and the wider clan needs us to be productive. It’s a no-brainer that activity *nearly always supports* health. Great, uplifting, compelling experiences in Physical Education for young people can be personally transformative, can maybe lift where we’re at, as individuals, on the Happiness Index.
I want all of it – generous and ‘holistic’ approaches to PE, throughout the age-groups, and fabulous recreational sports and/or pathways. Change the thinking and invest in all of it. (Surely we’re sliding somewhere quite dark, if we don’t?)
There are political and philosophical notions we just can’t duck out of. My argument, I suppose, is that we need to prioritise and invest in wellness, not maxxing-out on profits. Because every one of us is valuable.
After the verbals I include a transcript of my speech.
BOOK LAUNCH.
Enough already of this welcome and adoration. It can’t last. For as sure as eggs are eggs… and beans are beans… and brown sauce is better than red, on bangers and bacon, you will desert me. For we are fickle, are we not? We ‘like’ everything but then move on, to the next story – the next poor, unfortunate target for our fleeting attention. I’m a realist, friends. There’ll be a lol-tastic notification coming along any minute – over here; over there – cats on the Twitters; dancers on the twick-twocks – and my moment in the spotlight will be gone.
I blame the Kardashians – I blame the Kardashians for everything – just ask the kids. Pouting. Potholes on the A40. Climate Change. Footballers diving and Raducanu changing coaches every twenty minutes. I blame the Kardashians. Cold toast; hot – fuck me, burning hot – Cornish pasties; V.A.R.; 30p Lee; too many adverts spoiling yer telly. I blame the Kardashians.
Surprisingly however, Beautiful Games is not the work of an embittered old bloke who can’t pout. The closest it gets to Worldly Cynicism is maybe through the introductory quote, from Naomi Klein:
‘Everywhere we look we find “binaries where thinking once existed.”
I kinda like that, because it makes me sound brainy. To be honest I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s onnabout but it seemed a good idea to have something wordy and philosophical in the first few pages. The rest is bollocks about Ford Escorts and beer. And sport.
‘Everywhere we look we find “binaries where thinking once existed”. Wish I’d said that. Instead I said
on P xii “I really want this book to be explainer-lite. Can’t stand the idea that the dots have to be joined/profundities unpicked for a readership that is thereby presumed to be brain-dead: insulting bollocks… (more)… not everything will be revealed”.
I also say “this book, whilst wading through the baggage of a middle-aged white guy, will be anti-bigotry. Believe it or not. Its purpose is to celebrate personal and universal stuff about activity. Not sure that can be done without advocating for those damp essentials love and understanding”.
But what the feck does that mean?!?
Glad you asked. Let me have a thrash at this. The book is in three sections: the first is called ‘Formations’ because it digs into things that may have made me… but which also relate, surely, to all of us? Family; environment; good energies; trauma or tragedy.
So ‘Formations’ is Big Relatable Stories. There’s stuff about ‘cannonballs’ – the heavy, soapy, brown-leather footballs we used to head, as kids, even though they weighed about twelve tons. There’s stuff about travelling to Canada dressed as Elvis Costello, and the hairs in my nostrils freezing as we stepped off the plane into the North American winter – at minus 26. (Fact). Then about playing indoor soccer with mad Italians and some geezer pulling a large hairy knife on my best mate in a nightclub in Thunder Bay. Exactly the kind of thing we’ve all experienced, yes?
Look, there is family, adventure and growth and maaaybee one of the central themes of the book, poisons in the ether – machismo; toughness; the ever-present fraudulence that is ‘masculinity.’ But also the wonder of sport and camaraderie and the craic. So the wild, contradictory kaleidoscope that is life… as a bloke(?)… or (know what?) however we may identify.
It’s no accident that chapter one – Unwise Tendencies – is about the violent homophobia that was everywhere, in our childhoods. I may need to come out as boringly, resolutely straight at this point, but that prejudice (in the North of England, in the 60s/70s) had a massive, conditioning effect on how I was and who I became. I wonder if it might be something of a surprise to many of you to discover *how much* the book has to say about blokeyness and ‘strength’ and pressures around behaviour. Let me read you something on this – true story:
Reading from P4 …”Much of the rich hinterland around this…
and no, I don’t know what that means either”.
I don’t happen to be gay… but I/we who were skinny or medium-brainy or had some facility for French or English Lit were in mortal danger, at school and beyond. I understand this excruciatingly poisonous, mind-boggingly pervasive plane of enlightenment marks the extreme edge of ‘laddishness’ but I think we know it’s still with us – and maybe in places we don’t really care to look. Certainly machismo in sport lies very close to prejudice. Beautiful Games deals with some of this; sympathetically, I hope, but also has a pop, creates some mischief.
On a happier note, the first section of the book does contain plenty in the way of wholesome tribute to Welsh heroes at Solva Athletic Football Club and later at Llanrhian CC. There’s lots of heading (a football) and some speculation about the effect of that. There’s a brief ode to K D Lang. There’s a coupla key chapters about family tragedy because *absolutely* that has made us… and a lot of family pride. This is not just about sport: it’s about formation.
Part Two is called ‘Practice’, meaning the hows and whys of sport. And the brilliance, and the inspirational figures or methods that become your way/my way.
We’re into culture and good practice; the Wonderstuff, whether that be through the All Blacks’ ‘No Dickheads’ policy or Brian Clough’s ‘OH YOO ARE BLOODY ‘OPELESS!!’
