What makes a sports coach or manager lose the dressing room?
Steve Fairbairn was a famous and influential rowing coach between the wars. One day a young aspiring coach asked him if he might accompany him along the towpath – he was a bit disappointed. “You don’t seem to say much,” he said.” “Too right” was the reply, “but I stop other bloody fools from saying anything” —a salutary story. Many sportspeople have been damaged by listening to coaches who sought to change how they ran, rowed, fought or played.
Others have been too sensible to listen to such advice. The two greatest Australian cricketers between the wars were Don Bradman and Bill O’Reilly. Coaches wanted to change the way Bradman held his bat. The position of his left hand wasn’t orthodox. Likewise, O’Reilly, who bowled wrist spin at a near medium pace, was told he held the ball wrong. Both men had the self-confidence to ignore the advice. Their records show that they were right and the eager coaches wrong.
What makes a good coach has always been a difficult question to answer. Obviously, he or she should have technical knowledge, but it may be more important to have sympathy. James Anderson’s career stalled briefly when eager coaches tried to change his action at the moment of delivery. He bowled worse till he reverted to what was natural for him. Now, of course, he has taken more Test wickets than any other pace bowler in the game’s history.
What about team managers? They likewise should have technical knowledge, but managers of big clubs often leave technical coaching to their underlings. Sympathetic understanding may be more important. I have always liked the story of Brian Clough coming into the dressing-room before a match when his team were on a bad run of defeats. The players were doubtless expecting either a rocket or an inspiring speech. Clough tossed a ball on to the floor. “That’s a football,” he said, “now go out and play with it.” It was an invitation to enjoy themselves. They won the match. Of course, they did. He had given them the necessary mood music.
When the young Scottish wing Ryan Fraser moved from Aberdeen to Bournemouth, he was lonely, unsure of himself, far away from home and familiar surroundings. My memory is that Bournemouth’s manager Eddie Howe told him to get himself a dog. He did so, and his form picked up. Howe himself seems to be in line now to be Celtic’s new manager, the previously very successful Neil Lennon having apparently lost both his magic touch and, consequently, the confidence of the players, otherwise known as the dressing-room. This is why new managers often enjoy some immediate success; it’s enough to be singing a different tune.
Still, managers who succeed with one club often fail at another. The case of David Moyes is instructive. He did well with Everton, well enough for Sir Alex Ferguson to identify him as his successor at Old Trafford. It wasn’t a success. He then moved to a Spanish club and failed again. A short time with Sunderland was no more successful. Nor was his first spell managing West Ham. Now he is back at West Ham, and they are currently fourth in the Premiership.
Perhaps he has learned from failure, often more stimulating than success if you face it right. Interestingly WestHam’s recent surge up the table has coincided with the acquisition of Jesse Lingard from Manchester United. Lingard flourished there when Moyes was in charge, but more recently had come to resemble one of these trunks labelled “not wanted on the voyage” which, in the days of long journeys by sea used to be stored in the hold rather than kept at hand in the passenger’s cabin. Some players respond to harsh words. Others need to feel loved. One of Ferguson’s strengths as a manager was understanding who needed a hug and who a verbal slap.
Managers and coaches need, like schoolteachers, to be close to their charges but not too close. They can succeed by judicious use of praise and equally judicious criticism. What they mustn’t do is bore their charges. After the 2003 Rugby World Cup, the Scottish Rugby Union appointed a silver-tongued Australian, Matt Williams, as national coach in succession to Ian McGeechan. Williams talked a lot and was given to indulging in detailed analysis. It wasn’t long before players were switching off. In his case, it wasn’t a matter of losing the dressing-room; he never really had it. Eddie Jones has been England’s most successful rugby coach since Clive Woodward. He has also lasted longer than anyone since Woodward. Too long? Perhaps.
There have been suggestions this Spring that he has begun to lose the dressing-room. Of course, living in a Covid-imposed bubble has made this a great season, one in which inevitably players have seen more of their coach and heard more from him than international squads usually do. It wouldn’t be surprising if some have had moments of wishing that the coach would “shut the hell up”. There comes a time when the players have heard it all before but would like to hear a new tune. What General de Gaulle said of international treaties might be applied to coaches and managers, they are; “like roses and pretty girls; they last as long as they last”
A good coach is an inspiration and a buffer between players and their critics at first. And then, too often, an irritant, eventually a bore. The day comes when the coach isn’t, like Steve Fairbairn, stopping bloody fools from giving bad advice or wrong instruction to his charges. Instead, they have come to see him as that bloody fool and are eager to watch him leave through the door marked exit.