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Crows Chat That 'Doesnt Deserve Its Own Thread' Thread part 2

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Snide social media remarks, late night calls, relentless workload: The emotional toll of being an AFL coach.

By Brenton Sanderson

Early in my tenure as senior coach at Adelaide in 2012, players would move freely about my office, sprawl across the couches, throw darts at the dartboard I had set up, and chat to me about what was happening in their day. About footy, about life, about whatever was floating through their minds.

I loved the opportunity to debrief with them about the game at the weekend, and relished the chance to get to know them more as people. The players trusted the space they were in and they trusted me.

But as my time at the Crows went on and the losses piled up – as I searched, foolishly, alone for answers to solve the problems the team was facing – the office visits became less frequent and the buoyant nature of those conversations became increasingly strained.

Before long, players had to knock to enter my office. I had closed the door on them, figuratively and literally, without even realising. Reflecting on that now, 12 years after I was relieved as the coach of the Crows, it was the clearest possible sign that the pressure and expectation that comes with the role of being a senior coach was getting the better of me.

I was shutting the people out who were trying to help me. I just couldn’t see it at the time. That’s the reality of emotional instability in coaching. It doesn’t announce itself. It sneaks up on you. You become agitated with people. Your tolerance dissipates, and your patience fades.

You become less enjoyable to be around and the positivity that you once exuded becomes something you have to generate consciously.

When I got sacked by Adelaide, my sister Michelle said to me that she was relieved. Not that I’d lost my job, but that I’d been forced to hit the brakes on how I was approaching my job and my life. “I could tell you were getting really sick,” she said. She didn’t mean physically. She meant emotionally. And she was right.

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Makes you wonder where our current senior coach is in that cycle.

Players and coaches need an outlet to get away from the game to switch off, like any of us do from our work.... if you dont you get swallowed up.
 
Makes you wonder where our current senior coach is in that cycle.

Players and coaches need an outlet to get away from the game to switch off, like any of us do from our work.... if you dont you get swallowed up.
Nicks hasn’t got a solid door up, but a fly screen.
It’s why he’s lost his mojo.
 
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Makes you wonder where our current senior coach is in that cycle.

Players and coaches need an outlet to get away from the game to switch off, like any of us do from our work.... if you dont you get swallowed up.

The comment about closed doors is interesting.

Obviously a lot of modern coaching is moving towards being more holistic and asking coaches to view their role as much more than just training and game day. However that emotional toll of managing 40 or so different players and their wellbeing, on top of the high pressure of an elite professional sporting environment would be extremely draining.

Then you compare that to someone like Mick Malthouse who intentionally kept a professional distance between himself and the players, or someone like Chris Scott who talks about how his role is tactical and it’s not up to him to motivate players.

I think it supports my view that now that we have an established group and culture, it’s time for a more tactically minded coach who is perhaps less personable or less invested in player management to take the next step. Nicks has been great at developing culture and getting buy in from the playing group, but I feel some of that responsibility can now be handed to player leadership and assistants to allow room for a coach with more tactical expertise.

Asking one guy to take on all of that responsibility is likely unsustainable and there are probably very few people out there capable of taking on that load.
 
Snide social media remarks, late night calls, relentless workload: The emotional toll of being an AFL coach.

By Brenton Sanderson

Early in my tenure as senior coach at Adelaide in 2012, players would move freely about my office, sprawl across the couches, throw darts at the dartboard I had set up, and chat to me about what was happening in their day. About footy, about life, about whatever was floating through their minds.

I loved the opportunity to debrief with them about the game at the weekend, and relished the chance to get to know them more as people. The players trusted the space they were in and they trusted me.

But as my time at the Crows went on and the losses piled up – as I searched, foolishly, alone for answers to solve the problems the team was facing – the office visits became less frequent and the buoyant nature of those conversations became increasingly strained.

Before long, players had to knock to enter my office. I had closed the door on them, figuratively and literally, without even realising. Reflecting on that now, 12 years after I was relieved as the coach of the Crows, it was the clearest possible sign that the pressure and expectation that comes with the role of being a senior coach was getting the better of me.

I was shutting the people out who were trying to help me. I just couldn’t see it at the time. That’s the reality of emotional instability in coaching. It doesn’t announce itself. It sneaks up on you. You become agitated with people. Your tolerance dissipates, and your patience fades.

You become less enjoyable to be around and the positivity that you once exuded becomes something you have to generate consciously.

When I got sacked by Adelaide, my sister Michelle said to me that she was relieved. Not that I’d lost my job, but that I’d been forced to hit the brakes on how I was approaching my job and my life. “I could tell you were getting really sick,” she said. She didn’t mean physically. She meant emotionally. And she was right.

Full article:

I remember Graham Cornes telling a story about Neil Kerley, when he was working with Sanderson. Kerls walked into Sanderson's office, and Sando immediately covered up what was in front of him on his desk. I think that action spoke volumes to Kerls, and he probably lost any trust he may have had towards Sando.
 

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