Both were godlike and inspirational, in ver-ry different ways; the one a kind of code of honour and way of being that set extraordinary and (dare we say it) civilised standards of behaviour *as well as* producing an 86% win-rate in international rugby over more than a decade. (And this is a very high figure). The other – Brian Clough – was a law unto himself but found a way to motivate his teams through personal magnetism, elite-level pig-headedness and a truly intuitive but profound understanding of a) football and b) people.
At my own daft level I love coaching teams: in fact I really like the word – is that sad? TEEEEEAAMMM! Teams are gangs of mates or soul-sisters who do that walk-through-fire thing or just pat you on the shoulder when you’re bowling like an arse. Teams encourage and build and take you, the individual no-hoper somewhere hilarious and miraculous. And know what? Teams aren’t just for sport… and they aren’t *just about* sport.
Clough was maybe something of a drunk and something of a bully. (I’m neither, honest). But he took two mid-ranking teams – Derby and Forest – to league titles and he and Peter Taylor engineered two European Cup wins. Incredible… and I think fascinating. His players ‘just knew’ he was a genius. They followed him and believed in him. He did ‘just know’. This was about relationships as much as skill.
This may be anorak central but bear with. Clough’s former players talk about his team-talks. (I like team-talks). Apparently on occasion, even before massive games, he would spread a towel on the floor of the changing rooms, and place a football on it. Like some druid ritual. Then he would just say something like “OI. You lot. This is a ball. There’ll be one out there. Go get it… and keep the fucking thing”.
Interestingly – I think –the great All Blacks coaches Sir Graham Henry and Sir Steve Hansen – allegedly got to a point where they barely said anything on matchdays. The players were so prepared, so in charge, so empowered, that there was no hairdryer and no Churchillian rhetoric from the coaches. No need. The players are ready. I’m aware this may be a bit niche, friends. But compare and contrast with Guardiola, Klopp, Tuchel, etc etc – with the zillions of messages going out before and during top-level football matches, now. I think that may be a kind of madness.
In Part Two I write chapters on the All Blacks, Clough, Guardiola, Bazball, the fabulous and universe-changing development of women and girl’s sport. There are also Honourable Mentions for Dutch football/Bobby Charlton/Chloe Kelly/Welsh rugby/the Baabaas and many more. I do make the point that though women and girls sport is better supported than before there is still much work to be done and throughout this book, I promise, I am mindful that competitive, organised sport is not the be-all and end-all, in any event. Beautiful Games moves towards being about Sport Development – that is the provision of activity for all. More on this in a moment.
Some of you will know that I have ECB Accreditation as Written Media and most often use this to follow England and Wales Women cricket: it’s been a real privilege to have been quite close to the powerful surge in that half of the game, for towards a decade. I talk about this in the book – in both books, asitappens.
Locally, Llanrhian Ladies are a spectacular example of the joy and development occurring in cricket. They are absolutely magic and have transformed our cricket club so they are in Beautiful Games – of course they are! Finally, in the section on practice, the book turns to the other great revelation of the current moment, namely Pembrokeshire Seniors cricket.
Reading from P155 ‘Here’s something weird and wonderful...
To p157 …”I am going to be bereft when I can’t bowl”.
Sad but true, I really AM gonna be bereft when I can’t bowl. But onwards, in haste. To the final section, which I’ve called ‘The Case for Sport’.
I have worked as a coach for Cricket Wales – still doing it – and as a peripatetic PE teacher for Sport Pembrokeshire. Ver-ry proud of my colleagues in both organisations. Latterly I also did some work ploughing through a significant bundle of reports on wellbeing/activity/lifestyles for children. I’m no academic but this was ‘my territory’ so Matt at Sport Pembrokeshire let me loose on this to try and draw insights about what good, enlightened provision might look like. Who needs activity most? What’s most effective? What can we justify doing? Inevitably political/philosophical and strategic stuff, in an environment where (criminally, to be frank) budgets are likely to tighten, not loosen up.
I may have gone into this feeling a tad cynical about surveys. As a deliverer of sport you can’t help but think that it’s bloody obvious that activity is so essential and life-affirming and developmentally important in every way we don’t need reports to tell us that! They feel a bit like exercises commissioned by dead-souled office wallahs. Like who doesn’t know that exercise is good and that we have to fund absolutely everything that’s legitimate, to fight the good fight against obesity, poor mental health, the fall into sedentary behaviour and the peer pressure around body-image – for which I blame the Kardashians!
We all know this! And yet, because the more I looked at the surveys – from Pembs County Council/Senedd/the Happen Survey/the Good Childhood Report, from the Children’s Society etc, etc – the more I bought into the idea that they are often very sophisticated and skilful, and they do provide us with good, even valuable information. We just have to act on it.
So I talk about personally taking the Happen Survey into Pembrokeshire Primary Schools and then producing a kind of brainstorming document around good practice (for our Sport Pembs practitioners – Active Young People Officers, by name). About the conclusions we might draw, the options we might take. I try to weed out from the mighty, meaty documents some workable priorities or undeniable truths. I offered them to my colleagues in Sport Development across West Wales, and I offer them to you, in Beautiful Games.
Reading from p 195…
“I wrote two reports…
To end of chapter on p196.
