ROCK STARS AND SOCCER COACHES!

My morning drive to Panera Bread was interrupted when my cell phone rang. I answered it, and it was Paul, calling from his caravan of young soccer players, his students, on their way to Atlanta for the  Norcross Nike Cup with high hopes of being recruited for scholarships to universities seeking the cream of the crop. I couldn't help but think about the Saturday almost a year ago when I went to my first-ever soccer game, one of those tournaments in Wesley Chapel where Gibbo was showcasing his best players. I was so impressed with those kids. They moved about on the pitch with confidence, those smooth moves reflecting and radiating what Gibbo had taught them. They were playing the beautiful game, which doesn't come naturally. It comes with a lot of hard work and the desire to learn from the ground up. Literally. The more I've watched Gibbo, the more I've heard and read about him, the more I realize he is the best. His coaching style of play—free-flowing, attacking, passing—won him the reputation for producing good soccer players and teams that are a pleasure to watch even from The Albion days, all stemming from his love of the Dutch Coerver method.

Well... Gibbo was off again with yet another group of kids, and I can't wait to hear the results. But I learned that he was reminiscing about something else this morning... someone else, I should say. He was thinking about Robert Plant and Led Zeppelin, primarily because he was on his way to Atlanta and it brought back memories of Robert. It goes like this...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reminiscing is good, especially when it includes rock stars and soccer legends. At least, I'm sure Gibbo feels this way. I'm still just Jane, living and breathing and writing for people with whom I have little in common. I've never liked rock music, never been to a pub nor tasted a bitter or mild, and I never knew a thing about soccer before Gibbo. Now... well, now I think I'm an expert! On soccer, that is.

Posted 3rd December 2010 by Jane B. Gaddy

WORLD CLASS

I've watched Paul with an eagle eye and an inquisitive mind over these last ten months while writing his story. He doesn't like it when I call him a world class soccer coach. Maybe I don't understand the true meaning of world class. So... I've employed a few of Gibbo's own Black Country words to define what I know to be true about him.

I'll start with Bostin. I like that word. I had never heard it before he came into my world. I thought it was something he made up, but I have since found it to be one of the best, most expressive words for outstanding. Besides, it has an "English" ring that I like. Then there's the word, brilliant. He uses it a lot, but only in the superlative and when he means outstanding. His coaching skills and techniques are brilliant and the way he reaches to the heart of young people the world over is, indeed, world class. He may not speak their language or their dialect, but his eyes and actions of the heart speak directly to the moment. And they love him. They love him because they have an uncanny built-in God-given mechanism that helps them understand that he loves them right back. Children respond to intellect, but so much more to love and regard. That's Gibbo's forte.


Only a world class soccer coach could get to Botswana to make a contribution that will likely affect those young people the rest of their lives, I thought, sitting on the opposite side of Planet Earth from Gibbo those three weeks. I tried to visualize how it might have been so I could write it, but never mind, when he returned, he had it down pat and with all the ease in the world, dictated that chapter of his life. 

Out of the abundance of new friends and joined by colleagues from other parts of the world, those present at Coaching for Conservation in Botswana, Africa, found yet another world class partner—Lesley Boggs, Director of Coaching for Conservation. It was through her efforts and due diligence that Gibbo and the other coaches were there. 


These are Lesley's words:

I had never met Paul "Gibbo" Gibbons when I called him from Botswana on skype (at the recommendation of Nick Gates from Coaches across Continents) to ask if he might be interested in spending three weeks in Botswana helping run our annual Coaching for Conservation program. I explained that C4C was a conservation program that uses soccer to engage kids, and that I needed someone to lead the soccer component—first teaching coaches and then overseeing the program for 700 kids that translates cool animal behaviors into related soccer skills. He would be one of three coaches: a professional soccer coach (him) an animal coach (virtual) and a conservation coach (a professional educator).  He laughed, and with a pause of no longer than ten seconds, said "I'm in!"

 

When Paul arrived, we went straight to our wildlife research field camp for a five-day initiation and training. I attempted to brief him on that two hour drive into camp, and realized early that my skype introduction had been vague and he actually had no clue what I needed him to do. He had to learn our entire curriculum including animal behaviours, translating them into football skills, training the local coaches to teach the drills. 

