The Unpopular Kid

Me: “I wish someone would text me.” Danielle, the family housing daughter: “Why?” Me: “Cos I want to feel popular.” Danielle: “But you aren’t popular.”

Fly On The Wall

What’s the best way to get acros Oregon? The I5? Walk? No, stupid, fly of course!

My family housing flew me from Klamath Falls to Ashland on Saturday and even let me take the controls for the most part (except the landing and taking off obviously). The rush was awesome and if I had more time and lots more money I’d try and get my pilot’s licence.

Angry

I’m angry. About a couple of things. Firstly, I was in San Jose at a bar with some of the other coaches, which is something of a regular pastime on Saturday evenings for MLS coaches. So there I am, going around and chatting with random people, which I much prefer to squeezing past drunk girls and pervy guys on the dance floor. I start talking to two girls and one of them says: “You sound like you’re from London.”

“I am from London,” I replied.

She looked at me quizzically. “Are you really?” she said.

“Yes. Really,” I replied.

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

Then she started explaining how lots of American guys pretend to be English to impress girls because, apparently, it is cool. I asked her a) why this hadn’t actually worked for me with any girls since I got here and b) why she thought my English accent was worthy of scrutiny. She couldn’t answer either.

But she still wasn’t having any of it when I produced my drivers’ licence (which she said was fake). By this time I was starting to blow steam out of my ears. One, because of the aforementioned lack-of-girls problem and two because I really am English!

I decided to be the bigger man and walk away.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t talk to you anymore,” were my departing words. Her friend looked a bit shocked. I had to go outside and stew for a bit. Stupid San Jose.

The next thing that made me angry was my digital camera, which has mysteriously broken. I gave it to a dad at the end of camp last week to take a photo of me and his kid, and when he handed it back it wouldn’t work. Something about a ‘lens error’. I’m pretty sure I didn’t see him drop it, but maybe when I looked away for a split second he quickly trod on it. Probably didn’t believe I was English either.*

And the third thing that is grinding my gears is MLS Camp’s lack of common sense. Again. I’m coaching in Laguna Niguel, home to all of those terrible it-girls-who-do-nothing-all-day-except-shop shows, like the OC, The Hills and, the imaginatively titled Laguna Beach. Not that I ever watch any of them. I am coaching with one other coach called Seb (which whenever I think about it, makes me think of my brother and that brings a smile to my face because I simply have to remember any of the myriad entertaining things he does) and he has to coach 30 minutes away in the afternoon, finishing our morning camp at 12, while I go on till 3pm. Fine if we have two cars, but guess how many we have? One. Natually. So I have to get my family housing, who have been amazing all week, to ferry me back home. How embarrassing. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised in MLS though. fourth year out here, and nothing ever changes.

*N.B. My camera has magically fixed itself. One of the girls on camp told everyone to make a wish at 11.11am today and I took my chance. “Please fix my bloody camera, wish gods,” I pleaded. Two minutes later I tried. Success! It worked. I’m going to make a wish every day at 11.11 from now on.

Uncomfortable

It’s only when life’s little luxuries get taken away that you stop taking them for granted. I discovered this the hard way over the weekend. It began with the simple pleasure of a comfy car journey, which turned into eight hours of what I think it’s fair to call absolute hell.

On a steaming hot Saturday, I shared a car ride from Los Angeles to San Jose with four other coaches and ten bags. Typically with working for MLS Camps common sense was left in Los Angeles – we had the smallest rental car possible which meant our car was overflowing with bags. Everyone, barring the driver obviously, had a bag on their lap and we had coaching equipment and soccer balls shoved into every remaining nook and cranny left. It was like the last day of a summer holiday, trying to close a bulging suitcase.

We left in high spirits but after 30 minutes those spirits dropped. The temperature outside the car started soaring and it soon reached 110 degrees, and patience inside the car started plummeting. Before long my legs started to cramp up, a tiny knot of pain appeared in my foot and slowly worked its way up my legs, like that line on the old Blue Peter appeals. Soon the lower half of my body felt like it had filled up with cement.  A couple of stops along the way eased the pain but every time I’d only have to get back in the car under our mountain of bags and I was like an arthritic granddad again.

I collapsed onto the bed at the Days Inn when we finally got there, but we were soon on our feet again, testing the nightlife waters of downtown San Jose.