Part Three then, does make the Case for Sport, indeed it campaigns, in a way that I hope still manages to provide some entertainment. You don’t have to be wearing a tracksuit to get this book. You really don’t. Despite being ‘sport-mad’, I can tell you that those of us who coach or teach Physical Education (or sports, or games), now understand that given where we are – deep into a wellbeing crisis, with no sign that authorities get that – we have to get moving. All of us. So PE becomes more about everybody; welcomes Joey who can’t catch and Sara who can’t run in. Welcomes them; offers them something they can do and enjoy – probably with their friends.
You don’t have to be a Sports Development geek to sense the requirement for a wider, broader remit, for Physical Education. We have to get every child comfortable with movement. Find the funding, make the change, acknowledge the crisis and the need for a re-fresh of the offer. Ludicrously, in my view, despite being lumped in to a new Area of Learning with Wellbeing & Mental Health, PE is still not a core subject. Make it a core subject.
Let me finish, dear friends, with a Mad Idea. There is nothing more important than the physical and mental health of our young people. Could we be bold enough, then, generous enough, civilised enough to *actually invest* in what matters? By this I mean – amongst other things – look at and think about the UNICEF National Happiness Index as a meaningful measure of where we’re at. Stick the GDP and the Footsie right up yer arris. Forget this charade about ‘economic growth’. Value that which is valuable: health; wellbeing; the capacity to move and make adventures. Let’s ‘get going’ on that.
A ramble, a confessional, an indulgence: course. But also a laugh and a conversation-starter, or something which *might make you think*, I hope. Might even make you a) tell me which bands are keeping you going b) start yoga c) buy a guitar chord book d) stir yourself generally – even if it’s only to rant against my indulgences.
Or, who knows, it may even possibly make you nod in recognition at my experience of the ‘weird prejudices’ out there – the baggage all-around us, or inside of us? Or make you angry about that stuff.
Whatever, it’s supposed to stoke some activity. Please think about that bit, eh?
Eve of Easter. Sun blazing. Barely a motor about, not that we get many but blimey this isextraordinary – idyllic actually, with all due respect to thegrockles that prop up our entire county, year on year. The shingle, artfully dolloped around our tiny front garden, is baking; the dog is maybe overheating. Junior (well, six foot four) Walton’s smiliferous uni’ dance-music swells at an appropriately easy pitch for a thoughtful lounge. Proper indulgence.
Where we are (forgive us) the Covid-19 situation really does feel like a phoney war. We’re aware of both ‘some Pembrokeshire cases’ and also also of our responsibilities but frisson around exercising is at an entirely lower level than it might be around Bute Park, Cardiff – to take a random example from the known world.
Now that we’re barred from walking the coast path, we generally yomp about a mile and a quarter to a favourite beach along the road, but in doing so don’t tend to see a single vehicle and only occasionally another couple or family taking their own, equivalent quiet promenade.
Big tides so the beach is a zillion, golden, slumbering cricket-pitches at low water. We tramp like sedately ecstatic lurv-zombies the entire width, more than once, unashamedly breasting through the one hour limit our sagacious minister(s) may or may not have made available for Daily Soul-Maintenance. Done this three times this week; estimated duration six hours. Seen five people, total.
But what else? What else for you? What’s it like?
I’m working a bit, on media/social media stuff. This should constitute about a third of my weekly graft – the remainder being the Community Coach role. Doing no coaching in schools or anywhere else, for obvious reasons. So if I was so inclined, things could be pret-ty sedentary: only (and this is not a boast) I don’t do sedentary.
Have no viable garden – or at least genuinely not viable for most ball games. (This probably accounts for current, high step numbers on the roads). Am honestly outstanding at clattering my way into or through jobs, so been on that – garden, kitchen, garage – and will return. But it’s the pleasurable and the healthy stuff we need to get to yes?What do you do? What can, or do we do? I’m gonna tell you some of my restorative strategies and by all means send me yours.
Restorative bloody Strategies! Who am I kidding? Like you miserably shapeless lot, I am almost exclusively following instinct. Working pretty good, mind.
Prepare to be shamed, bored, amused or utterly gobsmacked by the torrent of indulgobollocks about to spew forth. Cos it’s all about What I Done, Lately. (*Of course I have some faint hope it may either make you laugh, or get you off yer arse, thereby neatly dodging the allegation that this is all a bit me, but hey).
Those of you who know me will maybe take the following without too much offence: that I’m such a shamelessly persistent clown I really don’t care what you might think. This – by that I mean this blog – is about entertaining ourselves, getting stuff done, not about whether I happen to be good at something. To my mind, the ‘me’ is taken right out of this: it is, therefore, merely an offering.
Hey but let me start with something kosher – something that seems relevant, that figures.
Two or three times in the last fortnight I’ve ambled across the road into the dingletastic field opposite, armed with three coloured hoops, two newish sidearms and a bag of balls. Purpose? Being to get somewhere near competent with the slingers. Have gone up to the almost-flat-but-still-unhelpfully-tussocky heights a hundred and thirty-seven yards from the front door, paced out a pitch length and laid the hoops out. Then slung.
Awful, so far. Too many snatched, accidental bouncers: line okay but if I had been in a net with a group of juniors (let’s say), I’d be banged up unceremoniously by now, for Affray With a Sidearm. So work to do; which is fine in the current time-rich era, yes? May need to look at a couple of videos but will be back up there soonish, trying to hook into a groove: consistency is tough.
