FrankoRunner99
BRONZE
It’s been 6 months. 6 long-ass, rage-drenched, soul-scorching, brain-melting, spiritually hollow months since I got cut from the greatest circus on Earth : High School Soccer Tryouts. (See: my former posts if you want to dive into the fiery asshole of the SoCal soccer hellscape.) But today, I bring you my findings. My evidence. My manifesto. This isn’t a rant, folks, this is a field report from the frontlines of a shadowy underground cartel.
This isn't conspiracy shit. This isn’t “Haha OP’s salty.” No. This is truth. Cold, salty, sobering truth served on a steel plate of fuck you.
Let me introduce you to the lords of the pit : the COACHES. The washed-up wannabe Ancelottis of the SoCal Youth Soccer Scene. The full-time High School “Head Coach,” part-time “Technical Director” of some fake-ass club with a name like “WestCoast LASC Galaxy Elite NextGen SoCal 1st Division Academy Platinum Select™.” You think they’re just loud sideline psychos? Nah. These dudes are cartel dons. They run the whole rigged-ass game. They all know each other. They all MEET somewhere. Probably some shitty Starbucks off the 405 where they plan the next chapter of this incestuous soccer clusterfuck like evil anime villains.
WHO ARE THESE COACHES?
You know EXACTLY who I’m talking about. You’ve seen them. You’ve survived them. Every single one of these pricks is a 27-year-old ex-college benchwarmer named Alvarez, Rodriguez, Guzmán, or Velasquez who wears a full Nike Tech Fit tracksuit like it’s their fucking armor. Always drives a GR86 or some modern sports car and act like it's a Ferrari. This dude was a sub at El Camino Community College in 2011 and now walks around calling himself “Coach Alvy” like he’s in the fucking Serie A.
They say “session” instead of “practice.” They say “football” instead of “soccer” like they’re from Manchester instead of fucking Pomona. They call 12-year-olds “athletes.” They call a 4v4 scrimmage a “tactical breakdown.” And they’re addicted, ADDICTED, to saying “No excuses.”
"Coach, I have COVID."
> “No excuses.”
"Coach, my femur's shattered."
“NO excuses.”
"Coach, I got stabbed at 7-Eleven by a homeless guy on the way to practice."
“Should’ve kept your head on a swivel. No excuses.”
If they don’t say it 100 times a day, they get the shakes like nicotine withdrawal. It’s their mantra. Their gospel. Their core value.
That, and riding the dicks of their favorite Varsity boy-wonders like they’re Rodrigo De Paul in front of Messi.
And it’s not just High School Coaches, nah, the club/academy ones are EVEN WORSE. I saw this one retarded club coach literally bark at a kid who missed a pass. BARK. Like. A. Fucking. Dog. And then dap up some MLS Next prodigy 10 seconds later with a “That’s why you’re built different, bro.” I shit you not, it was like watching a cult in real time.
THE FUCKING FAVORITISM.
If you’re not part of the sacred Club-Academy inner circle, you might as well be a fucking slug in their eyes. They don’t even make eye contact. You’re invisible. You could nutmeg a dude blindfolded, and all Coach McClipboard will say is, “You didn’t sprint after the play. Weak mentality.”
Meanwhile, his golden boy, Julian DeSoccerGOD, literally falls on his face and Coach calls it “gritty.”
Oh, and water? You want water?
> WATER?!
Water is for the weak. Water is for pussies. Water is for little lazy dicksacks who don’t “want it bad enough.” Coach Alvy over here thinks giving kids water during a 2-hour death circuit in 95-degree heat is handing them participation trophies. Meanwhile, he’s drinking a $12 matcha latte from Erewhon and yelling “PRESS! PRESS! PRESS!” like he’s got PTSD from watching too much Klopp.
And don’t even THINK about making a mistake.
You fuck up one touch? One mispass? One wrong turn? You just disrespected their ENTIRE FAMILY TREE.
Coach starts pacing like a psycho.
“HOW BAD DO YOU WANT IT, HUH? IS THIS A JOKE TO YOU? IS THIS FUCKING FUNNY?”
Bro, we’re at a tryout. At a public park. At 8 PM. On a Tuesday. Calm your ass down, you're not coaching in the World Cup. Jesus Christ.
These Coaches Talk Like They Played with Maldini
Every other sentence:
> “Back in my day, you didn’t get subbed off, you died on the pitch.”
“You know who never made excuses? RONALDO. The REAL one. R9. Not that Cristiano poser.”
