Musings From The Shitter: Volume Twenty Two

On the Sidelines: Cheering, Pressure, and the Quiet Art of Support

On any given Saturday, there is a group of people standing on a sideline.

Sometimes that “group” is just one person. A lone figure, arms crossed or raised in cheer, voice carrying across the field. Sometimes it’s a pack — parents, friends, extended family — all there to support their player. Their pride.

The display varies. There’s the cheering: loud, wild, full of reckless abandon. Then there’s the critique, shouted in frustration, masked as motivation. And sometimes, it all blurs together in a cacophony of well-meaning noise and poorly disguised embarrassment.

We’ve seen it before. We hear it in headlines and whispered conversations at kids’ games — parents going too far. Shouting too loudly. Expecting too much. There's often no code left sacred. No line that can't be crossed in the name of "support."

But still, it’s not all bad.

Because in between the over-the-top shouting and the sideline coaching, there are parents who do it right. They show up and they cheer — not to control the outcome, but to build confidence. They understand that encouragement isn’t weakness, that it doesn't spoil resilience — it fosters it. Gently. Steadily. Repeatedly.

That kind of support isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with a booming voice or pointed feedback. Sometimes, it's quiet applause. A nod. A smile. It’s recognition of the effort rather than obsession over the result.

And here’s the thing: that quiet support works. I think. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not in the way the more aggressive voices hope for. But over time, it plants something stronger. Not fear of failure — but comfort in risk. Not shame for falling short — but pride in progress.

Gladly — as a parent — I’ve chosen to walk that middle line.

I was raised by the kind of parents who cheered simply because my legs were moving. Because they had a seat to watch me do something I loved. They weren’t praising my technique or rewarding strategy. Half the time, they didn’t know what they were clapping for. But they were there. For me. Not the game.

At the time, I wished they noticed the things I thought mattered — positioning, space, awareness, decision-making. Not just that I was on the field, but what I was doing with that time. But now, with some distance, I see the value in what they gave. Unfiltered support. No performance metrics attached.

And I find myself more and more in their shoes lately. In profound ways I didn’t expect.

Recently, on a Saturday like any other, I found myself off the pitch in a slightly different role for my men’s Masters team. Usually, I’m playing, but this time I’d taken on the self-appointed role of subs coordinator — making sure the rotations went smoothly. So instead of running on the grass, I was in the crowd.

I say “crowd” knowing that might evoke terraces, chants, drums. But no, this was more modest: 15 or 20 people. Some perched on fold-out chairs in the sun, others on blankets, or crouched picnic-style near the sideline. Casual. Relaxed. But very much there.

Present.

Some were players not on the card. Teammates. Some were just mates. The game didn’t mean much on paper — no standings to influence, no pressure. But still, they showed up. Maybe not for pride, maybe not even just for the game, but for what follows: the beers, the barbecue, the company.

And the cheering?

It was loud. For the good, yes — but also for the mistakes. For dodgy calls and mis-kicks. For the simple act of showing intent. I've been on the pitch during those moments, and I can say this with certainty: you hear it. And it means something we don’t often admit.

It means I’ve been seen.

Nothing wrong with that. Even for those of us not actively seeking recognition, when it arrives — unprompted, unconditioned — it lands.

That day, one player — never really known for his shooting — let a few fly. The first, nowhere near. But it was bold. The crowd laughed, cheered. Encouraged. Second one: same outcome, same cheers. Third and fourth: similar results. But the reaction never dipped. If anything, the support grew. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just people witnessing someone trying and responding in the best way possible.

And then came the fifth shot.

Still off-target. And a lone voice somewhere behind me muttered, “Oh, he’s never going to get that.”

I didn’t turn. I just said, loud enough to carry:
“I’ve got faith, bruv.”

Same voice replied:
“Well, you must be the only one.”

Still not turning. But now, directed clearly, and louder:
“Yeah….maybe….”

And then, as loud as I could muster:
“I’VE GOT FAITH, BRUV. KEEP GOING. KEEP SHOOTING!”

He did. Missed again. But this time, the cheers were louder than before.

I turned around — not to meet the voice, but to lean down to the player’s kid sitting nearby. Smiling, I said:
“Your dad is playing awesome today.”

Because he was.
And I meant it.

Roll the subs.

That’s the role of a subs coordinator. Nothing glamorous in it. No glory stats. Just make sure the legs stay fresh and everyone gets their run.

But fuck me, you better take care.

And maybe I don’t mean that in the way you’d think. I mean it in the basics. In the communication. In the humanity of it.

Roll the subs.

We did it perfectly on Saturday. Everyone bar three (the captain, the spine, and the keeper) got rolled in and out. Constantly. Smoothly.

And with every sub, I made a point to say:
“It’s not you. I’m just rolling the subs.”

That transparency? It changed everything.

Instead of confused or disappointed players wondering what they’d done wrong, I had supporters on the bench. Players cheering for their mates. Not stewing — supporting.

It’s not a big thing.
But maybe it is.

And there’s something else about the sideline. Something quieter.

It’s not just a place to stand and shout from.

For some, it’s a place to plant your flag — you pick your spot, fold your arms, and you stay there. Reliable. Stationary.

But for others, the sideline is a place you pace — back and forth, retracing steps, covering more blades of grass than the keeper ever will. I’m one of those. A pacer. Always have been.

It’s a bit of a tick, I guess. I call it sifting — like I’m sorting something invisible. Really though, it’s just my defence mechanism. My way of not getting stuck in my own head when moments require more care. More presence.

On one of those walks — mid-game, mid-thought — I was joined by another supporter. Someone who didn’t just come to watch the game, but also made the effort to come over to where I was watching from. To walk the patch of grass I was flattening.

We talked.

A short kōrero, but one that reached back into years of shared experience, shared shaping. I think they found something they needed in that conversation — some validation, some resonance. Strangely, I did too.

Because in that moment, I remembered something.

I remembered why my parents came to my games.

Yes, to see me play — that part is obvious now. But also… they came to talk. To meet other people. To listen. To connect. I never understood why we had to wait around after every match while my dad got caught up chatting with another player’s dad. As a kid, it frustrated me.

But now?

I do it too.

And I’m kind of glad he never explained it. Never told me what it was about.

Because, much like football itself — I had to figure it out by myself.

And the lasting memory from the sideline — a sideline that has given me so many — is, honestly, simple.

So simple that in a world full of metaphors and meaning-making… simplicity might just win.

An iceblock.

More specifically: a Cyclone. Fucking joy on a stick.

Something I don’t think I’ll be able to capture in the same way again — but fuck it, I’ll try.

I looked around that day and saw others on the sideline with a Cyclone in hand. Probably not thinking too hard about it. Probably not pondering how profound a frozen, sugar-drenched, phallic-shaped treat could be.

But I noticed.

And those who had a mouth full of that iceblock? They were smiling. Grown men. Grown women. Watching their mates play a game of football in the sun, iceblocks in hand, child-like joy on their faces.

I don’t want to put too much pressure on an iceblock. It’s just sugar, water, colour, and a ticket to future diabetes.

But still — it looked like friendship.

Not just the flavour of the thing, but how it got there. The communal box. The act of buying a bunch because, well… it’s not a party unless everyone gets one.

There was something in that moment. Something I don’t need to dissect too much. I’ll just say this:

Sometimes the sideline gives you more than football.

Sometimes, it gives you a Cyclone, a chat, a shared laugh, a memory that stays.

And sometimes, that’s all it needs to be.