The other stuff is both daft and almost ludicrously ‘creative,’ darlings, so now strap in for the cringeathon: some surreal slings of fortune and geography bundled in here, which I hope may be diverting.
Great mates have a caravan on the sweet, relatively unobtrusive wee site down close to our beach. (‘Our Beach’ – lols!) The owners can’t use it as the site, like the county, is effectively sealed-up. They are, however, well up for me checking it over and using it discreetly as a retreat or for any legal purpose, particularly as this has involved heroic clearing-out of 14 million flies that had recklessly expired over the winter/early spring. (What is it with caravans and flies, by the way? Had to wade in to a mincemeat horror-show, which has taken several visits to clear).
Whatever. This caravan has become a haven for two alarmingly healthy pursuits but before I spill the wotsits on those, I feel the urge to say, rather intently, that I’m not looking to escape from anyone or anything (thank you ver-ry much) when I ‘nip down’ there. Relationships all good. Just living in a tiny house – as we do – it makes practical sense.
But what does? Yoga and guitar.
Eh?
Yoga I’ve been doing, clunkily and inconsistently for a couple of years but I now really get it. Guitar, well as the angriest of youffs emerging from the punk epiphany, I acquired a fairly horrible Gibson Les Paul copy and, flukily, a marvellous Ibanez acoustic, before becoming a half-decent rhythm-geetar strumster. Criminally, I stopped playing, almost completely, about twenty years ago.
Some of you will be aware that my wife is often referred to as The Finest Yoga teacher in Wales ‘cos, yes… she is. For twenty years, hugely to her credit, she restrained herself completely from bundling me towards the classes she teaches in nearby Haverfordwest, Narberth and St Davids but finally that wall of restraint (or restraining wall?) crumbled. Not sure quite how, fascinatingly, but I found myself attending sessions and did so with little enjoyment for about eighteen months. This despite being aware that yoga was blindingly obviously something that might benefit a berk like me: I’m 84% fast-twitch fibres. Mostly, life is lived in an optimistic rage. Plus, me back is stiff.
Eventually another wall (or something) broke – or, on reflection, I lump-hammered my way through it. Whether it was working with the breath, just finding myself less gutty and bloated, or something mystical about rhythms and space, couldn’t tell you. But eventually I have begun, despite the continuing lack of flow in my super-annuated, sporty-but-brittle frame, to enjoy yoga. So I’ve been doing some on my own, down the caravan.
Bethan’s classes continue, via the grace of Facebook Live but because we really do live in a tiny house, I can’t work alongside her, out of view. In time I’ll get back to going to classes but for now I stroll beatifically down the van with my iPad, from which an emailed practice can be conjured. (Did I mention, by the way, that caravans these days are more like apartments? Smart). So picture me, silently, unhindered and (ahem) unselfconscious, as I inhale, pause, move, in the medium-copious ‘living area’. Like a cross between Peter Crouch mid-robot and erm… a ballerina.
I’m going down there nearly every day, just now, to ‘do something’. Having had a hernia op’ some months ago – and therefore a yoga gap – I’m building back up towards the 75 or 90-minute sessions typical of a Bethan W class.
But my retreats to the caravan aren’t just about yoga, or even just about that yoga/guitar combo. I am kinda rehabilitating my fingers to the strings and re-engaging the muscle memory for chords: I’m also going to try to learn a few songs. And I’m also trying to write a few songs. This means, among other things, singing.
Real blokes don’t sing, do they? Or not whilst sober – not in front of people. But hang on; let’s go back a little.
Writing songs; song-writing. Shocking truth is I’ve always felt I should or could have done that… but only played at it. Intently, once or twice, but never with any discipline. There was a time when there were fantastic people around me – I make no apology for calling them soulbrothers – who might have joined with a committed rock and roll adventure: didn’t happen.
Not at all saying it’s likely to happen now. Not even remotely suggesting that what I’m doing is good. (It’s at least as likely to be raw embarrassing and I really am fine with that). I’m just saying I’m actually trying, over a period of time, to *finish* some songs – or get them to a place where they feel done.
I know plenty folks live via fixations or aspirations towards Pole Stars or Intentions but I’ve never worked like that: (you?) I lack the Ambition Gear Thing and I suspect this is something I’m perversely proud of.
Right now what feels clear and ‘important’ to me is the instinct to create something while the time and opportunity is there. Broadly, that’s it. There’s flow and energy around so I’m using it. Specifically, this means re-learning the guitar – which I know I can do – honing and crafting some ideas into song lyrics – which maybe I really can’t – and either finding my voice and performing – doubt it – or passing the songs on if there’s any real merit in them, to someone who can perform. Or… leaving them in the metaphorical cupboard, which is fine, particularly if they’re *finished*.
What’s both great and scary is I really do not know if the proto-songs are garbage. And I’m more sure than not that my singing is pret-ty embarrassing. And I’m recording, as part of the challenge! But maybe the result doesn’t matter? Maybe this is a truly developmental experience, whatever?
Yes. Emphatically yes.
The caravan and the glorious, generous, idyllic solitude makes it possible to bawl out loud, bollocks up the guitar, grimace or preen to the mirror. (I do all three). Mainly I forget the words and fear I’m sounding ‘like James Blunt’s dad’ – think it’s likely I look like him.
But none of this matters. The ludicrous nerves(!), even when flying utterly solo; the angst about how lyrics might be understood – would people get the irony, here? – all that is clearly strikingly testing, but great. Part of the newness and growth.