During the next week, he would be overseeing the football program  for 700 kids. "Is that all?" he muttered. "Guess we better get started!"  Like a kid in a candy store, Paul took in all the experiences of the African bush with enthusiasm. It was a thrill for him to get up in the morning and learn that the lions had milled about his tent the night before. And at first light of a morning to see the giraffe at the waterhole. He said very little, pinched himself now and then, and smiled a lot.

 

The annual program was a gigantic success. Paul accomplished the task and more. Within five days he learned it himself, gained the respect and confidence of all the local coaches and taught them the drills. He found his way into the hearts of our whole C4C team (more than 25 local and international volunteers), and by the end of the following week, flocks of children were following him around the field chanting his name— "Gib-bo, Gib-bo! We love you, Gibbo!"

 

Not everyone gets it. But Paul, in a quiet, caring, and gracious way, simply fell into step and put into place the pieces of the puzzle that were missing to make the parts of the whole come together.  His eyes give away his warm heart and we are most grateful. We look forward to next July already to hear the chants of "Gibbo, Gibbo..."

Lesley Boggs, Director
Coaching for Conservation

COMING TO AMERICA

The giant oak trees canopied and locked branches

from one side of the street to the other;

and the Confederate jasmine climbed the white trellises,

their fragrance sweet as sugar pie cooling

on the back porch banister of some old pre-Civil War mansion.

 

It was another emotional time for me. Leaving my kids in England. When Sean was just a lad, he said to me: “Dad, cry and get all them tears out of you.” 

            If only that were possible, then and now.

My ties to America were subtle at first. Dartmouth Park in West Brom. The Earl of Dartmouth visited America and brought back seeds. He planted them and huge trees still grow in Dartmouth Park, a reminder of England’s connection to America. I walked in the shade of those trees when I was a lad, never dreaming I would go to America one day. I’ve driven past the Asbury House thousands of times. Francis Asbury was the first Methodist Bishop to America. He lived in West Bromwich. Well, Great Barr anyway, about two miles from the original West Bromwich, the Old Church at the top of the Newton Road. The Wesleys preached in Wednesbury and West Brom in the market place. In hindsight these landmarks were my connection to America. When I think of the spiritual heritage that I neglected when I was in England, I wish I could recall the days. But no one cared enough to plant a seed in me much less water it. And I needed that. For I was no saint. Nowhere near. Life in a pub was like Sodom and Gomorrah at times. A proverbial den of iniquity. I saw things I should never have seen. Unspeakable things, so I’ll not speak of them. It’s neither in my best interest nor yours, my reader, that they be mentioned.

            Even before my mother died, it fell my lot to be left to myself while Mom and Dad ran the pub. The days were long for them and I had to entertain myself. I knew what was expected of me and I made certain I followed the rules. But in my spare time, it was football. Like the rules of home, I knew the rules of the game, the subtle moves that would get me to the goal. It was in me. I would take that and much more to the USA.

           Times were getting tough. The stock market was down. It wasn’t looking good for me in business. I had been successful in soccer, and that was my first love. All signs pointed toward success in America. My dad admired two countries outside of England—France for their lifestyle, and America for the ability to make dreams happen. He always said, “Son, those Americans, they got it bloody right, eh?”

From manuscript Gibbo's Story
Jane Bennett Gaddy

Posted 15th November 2010 by Jane B. Gaddy

"SINCE NOBBY STILES ..."

We all grew up in little villages, our roots aggressively planted in medieval history—the history of the Vikings. Our football teams became our modern-day tribes, depending on the town of our birth. We wore their colours and supported them in every way, something that one generation has passed down to another. I need not say more having been born in West Bromwich. By now you are familiar with my tribe.


It was my cousin, Rob Marsh, who first got me interested in coaching. I was captivated, something that did not surprise Rob because he knew how much I loved the game. My continued involvement substantiated what he must have thought would be a life calling for me. He asked me, "Paul, why don't you write a letter to Albion and introduce yourself to Norman Bodell?" I owe Rob a debt of gratitude for it. I've said it before, he's my hero.


I sent that letter, and the next thing I knew, Mr. Norman Bodell, head scout, called and asked me to meet him at The Hawthorns on Sunday morning at ten o'clock. Thanks to Rob and his encouragement, that meeting led to an invitation to coach at The School of Excellence and also to coach the U17 team. In my first practices, parents of budding pros came up to me and one of them said, "Mate, we dow know hoo yow am, only that y-ove just cum back from America, but yome the best coach we've 'ad since Nobby Stiles!"


