For a long time, I was that coach. The one on the touchline shouting "work harder" at the players who weren't doing the running. Not praising the ones who were, just singling out the ones who weren't, loudly, every Saturday.
Then I read Martin Hunter's advice on match day coaching, and it stopped me in my tracks. When I was honest with myself, those players weren't lazy. They simply weren't fit enough to do what I was asking. And whose job was it to get them fit? Mine.
The answer wasn't on the touchline at all. It was finding a night in the week where we could build their fitness. Once I saw that, I started reflecting on everything else I shouted from the sidelines. Most of it was the same thing: not necessarily my shortcomings as a coach, rather it was the knowledge gaps I hadn't filled in for them. You wouldn't chastise a six-year-old for not being able to read and understand Shakespeare when they're only just mastering the alphabet.
It's an uncomfortable reflection. But it might be the most important one a grassroots football (soccer) coach can make.
Walk past any grassroots pitch on a weekend morning and you'll hear it. "Spread out!" "Get rid!" "Shoot!" "Press!" "Work harder!" A running commentary from the side, delivered with total conviction.
We tell ourselves it's coaching. It feels like coaching: we're engaged, we're helping, we're passionate. But the irony is hard to miss. The more we talk, the less the players think. Every instruction is a decision taken away from them, and as I wrote in The Freedom to Choose, we end up producing compliant followers rather than decision-makers.
The touchline isn't where players learn. It's where we find out what we haven't taught them yet.
Martin, the former Technical Director at Southampton, makes a point that sounds obvious until you try it. You cannot observe and talk at the same time. While you're giving an instruction, your attention is on your own message, not on the game in front of you.
So the coach who talks the most often sees the least. Martin's answer is simple: watch calmly, keep a notebook in your pocket, and save what you've seen for the breaks. One or two points, linked to what you worked on in training that week. Not ten. Not a running commentary.
It's the same for the players. A child listening to the touchline isn't reading the game. They can't do both, any more than we can.
Here's the reflection I'd ask every coach to make. After your next game, write down the things you shouted most. Then ask yourself one question of each: should I be sorting this out on the training pitch instead?
"Work harder" was mine, and the answer was fitness. Here are a few more you'll recognise.
| What we shout | The gap it usually reveals | Where to fill it |
|---|---|---|
| "Work harder!" | They aren't fit enough for what we're asking | A fitness element built into the week, ideally with the ball |
| "Spread out!" | They don't yet understand width and space | Games with wide zones or rules that reward using the whole pitch |
| "Get rid of it!" | They don't have the technique or the support to keep it | Receiving and support angles under gentle pressure |
| "Press!" | They don't know when to go, or who goes first | Pressing as a team decision, in small-sided games |
| "Talk to each other!" | We've never taught them what to say | Two or three calls to practise in training |
| "Mark up!" | They don't know who to pick up, or when | Defending as a unit |
| "Shoot!" | We want the decision made for them | Finishing games where they choose, and live with the result |
None of these are bad things to want. They're just in the wrong place. A touchline instruction is a training session we haven't run yet.
This isn't about guilt. Every coach shouts. I certainly did. The value is in noticing the pattern. If you hear yourself saying the same thing three weeks running, that's not the players' problem. That's your next session plan, written for you.
The Tao Te Ching puts it simply: "Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know." Two and a half thousand years later, it still describes most touchlines.
In The Way of Defence, I wrote about the stillness of great defenders like Maldini, Baresi and Moore. They didn't chase the game. They read it, waited, and acted at the right moment. A coach can do the same.
Quiet doesn't mean silent, and it certainly doesn't mean we don't care. It means choosing our moments. Praising effort out loud, so the player who did the running hears it. That's the bit I used to miss. Never criticising character, because "you're not brave enough" isn't feedback on football; at this age, their character is still being formed. And after the game, asking what they noticed before telling them what we saw.
Players take their temperature from the touchline. A calm coach gets calmer players.
Of course, a quiet coach can still be drowned out. A child hears the coach, the assistant and a row of parents: five voices telling them five different things, none of them their own. A parent shouting "shoot" may be asking for the exact opposite of what the coach worked on all week.
So the stillness has to be shared. Tell parents at the start of the season what you're working on, and ask them to keep to encouragement. Our free Match Day Guide for Parents is written to be handed straight to them.
And remember the drive home. Children want a parent in the car, not a second coach.
There's a reason so many children love it when their grandparents come to watch. Grandparents don't coach from the touchline. They smile, and at the end they say something like: "I loved watching you play. Did you enjoy it?"
That's the standard. Not silence for its own sake, but the trust to let the game belong to the players, and the humility to take what we see back to the training pitch.
Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living. Perhaps the unexamined touchline isn't worth shouting from. Listen to what you say on a Saturday. It's telling you exactly what to coach on Tuesday.
This post is part of our Saving the Game series, alongside A Manifesto for Football in 2026 and Goodbye Hysteria, Welcome Back Stoicism.