(Re-cap: I’m a reasonably oldish geezer who feels about 34. I get that every word of this is ridiculous – and beginning to sound like some self-help guide – but the point is I’m bloody invigorated by this challenge. Being unsure of whether you really are a complete embarrassment but ploughing on, anyway, is a manifestly edgy place to be, believe me. I recommend it).
I have four songs or song lyrics which feel close enough for rock and roll. I hope to practice versions of them all, over the next few weeks. Could well be they never get aired outside that caravan: who cares? In a month my guitar will be on the up and that will feel good. The documents that are my songs will be there, good or bad, but there.
Have tumbled into a longish read – apologies. Ditto for the extravagant indulgences. Hope that some of this resonates in some way: I think it’s about committing, about making your contribution and just not worrying about where it might sit in the hierarchy of things. There is no good or bad that can undermine the brilliance of your commitment.
So, what’s your guitar, your yoga? Get to it, c’mon. With me. We can support each other, okay?
Awards Season. Meaning mixed feelings, right? Because most of us know that should we actually win something, there are always so-o many people who are worthier/better/better qualified in every way. And sometimes (let’s be honest) people get ‘recognised’ when actually they are sheisters or monsters or simply there and have somehow endured over time.
But c’mon, fortunately, it’s often the reverse. People get fleetingly recognised when they should be hugged and hoisted and fed with booze or chocs or given everlasting Gunn and Moore or Gray Nicholls contracts; they get waaay less than they deserve – under-recognised. I know loads of these people. People whose goodness and commitment is real.
Some of these people have won awards; some are up for awards this winter. I personally may even see some of them pick up some trophy – hope I do.
Some of you will know I bang on a fair bit about the importance of sport, of activity. I’m fully aware how cornball all this can sound, particularly in the context of the endless schmatzfest/tritefest/pompfest that is social media, which I contribute so readily-heavily to. But the thing is we really do have to gear up and get real around this: society must have a strategy, a compulsion, an irresistible way-in and lifelong relationship with movement… like the guys and gals at the sports awards.
Doesn’t, of course, have to be sport. Doesn’t have to be competitive. But movement, activity, the sense that doing stuff is the essential and natural way to be, simply has to be built-in to all of us. Not most – all.
This becomes massive in the sense that it means national and local governments must address it as urgently as we, as individuals, must. If the first job of government is to keep citizens safe then maybe this notion might include the responsibility to steer citizens away from the self-harm that (for example) indolence or dietary ignorance engender. (Yup *can of worms* provocatively opened).
If that responsibility feels a tad mushy for Rule One then okay let’s stick it into Rule Two: ‘Government must provide direction and support around Wellness’.
For me that’s a reasonably agreeable purpose, in every sense, for Politics.
It may even be that the next phase for where we’re at demands that urgent consideration be given to what the necessary levels of opportunity and provision look like – and possibly how, if at all, this strategy is braced with compulsion/coercion. (I get that we’d all prefer inspiration to compulsion but… how to make the resolutely non-doers doers?)
I need to divert into politics here – forgive me. My own view is that our current government is disgracefully adrift and indeed indifferent of the issues here in much the same way as it is re Climate Change. Being arguably amoral and unarguably in thrall to shockingly narrow, mindlessly pro-capitalist views, they lack both the understanding and the vision to change things. So we drift towards calamity: there’s an emergency but no response.
Of course many of us do the same, as individuals – drift, I mean. It’s easier. Plus things conspire (food/agriculture industry, Right Now This Instant culture, political expediency, lobbyists) towards a depressingly rudderless status quo.
Weird mind, that whilst in terms that the Honourable Leadership might understand, we clearly cannot afford to be a fat, sedentary nation, there is still no determined grasping of that thorny issue of ownership of said inactivity. Unforgivable, or understandable, given the political dangers?
Rule 3 might be ‘Governments must lead’. Transformations can and must begin in early years, maybe somehow at home as well as in schools, with a radical re-positioning of activity close to the centre of everything ‘educational’. This, obviously, is government-level stuff, it has to be that way – has to be led.
However, if there is a ‘we’, the people, then we have to accept some responsibility alongside The Few (who can actually legislate). That bit is tough – especially the desire/compulsion towards wellness amongst those of us who lack familiarity or confidence around sport. Understand that. We do, all of us though, need to acknowlege that the conversation around obesity, diabetes, etc bloody-well has to happen. And then we need that to lead somewhere.
The difficulty (or the question) appears to be that if there is such a thing as society then does that society has every right to expect
a) the chance to be well?
b) Individuals to commit towards wellness?
These can be worryingly divergent aspirations. Fully accept that (as with capitalism) some people are much better equipped to ‘succeed’ and that therefore extra support must be in place to bear those who are struggling towards a better place. But we do need them to get on that journey – to get active on that. Fair enough?
Sports Awards; this is where we came in, remember? People being recognised for coaching, playing, enabling activity. People who are kinda wonderfully and disproportionately positively tipping the balance, god bless’em. People actually reclaiming words like value and inspiration from sheisters who glibly stick them into adverts or company policy, or blogs.
Sounds feeble to say we need these folks more than ever but there is some truth in that, given the chronic – and it is chronic – state we’re in. How can there be anything ahead of general and individual wellbeing, in the queue of priorities? How do us sportyfolks lobby harder?