Now, that was a compliment, to say the least. Nobby Stiles was a fiercely committed ball-winner for England and Manchester United in his day. He and Bobby Charlton are the only Englishmen who were on the winning side in a World Cup and European Cup final. In 1968, Nobby returned to Wembley Stadium to help United defeat Benfica in Europe's premier club competition. He was a defensive midfielder, tactically speaking, the central figure of his team's set-up. He didn't always get recognized for his accomplishments, but his peers knew and appreciated his worth.


It was about this time that I heard the word Coerver for the first time, in a strange scouser accent... 

A BLOODY BAGGIE BOY ...

A hatred for the gold and black is in my blood. I came by it honestly.

Guess we could have been more cordial, but Albion not so affectionately call the Wolves ground the Custard Bowl. Mind you and if you can believe this, I was never a thug as were some of the fans from both sides.

It was not so much personal with me. 

It was purely tribal. 

That is, until the day of my fourteenth birthday. 

That was the day it became personal.

On a Saturday afternoon in March back in the late 60’s I walked to the station and took the double decker bus seven miles to ‘The Custard Bowl’ (we didn’t call it that back then, however…) wearing my brown leather bomber jacket, the navy and white Albion stripes on my scarf by no means hidden from plain view, but I did tuck it under my jacket as we got closer to Wolverhampton! I even hate the town. It’s yucky! Was then; still is today! That particular day was one to remember. ‘Chippy’ Clark scored the goal that declared the Wolves the losers, and the noise that rose up from that pit of a south bank was brilliant “Olbeyun Olbeyun Olbeyun!” It went on forever! I was often tempted to believe it could be no louder, but I was forced to recant. Safe in saying the scale runs from zero to a hundred and thirty for sound that causes pain, that day I was more aware than ever it was at the top of the scale; every excruciating decibel, music to my aching ears.

With a big smile on my face, I set out for the bus station, feeling good. We had just seared the Wolves 1-0—on my fourteenth birthday. The mid-March afternoon was a bit chilly, but it had been hot in the cauldron what with all the excitement. I kept my bomber jacket fastened tighter than ever, making sure my beloved striped scarf was well hidden. I was in the middle of Wolverhampton town centre, for God’s sake, little skinheads and old geezers on the rampage looking for trouble in the shape of Albion fans. Walking out of Molineux, their fans are overlooking, spitting, throwing bricks and stones. That would never happen in the U.S. It really is barbaric! And I do hate this town! The police to this day just watch. Incredible, eh?

And then it happened. 

In my ear rang the chanting of those Wolves fans.

“Wanderers! Wanderers!"

"We hate Albion! We hate Albion!” 

Those are voices you don’t want to hear if you’re walking alone.

Particularly after such a sweet victory! 

“Look lads here’s one!” “Yowm Olbeyun ay ya mert?” 

Before I could even try to answer, a couple of young ‘skins’ slid into me on their Doc Marten boots (sliding became much easier for them with about ten drawing pins stuck in the sole of their boot!), Levi's rolled up and a Ben Sherman shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course) and a scarf tied and dangling around one wrist. 

They nailed me, hissing and spitting out insults and blows to my body parts so fast that I could not react. Those Doc Martens do hurt! A pack of those bloody skinhead Wolves fans beat me up, kicked me in my sides, and might have even left me for dead for all they knew or cared. Guess they were hoping they could take us down one at a time, but it never happened. Neither did they discourage me from supporting my tribe. It did quite the opposite! My beloved Albion! 

That late afternoon I lay there face down on the street, writhing in pain, but doubtless with a smirk on my face, for we had won. The Albion had won the game. I would recover, but my young blood boiled with hatred for those Wolves. 

I groaned as I rolled over and struggled to my feet, hoping no bones were broken, then I decided it didn’t matter. I was going to see my girlfriend, Lesley Chell, if I had to limp or crawl to get there. I met her later that evening at ‘The Rec Rave’ on Gillity Village South Walsall, (the posh part of town!) I was bruised but so happy!

Excerpts from Gibbo's Story

Jane Bennett Gaddy