Bro you work part-time at AutoZone and scream at 15-year-olds for a living. You are NOT him. You were never him. You will NEVER be him.
THEY ALL KNOW EACH OTHER.
Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
High school coach knows club coach. Club coach knows academy coach. Academy coach knows the recruiter. And they all rotate players like Pokémon cards. If you're not in their little clique? Tough luck, pleb. Back to AYSO where you belong.
It’s a mafia. A soccer mafia. And these smug sons of bitches are the kingpins.
They hold secret tryouts. Invite-only “training camps.” Undisclosed “development centers.” Kids who make these don’t have to try out at school, they just appear on Varsity. They show up on day 1 of the season like royalty, with the coach clapping and fist-bumping them like they just signed with Real Madrid.
Meanwhile, I’m over here scraping mud off my $40 Amazon cleats while Coach McFuckhead gives me the “Why are you here?” look.
THE WORST PART? THEY THINK THEY’RE DOING YOU A FAVOR.
> “Be grateful for this opportunity.”
“You’re lucky to be here.”
“I didn’t have a field when I was growing up.”
Okay, you fucking Maradona knockoff. The field we’re playing on was built with taxpayer money. It’s literally public property. Stop acting like you own the Emirates. The goalpost is crooked, the net’s falling apart, and I just stepped on a syringe. But go ahead, tell me how blessed I am to train under your divine guidance, Coach.
And then they fucking ghost you.
Get cut? No message. No closure. No feedback unless you chase them like a fucking ex. And even then, it’s like:
> “Just not what we’re looking for.”
What ARE you looking for, Coach? Bloodline descendants of Pelé? Varsity is a pre-picked pile of golden test tube babies you’ve known since 7th grade and send Christmas cards to. I could’ve scored a hat trick from midfield and you’d still pick Mateo from SoCal Galaxy Elite who hasn’t played since April because “he’s part of the system.”
TO SUMMARIZE:
The SoCal Youth Soccer scene is run by an incestuous group of washed-up, power-tripping, psychotic wannabe Mourinho fucklords who all went to college on half-scholarships, tore their ACLs in year two, and now live out their failed dreams by emotionally tormenting kids with genuine passion but no money, no club, and no “connections.”
They wear Nike. They say “session.” They own clipboards like they’re fucking Thor’s hammer.
They all know each other.
They meet in secret.
And they are THE REASON YOUTH SOCCER IN THE US IS BROKEN AS FUCK.
Stay mad, stay based. I’ll be playing pickup at the park with the other outlaws and AYSO comrades.
Franko out.
For now.
This isn't conspiracy shit. This isn’t “Haha OP’s salty.” No. This is truth. Cold, salty, sobering truth served on a steel plate of fuck you.
Let me introduce you to the lords of the pit : the COACHES. The washed-up wannabe Ancelottis of the SoCal Youth Soccer Scene. The full-time High School “Head Coach,” part-time “Technical Director” of some fake-ass club with a name like “WestCoast LASC Galaxy Elite NextGen SoCal 1st Division Academy Platinum Select™.” You think they’re just loud sideline psychos? Nah. These dudes are cartel dons. They run the whole rigged-ass game. They all know each other. They all MEET somewhere. Probably some shitty Starbucks off the 405 where they plan the next chapter of this incestuous soccer clusterfuck like evil anime villains.
WHO ARE THESE COACHES?
You know EXACTLY who I’m talking about. You’ve seen them. You’ve survived them. Every single one of these pricks is a 27-year-old ex-college benchwarmer named Alvarez, Rodriguez, Guzmán, or Velasquez who wears a full Nike Tech Fit tracksuit like it’s their fucking armor. Always drives a GR86 or some modern sports car and act like it's a Ferrari. This dude was a sub at El Camino Community College in 2011 and now walks around calling himself “Coach Alvy” like he’s in the fucking Serie A.
They say “session” instead of “practice.” They say “football” instead of “soccer” like they’re from Manchester instead of fucking Pomona. They call 12-year-olds “athletes.” They call a 4v4 scrimmage a “tactical breakdown.” And they’re addicted, ADDICTED, to saying “No excuses.”
"Coach, I have COVID."
> “No excuses.”
"Coach, my femur's shattered."
“NO excuses.”
"Coach, I got stabbed at 7-Eleven by a homeless guy on the way to practice."
“Should’ve kept your head on a swivel. No excuses.”
If they don’t say it 100 times a day, they get the shakes like nicotine withdrawal. It’s their mantra. Their gospel. Their core value.
That, and riding the dicks of their favorite Varsity boy-wonders like they’re Rodrigo De Paul in front of Messi.