Most of those slipping shyly onto stages before humbly acknowledging those acknowledging them won’t be dwelling especially on the philosophical import of what they do: or the societal impact, or even the physical good. They’ll be there because they love sport and can’t stop, or even contemplate stopping. Why would they?
Let’s raise a cheer, or a (yaknow) sensible glass, to those who are leading the movement.
Pleased to see there’s been a reasonable lump of coverage for the All Stars Project over recent weeks; it really is significant, I think. Certainly in terms of bringing the precious ‘new families’ that we’ve heard so much about, into the game. Whatever we may think of, or read into that apparently central plank of the ECB strategy, All Stars has delivered strong numbers, for our sport: in Wales, 3,505 sign-ups over 118 centres.
A twitter-friend of mine and cricket-writer (Rob Johnston) wondered whether the project might indeed be more important than The Hundred? Interesting thought.
Whether you load that thought up with political/philosophical vitriol around the depth or quality of experience and the implications for Everything Else… is up to you. I want to keep this simple – or rather to leave you with a restoratively uncluttered message – that All Stars has been, will be, is really, really good. It’s All Stars I want to talk about, in the end.
You may know that much of the thinking behind All Stars came from a) large, hairy and fearless market research b) Australia. A particular bloke name of Dwyer was drafted in to brutally challenge the status quo and deliver a new vision. (Actually the first bit of that is untrue: he did brutally challenge but that was not necessarily the brief. Interestingly, possibly fascinatingly for those suspicious of the current direction of travel, Dwyer left – I believe before his contract was up).
It’s important, at the outset, in the wider context of so much controversy and opinion, that All Stars is recognised as merely a part of the whole re-invention of the Cricket Offer: part of Cricket Unleashed, part of the warp-factor-ten departure into the unknown. Theoretically and I think in reality, AS does have stand-alone qualities – the specific age-group, the immediacy, the impact of kitted-out kids – but it would surely be unwise to imagine it travelling radically solo. It’s not.
All Stars exists in and because of the context of more opportunities for girls and women. In the context of ‘community’ activity and retention projects for those teens drifting from the game. In the context of City Cricket/The Hundred.
I’m not wading in to the relative value, wisdom or centrality of any of these other things now: most of us have lived off those arguments for the last year. Instead I’m going to try to say why All Stars is pretty ace: in a bullet-point or two.
The prequel. Noting that All Stars has been generally supported by 4-6 weeks cricket-based activity in local Primary Schools, aimed at enthusing kids for the game (via the outstanding Chance to Shine curriculum) before offering that link to AS in clubs. Part of the generally impressive #joinedupthinking. But back to the activity proper…
It’s ace value. Despite blokes like me fearing that £40 was going to feel too much for most parents down our way, AS is undeniably good value – and parents forked out. The kids get kit worth about £20 and eight typically well-run, skilfully-themed sessions (which tend to be an absolute blast, for kids and coach alike). Those people still weirdly imagining this is an earner for the ECB need to get a grip, to be honest: it’s a massive investment in change and development, not at all – certainly in the short term – an ‘earner’. Costs have been set at a minimum, I imagine: of course there are some families who will regrettably be put off by the £40… but very few… and some clubs will underwrite that, if necessary.
The actual sessions are ver-ry cute – in a really good way. This has not been flung together. The target age-group (5-8, boys and girls) is guided through an hour or more (generally more) of movement, games and skills; the time fizzes and charges as much as the children do. It’s infectious and purposeful and liberating in a way that the three letters F.U.N. cannot do justice to: and yet it is precisely that – naive, anarchic, noisy, edgy fun. Brilliantly so, in my experience.
The quality of enjoyment thing. I may be repeating myself but what I saw, as an Activator and coach, was ace to the point of affecting – and I am clear most parents felt that too.
The family thing – 1. Okay, so if one of the key aspirations for the whole ECB cricket-makeover is to ‘burst the bubble’ in which cricket sits, vis-a-vis who knows, plays and gets the game, then obviously All Stars sits comfortably within that. The target group is children still finding stuff. Plainly, the ECB would be grateful if some of these children – perhaps the majority – emerge from non-cricketing families. That’s happening. Because of skilful marketing, smart imagery, the ‘non-threatening’, non-technical nature of the offer. Headline figures for AS in Wales last year suggested 71% coming from a non-cricketing background… which is not far short of phenomenal. I’m hearing also – also significantly – that around 35% of our Wales 2018 All Stars are girls.
The family thing – 2. Activators (i.e. those who led the AS sessions) were trained to encourage parents to take part. In fact a key part of the marketing whole was this idea that families might reclaim a special hour of family time through participating (at a level they were comfortable with). This interaction with non-qualified agents – hah! Mums, dads!! – was rightly to be gently monitored by the Activator, but opened up a new dimension to the proceedings. Our sessions started with family members ‘warming up’ their All Star; often mums or dads or siblings stayed involved, offering practical help and encouragement. This cuts right across the traditional practice of Level 2 Coaches ‘running things’. I am not remotely looking to undermine that practice or the quality thereof when I say that in my experience the active support of family members was not only essential in practical terms but absolutely key to the feel and the enjoyment of our sessions. I soon gathered five or six sub-Activators who were lovely, intelligent, generous, capable people and I hope and expect that they may support the project – and what is now their club! – next year. This ‘loosening-up’ was done by design, in the knowledge that it might/should work at this age-group; it did.
The gentle prod thing. Did you know you can pre-register for AS 2019? You can.