The next day we were up early ready for a drive to Klamath Falls, Oregon. Despite a few boxes full of soccer balls and t-shirts, we had a relatively spacious car, but a few hours later we’d be the victims of a car’s favourite way to play tricks on its driver – quietly run out of fuel.

We already had to make a detour in northern California, turning off the 97 North thanks to a raging forest fire. A friendly, bearded chap in a yellow jacket gave up pretty simple directions and we followed them. We were soon heading down the 66 towards Klamath Falls. We were distracted by stunning views over a valley and spectacular cliff faces, and we didn’t notice the field gauge slowly ticking down.

Suddenly Shaun piped up: “You know what chaps, we might not make this.” Like the snooker player losing his grip on a match as his opponent mathematically moves out of reach with every pot, we quickly calculated that 70 miles to go with only 30 in the tank did not add up.

Seeing as we hadn’t seen a gas station in 50 miles thanks to the rural nature of the road, we decided to drive on as much as our tank would take us.

I put it in neutral as we crept down the winding roads but the numbers kept on dropping. 12 miles to go. 10. 6. 5. 2. Soon it reached zero and we all held our breath. The car plodded along, seemingly on hopes and prays rather than any petrol.

By now dusk has been and gone and it was pitch black. Only the light of the stars showed us the way. Matt started telling ghost stories and swearing he saw eyes in the bushes, more to calm his own nerves than rattle anyone elses.

The stream of passing cars soon dried up and we were left to contemplate our next step. Get out and walk to the nearest house/gas station? Stay in the car over night? 10pm came and went. We were four hours late to our family housing and had to start coaching at 9am the next day.

As we started giving up hope and preparing to knock on the next house we saw, no matter how run down and Scream 3-esque it seemed, a miracle happened. Matt joked as we saw the fuel gauge drop to zero: “Wouldn’t it be class if we saw a pub now? Gas and a drink!”

No more than two seconds later, a bar appeared on our right. It was like the end of a bad movie, where the hero sees his long-lost brother, or something.

Cue wild celebrations in our car. We pulled up and went inside. “Where’s the nearest gas station?” we asked. “40 miles away,” was the reply. “How low are you?”

“Erm…we’re on zero.”

In an act of genuine life-saving grace, the owner, Paddy, sold us five gallons and after a couple of celebratory beers, we were back on our way, just thankful to be alive.

Suffice to say, we’ll be filling up long before the light comes on next time.

From Sevenoaks to Thousand Oaks

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m three days into my first week back coaching soccer in America with MLS Camps after a three year absence and it is exactly as I remember it.

Coaches tell the same jokes at break times, use the same MLS colloquialisms (eg, Brian. AKA Brian Lara – an American man who has a girlfriend much better looking than him. A man batting above his average), they still try and flesh out games to last as long as possible, they still perv over good-looking nannies who drop off and pick up the kids and moan about the job.

Camps are still the same structure, more or less. Joke breaks still last ages, certain coaching games are still relied upon when things aren’t going well, parents still bring their kids to camp 10 minutes after it’s supposed to have started, and the kids still routinely forget their soccer balls, water bottles and lunches.

The groups of kids are still a mixture of enthusiastic soccer-freaks who just want to kick a ball every five seconds, and space cadets who stare up into the sky at passing aeroplanes while a soccer ball whistles past his ear.

The MLS hierarchy is still a boys club, where power is given to a few, who hold it over many. Where coaches are made to work double shifts and then find rubber cheques in their accounts.

Family housing are still as welcoming and friendly as ever. They still bend over backwards to make you feel at home, and take you to the beach in the afternoon, or give you a pair of Converse All-stars as a leaving present (only one of those has happened to me). The family housing kids are still in awe at your “funny” accent or your stories of life back home – no matter how mundane.

I’m the second oldest out of all the California-based coaches, but I still feel like the same 21-year-old that came out in 2005, cocksure and confident because he was a returning coach with a been-there-done-that attitude, but also with a sense of adventure and wonder at what lay ahead. It’s just a shame I’m actually a 25-year-old failed journalist, who ran out of things to do back home.

I’m currently in Newbury Park, which is in Thousand Oaks, CA. It’s about 30 minutes from Malibu, an hour or so from downtown Los Angeles, and a world away from back home.

