"Stop, stand still, foot on the ball, eyes on me. Right, all move around the square, big toe, little toe, keep control of the ball. Let's go." As I barked out these instructions at the top of my voice, my eyes were quickly scanning the group of boys and girls in front of me. The youngest was 4, the oldest 8, the vast majority 6 or 7 years of age--25 young souls taking part in the delights that are a soccer camp. For 3 days they attend for 6 hours at a time. At the end of the third day, it is hoped that they will have gained some new skills, acquired some tricks, had bags of fun and got value for their parent's hard-earned money.
The reality, however, is quite different. For working on ball control, drag-backs and shooting accuracy takes second place to splitting up fights, settling disputes and comforting the upset and unhappy. Taking control and responsibility for two-dozen children is a draining experience in many respects. The first day is exciting, getting to know them as quickly as possible. The second day is tougher as the naughty and mischevious start to show their true colors. By the third day you've had enough of sly Ben, can't wait for demanding Derek to go home, and as for angel-faced Jay, well, he's fooling nobody. Yet, it isn't all doom and gloom for there are many special moments along the way. Some children, even in such a short space of time, endear themselves to you. Little Pat, with the face of a scamp and a heart of gold; lovely Helen, 6 years old and a professional footballer in every sense; and Elliot, a natural who doesn't give you a minutes trouble--25 of him and you could get the cigars out.
But the overriding memory of the 3-day camp has to be the excitement created by an activity far removed from the beautiful game. Getting 25 children to listen is a very difficult job at the very best of times. But throw in the names Batista, Rey Mysterio or The Undertaker and you have their undivided attention.
The phenomenon that is the WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment) has crossed the Atlantic and is creating quite a stir in Britain. All dates are immediate sellouts and the revenue generated runs into hundreds of millions of dollars. And as a parent, the influence of these wrestling megastars is disturbing me greatly. My own son is a massive fan, and we went to the Manchester Evening News Arena to see the show for ourselves. At £62 per ticket it was an expensive evening. But the traumatized look on his face as "The Boogeyman," a man who eats live worms in the ring and leaves them like a calling card on his opponent's body, will always stay with me. As I held him close, attempting to reassure him that it was all make believe, I couldn't help feeling stupid as I had paid over £120 to see my son sob uncontrollably.
The rest of the show was as entertaining as it was unsound. Female wrestlers are called Divas and are the ultimate sex object. Wet t-shirts, mud wrestling and bikini matches are the norm, and at times it resemble soft porn. Vendettas are commonplace but are settled in the most unsatisfactory manner possible. For there is no honor in the WWE. Assaults from behind, weapons, 3 v1, and handicap matches are all mainstays of the program. If the remit is disturbing people, then they are doing a brilliant job. But the messages, obvious or subtle, go against the grain of basic decency. Cryme Time are a black team of wrestlers who steal and are always in trouble with the law, Eugene is a wrestler with mental illness who is always mocked and ridiculed, whilst John Cena, a clean cut, clean living former US Marine, is the ultimate people's champion. Sexual innuendo, bullying, racism, it's all there in spades. And the kids love it. But what harm is it doing? Are we poisoning the minds of our youth in the name of entertainment? We all know it's staged, but watching somebody being reduced to a bloody mess is disturbing, whatever your age. And the way it is done, often from behind or with the element of surprise, gives the message that this is the way to settle disputes. What happened to reason? Diplomacy? Respect? I teach my children to stand up for themselves and to protect their own human rights. But if my son attacks somebody in the school playground, jumps on a girl's back and pulls her hair until she screams, or beats somebody until he draws blood, should I be surprised? And this is what makes me feel so uncomfortable. For buying tickets is to buy into the whole madness that is WWE.
Back to the coaching camp and there I am, day 2 and already struggling for games to keep my young footballers interested. So, whilst moving around a 30x 30 square, keeping the ball under control, the players awaited my instructions. If I shouted Batista, they had to do the actions of the great man mountain himself, pretending to fire off a few rounds on a machine gun. If the command was Rey Mysterio, they had to scream 6 1 9 at the top of their voices, the signature move of Mr. Mysterio. And so on and so forth. The game? Complete success, perfect, a hit, a smash, result. My coaching chest was puffed out as I commanded my arena. Concentration was total, enjoyment guaranteed. And yet I never felt truly comfortable as I knew, yet again, I was compromising my principles. I may well have used commands like Nigger, Paki or Slag to get their attention. And whenever I was struggling, I returned to this activity to regain my composure, gather my thoughts and remind myself of my coaching prowess. What am I to do? Ban it from my screen and risk my son being excluded from the gang? Or carry on regardless, hoping that the example we set is the one they choose to follow? Or, option 3. Which is to shut my eyes, convince myself it's only the wrestling that he enjoys, and that the sexist, racist, homophobic stuff goes totally over his head. A moral dilemma. A modern moral dilemma.
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