Finally, something minor-league weird. I am still wearing a rather faded rubber bangle – the kind we were giving out in schools during the Chance to Shine sessions which preceded our signposting of kids over to All Stars Cricket. I am still wearing it… since April, maybe?
This may mean something worrying about absence of a life in my life, but maybe only if we overthink stuff, eh? I’m not wistfully stroking it or anything. It’s just still there. It says ALL STARS CRICKET and ALLSTARSCRICKET.CO.UK.
I think of our sessions at Llanrhian CC and how crazy-but-happy the kids were… and how wonderful the families were… and how blessed we all were, with that sun. So I guess that’s the explanation? If we need one?
Been involved in two events this last week, with a particular character – or so you might think, when I put the labels on. S.E.N and #Disability, or #insportseries.
Unravel that with me.
S.E.N, as many will know, stands for Special Educational Needs and therefore referred, in our case, to Primary School children who have a range – an extraordinary, fascinating range – of issues or needs. (Written on this before, in particular this idea that somewhere in the cloud of embarrassment, prejudice, guilt(?) and awkwardness around ‘needs’ maybe there’s a rich opportunity for us Normal Folks to challenge our own complacency or sheer ignorance; our awarenesses and comfort around Special Needs being often woefully inadequate).
Having confirmed my own frailties in those terms – I, too am relatively twitchy or clumsy in this environment – I’m going to leave it to experts in the field to unpick the differences, subtle or otherwise, between S.E.N and Disability, because a) despite some really excellent and relevant Coach Education, I am not an expert or specialist in this field and b) in reality, as coaches, we don’t typically know very much about what kinds of issues the individuals attending are going to present: we live off our wits.
Before people start kicking off about dangerously inadequate preparation, I should say that what feels like a responsible and reasonable amount of information-sharing and risk-assessment does take place. We just don’t get much detail. So us coaches do inevitably experience that ‘okaaaay, how do I need to pitch this game to this individual?’ moment as the participants arrive. It’s a brilliant, energising test for us; one that hopefully transfers into sharply-focused but engaging (and seemingly relaxed) sessions.
In absolutely glorious sunshine, at Haverfordwest CC, we Cricket Wales people, in tandem with our colleagues at Sport Pembrokeshire, hosted an event for the S.E.N. Units of the county: Primary.
We were well-staffed. We gathered in good time and set up five or six possible areas with different challenges, games or themes. We talked quite a lot about what was going to feel appropriate, how we might rotate groups through, how big those groups might be or ideally should be. We checked for flexibility within games – for the capacity to recalibrate higher or lower – for both difficulty and to accommodate talent and ambition. Then groups arrived.
I recognised a few children from previous events but generally we were into New Territory – all of us. There was a certain delay as schools arrived separately and (given the epic sunshine) awnings or gazebos and/or similar were set up. There was too much drift so I cut through the formalities, grabbed a group of children and bundled them over to my throwing game. We were off.
I think maybe you set out on days like these, with the fear of making a calamitous and deeply patronising error; or twelve. There is certainly scope for that, right? So what you do (I do) is get the antennae up. Get looking, get listening. Talk the same way, act the same way but get the antennae up for issues of understanding and movement. Get right on all that and offer somebody something different – quietly – if that’s necessary.
We had a laugh. The kids were great; engaged, smiling, contributing to the banter, the shape of the game. ‘Course they were. There were children that could launch an overarm throw, there were those that wandered in and out of the playing area, unable to fulfil the mission but visibly enjoying some activity. Honestly, in the sunshine, they were brilliant – it was brilliant. Periodically, another group came in.
In other ‘zones’ children boomed balls off teas, or caught big balls, small balls, teddies, spiky things, beanbaggy things, foamtastic things. Elsewhere they played nonstop cricket – with or without a helping hand. There were pitstops for drinks and sarnies and more bantz.
It’s going to sound weirdly self-congratulatory if I describe it as something of a triumph but (with apologies) it really was. Not my triumph but everybody’s. Everybody including the sun’s.
My abiding memory is of a fellow coach, who shall remain nameless. This particular bloke is a powerfully experienced cricket bloke and longtime coach and supporter and administrator of the game. He’s been there… but not, as he said, in ‘situations quite like this’. As we packed up and chatted, it was striking that the level of enjoyment – their’s, his – had been something of a revelation to him.
Three days later we were again involved, supporting an event at Pembroke Leisure Centre. This was an #insportseries Disability/Community event, open to all but shared that schools/learning feature in the sense that children with carers or support staff were brought in to take part. Again the weather was spectacular – almost too hot.
My first memory of this occasion was of a single, tall, strongly-built young man appearing early on at my shoulder, being a quiet presence and me not sure, initially, whether he was (as it were) a candidate for action, or not. Fortunately, my instinct to offer a ‘quick game’ (anyway) proved helpful… and off we went, with other children soon joining.
Here’s where things became profoundly different to that Primary School event earlier in the week, in a way I happily admit, I hadn’t, in my medium-crass naivety, foreseen.
Firstly that biggish young man, then others were really good – to the extent that I could, should, did coach them as opposed to simply hosting a game. (Doh… of course they were!)
Specifically, we got into bowling… because they could really bowl. We got into high hands and following through, with me being careful and even apologetic about being boring and coachy but having no choice because the players were driving us thataway, because they were good. There was also that hike in the attention-span in the players and their capacity to make and sustain their own game. I may have underestimated that, too.