What I’ve noticed already since I’ve got back into MLS Camps mode is the group mentality of the coaches. Everyone on their own seems to be nice, down-to-earth, relatively intelligent young men (and one woman), but when they get together they become a bit loutish, misogynist, and generally blokey. This makes me feel uncomfortable. I feel like a bit of an imposter in the ranks, because I’m anything but blokey. But I’ll get by. I’ve tried to introduce myself to them all and had a quick chat and they seem pretty friendly (even after I got a bit excited yesterday during ‘blind soccer’ and kick the ball at coach Steve, it hit him right in the tenders. He wasn’t that happy).

Anyway, family housing (my own and another around the corner hosting other coaches, who have let me hang out too) have been brilliant, welcoming and super friendly. As always. I’m very lucky with the people I’ve met and continue to meet in this job. I know it isn’t forever, and I know coaching will not be my niche, but for the time being I’m enjoying the ride.

Soap for fans of Alan Partridge

Like Tahotally Amazing

Here are a few things that make Lake Tahoe so special:

• Cycling along the marina, down to the beach
• Wading half a mile into the lake and still not having the water lap high than your knees
• Kicking up fools gold from the bed of the lake and watching it glisten in the midday sun
• Staring into a clear night’s sky, the stars like lights on ceiling
• Floating on a peddle boat, dangling your feet into the crystal clear water
• Sitting under a boardwalk, watching the world go by
• Watching the sun go down behind the mountains, while tip-toeing through fresh water
• Taking a cable car to a mountain peak at the south of the lake, giving views of the 22-mile long lake
• Skimming stones on the lake as dusk settles
• Sharing a beer with friends, under July 4th fireworks
• Having a milkshake, walking along a boardwalk, while familes frolic on the beach
• Standing on thousand-foot rock faces, over an awe inspiring view of Emerald Bay
• Knowing you’ll be back. Someday

A Few Videos From San Francisco

Driving down Lombard Street, the world’s crookedest street. (Expletive language included – courtesy of Streety)

Alex and I cycling along the Golden Gate Bridge.

Streety and Latvian just behind us.

Cyclin’ On The Dock Of The Bay

I feel like the theme of the last week has been ‘taking chances’. The wedding was a result of Rob taking a chance and coming to America, we took a chance asking for a tour of the winery in Apple Hill on Tuesday and yesterday, in San Francisco, we took a chance on two wheels.

After a 90-minute drive from Sacramento into downtown San Francisco, Alex, Chris, Andy and I found ourselves at Lori’s Diner, near the wharf, weighing up our options, over an Oreo milkshake.

I saw some people cycling across the street and had one of those lightbulb-above-the-head ideas. Ding! Let’s hire bikes and cycle to the Golden Gate Bridge! It took some convincing of the others, but my persuasion skills won through and we soon found ourselves peddling along the beach towards one of America’s most iconic landmarks.

I was paired with Alex while Chris and Andy were on the other tandem – in matching white t-shirts and jeans. Like some sort of Bike Buddies. Bless.

Everything went swimmingly, racing along the seafront, the wind in our hairs, ringing the bell at pretty girls we passed, and we were soon at the foot of the Golden Gate bridge.

We had a little pep talk about going single file across the bridge and stopping mid-way to take photos, and then we were off.

We had to peddle like mad (well, Alex, Andy and I did, because Chris, who was on the back of Andy’s bike, just put his feet up the whole time) because the wind was immense. It was like cycling in cement. But we battled on and made it to the other side – a mile or so later.

Then disaster struck. Just when everything was going great, I started to get a little over-confident. Apart from going in a straight line all along the bridge, we had to cycle around both legs of the bridge. On the second one and massive gust of wind blew right into us as we were exiting the turn.

After two hours of cycling a little bravado appeared and I tried to take that turn at speed. The wind decided against that, and as I tried to turn the bike resisted. The result – crashing into the barriers. Poor Alex, who had no control over anything, went flying over the bike and landed on her arm.

I fell forward but managed to put my hands out. The most damage I received was to my ego, heavily bruised after I had been doing so well.

We brushed ourselves down and headed back, much slower than before. Dinner at a seafood restaurant and a journey down Lombard Street, the most crooked in the world, and we were on our way home. Tired and bruised, but content.

We’re now in Lake Tahoe, on the California/Nevada border. It’s a stunning location and the perfect place to relax after a hectic week.

View To Kill

Chris, Alex and Andy give us a quick introduction to the Apple Hill region.