And it’s not just High School Coaches, nah, the club/academy ones are EVEN WORSE. I saw this one retarded club coach literally bark at a kid who missed a pass. BARK. Like. A. Fucking. Dog. And then dap up some MLS Next prodigy 10 seconds later with a “That’s why you’re built different, bro.” I shit you not, it was like watching a cult in real time.
THE FUCKING FAVORITISM.
If you’re not part of the sacred Club-Academy inner circle, you might as well be a fucking slug in their eyes. They don’t even make eye contact. You’re invisible. You could nutmeg a dude blindfolded, and all Coach McClipboard will say is, “You didn’t sprint after the play. Weak mentality.”
Meanwhile, his golden boy, Julian DeSoccerGOD, literally falls on his face and Coach calls it “gritty.”
Oh, and water? You want water?
> WATER?!
Water is for the weak. Water is for pussies. Water is for little lazy dicksacks who don’t “want it bad enough.” Coach Alvy over here thinks giving kids water during a 2-hour death circuit in 95-degree heat is handing them participation trophies. Meanwhile, he’s drinking a $12 matcha latte from Erewhon and yelling “PRESS! PRESS! PRESS!” like he’s got PTSD from watching too much Klopp.
And don’t even THINK about making a mistake.
You fuck up one touch? One mispass? One wrong turn? You just disrespected their ENTIRE FAMILY TREE.
Coach starts pacing like a psycho.
“HOW BAD DO YOU WANT IT, HUH? IS THIS A JOKE TO YOU? IS THIS FUCKING FUNNY?”
Bro, we’re at a tryout. At a public park. At 8 PM. On a Tuesday. Calm your ass down, you're not coaching in the World Cup. Jesus Christ.
These Coaches Talk Like They Played with Maldini
Every other sentence:
> “Back in my day, you didn’t get subbed off, you died on the pitch.”
“You know who never made excuses? RONALDO. The REAL one. R9. Not that Cristiano poser.”
Bro you work part-time at AutoZone and scream at 15-year-olds for a living. You are NOT him. You were never him. You will NEVER be him.
THEY ALL KNOW EACH OTHER.
Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
High school coach knows club coach. Club coach knows academy coach. Academy coach knows the recruiter. And they all rotate players like Pokémon cards. If you're not in their little clique? Tough luck, pleb. Back to AYSO where you belong.
It’s a mafia. A soccer mafia. And these smug sons of bitches are the kingpins.
They hold secret tryouts. Invite-only “training camps.” Undisclosed “development centers.” Kids who make these don’t have to try out at school, they just appear on Varsity. They show up on day 1 of the season like royalty, with the coach clapping and fist-bumping them like they just signed with Real Madrid.
Meanwhile, I’m over here scraping mud off my $40 Amazon cleats while Coach McFuckhead gives me the “Why are you here?” look.
THE WORST PART? THEY THINK THEY’RE DOING YOU A FAVOR.
> “Be grateful for this opportunity.”
“You’re lucky to be here.”
“I didn’t have a field when I was growing up.”
Okay, you fucking Maradona knockoff. The field we’re playing on was built with taxpayer money. It’s literally public property. Stop acting like you own the Emirates. The goalpost is crooked, the net’s falling apart, and I just stepped on a syringe. But go ahead, tell me how blessed I am to train under your divine guidance, Coach.
And then they fucking ghost you.
Get cut? No message. No closure. No feedback unless you chase them like a fucking ex. And even then, it’s like:
> “Just not what we’re looking for.”
What ARE you looking for, Coach? Bloodline descendants of Pelé? Varsity is a pre-picked pile of golden test tube babies you’ve known since 7th grade and send Christmas cards to. I could’ve scored a hat trick from midfield and you’d still pick Mateo from SoCal Galaxy Elite who hasn’t played since April because “he’s part of the system.”
TO SUMMARIZE:
The SoCal Youth Soccer scene is run by an incestuous group of washed-up, power-tripping, psychotic wannabe Mourinho fucklords who all went to college on half-scholarships, tore their ACLs in year two, and now live out their failed dreams by emotionally tormenting kids with genuine passion but no money, no club, and no “connections.”
They wear Nike. They say “session.” They own clipboards like they’re fucking Thor’s hammer.
They all know each other.
They meet in secret.
And they are THE REASON YOUTH SOCCER IN THE US IS BROKEN AS FUCK.
Stay mad, stay based. I’ll be playing pickup at the park with the other outlaws and AYSO comrades.
Franko out.
For now.