I still have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I reckon I did okay because I know these youngsters did enjoy what they/we did. On the other I have to think about where my expectations were at that first moment. I did not, in truth, as I breezed in to that event, expect to be delivering stuff that I might share with an able-bodied county-level player. I was wrong – and how great is that?
This event, like the one in Haverfordwest, was a notable success – funded and supported strongly, visible and diverse. As well as presenting a range of activities, somebody (Angela Miles?) had the nous to invite Rob Evans and Gareth Davies from the current Wales rugby squad, much to the delight of our participants and many of the on-site and suddenly inquisitive Pembroke School children. Both these guys did a fine and generous job of circulating, encouraging and just being nice to anyone in the vicinity. (Chapeau, gentlemen, enjoy Croatia!)
I wandered through to check out the whole festival, from wheelchair rugby to rifle-range. Outstanding. On a personal note it was fabulous to see such an impressive turnout of Sport Pembrokeshire staff; was proud to muck in alongside to make our own, Cricket Wales contribution. It’s been a great week.
Now I have to be discreet about the following, for reasons that will become pretty swiftly clear.
Recently, I was coaching in a local Primary School – first session. As a ‘way in’ – that is to get the children moving, giggling, but listening and used to my voice – I often give them all a ball and set them off on ‘journeys’ around the space. (Mostly, the space is a playground and the journeys are a number of lengths or widths, or maybe circuits).
The ball may be different from player to player; often I encourage them to swap so as to experience a different size, shape, feeling.
I think I may have started this particular group off by asking them to make a particular number of catches, over two journeys. Before the off, I asked the children how high we should throw the ball, before launching one forty feet up.
That high? (Giggles).
Why not? Exactly! Because it would be chaos! Because we’d kill every passing seagull or hit Sara, Fred and Tomos on the head and we don’t want that, do we? (Giggles and inevitable contradictions…)
Okaaaay. Maybe we do that seagull stuff later. But first, how many catches?
After having agreed to throw them about three metres up (max), the children set off, choosing their own kind of catch, as instructed. There are 30 children, which is a few more than the ideal number. I mingle / get in the way, because this too, can be fun and because this way I can check on things and get some encouragement into nearly everyone’s face, immediately.
There’s a boy in tears. I see him early but go past so as not to draw too much attention and then watch a little as I interact with other children – most of whom are unaware of the issue.
Ok. It’s clear the boy is tearful because he ‘can’t catch’ – because he’s frustrated but mainly because of the shame. He’s probably eight. He’s not the only one struggling but he’s the only one who can’t bear the weight of his own ‘inadequacy’. It’s actually the most heartbreaking thing I’ve seen for years, in a school situation.
(Later, whilst considering writing this, I think about how this boy might be described. Obviously I’m not going to detail anything about his appearance in a way that might identify him but there are other difficulties here. Privately, I might (we might?) describe him as ‘looking like a rather sensitive sort’. He was paleish, thinnish. Thirty years ago I/we might have said he was ‘a bit weedy-looking’).
These feel like grossly pejorative terms, now, to the extent that I may yet cut them. If I persist it’s because I think the feeling I had after the event that this boy should never have been allowed to get to his age without being comfortable with a ball in his hands was a) kinda legitimate and b) as complicated by my own worldview as his alleged lack was (and is) by where he finds himself.
He is in a place that has denied him that particular physical experience – or the few words of encouragement or guidance that might transform that awful fear-fest into an easy, pleasurable life-skill. I think it’s fair – whilst in no way searching for scapegoats – to note the possibility that the world has failed him.
In the here and now, though, I have to help. As discreetly as possible, right?
I could have found a bigger ball… but this didn’t feel discreet enough, given the level of sensitivity, given the ongoing tears and the boy’s pitiful explanation that he ‘just can’t do it’.
I am in emergency mode here, in a way. I cannot halt the session to offer this boy a one-to-one… and yet I must. I’m simply not having this level of hurt, over something so do-able.
So I flit to and from the individual, whilst dolloping out the encouragement to all. We have to move on and forward. The challenges actually should get incrementally more sharp – more fun – as we proceed but clearly now I have to offer choices.
Whilst the class in general are more-or-less coping with adding claps into their catches, or bounces, or inventions of their own, I’m looking to grab a few seconds here or there with The Boy Who Can’t Catch. I do. The others are loving it, they are in their own world of adventure.
Firstly, I encourage and I sound friendly. Second, I really get him to listen. Thirdly, I put in there the idea that maybe the ball becomes the only thing in the whole wide universe for one minute… and that we just have to watch it ALL THE WAY IN.
And then I’m gone, to bawl
Wadda catch, Sara!
or
No waaay did you just get EIGHT claps in there, dude?!? That’s unREAL!
A few discreet returns and one or two repeats later… and we have a Boy Who Can Catch. Maybe not every time – but most, or many.
I move through a zillion swift catching challenges, every time repeating to all that we can choose to stay with our own practice if that feels good to us. Nobody takes a blind bit of notice of that offer but one individual; the rest are finding other, theoretically more ambitious avenues – getting comfortable with that next diversion.
Later in the session we are throwing. The boy has partnered-up with a girl as they throw underarm at a hoop on the floor, opposite each other, stepping back one pace if either one of them hits that target. They do hit. It is evident, in a lovely, quiet way, that both of them are enjoying this.
sportslaureate 