The Super Bowl LIII presents a compelling contrast to the training styles: on the one hand, there is 66-year-old Bill Belichik, a rough defensive wizard who has already won five Super Bowls as the Patriots head coach and two more as the New York Giants Protector Coordinator. Belichik spent his game, tilted the grid tightly, his balding, swollen broom, perched on a pile of baggy fur and sweaty clothing. Belichick is built for comfort and not for speed, a billionaire football equivalent, which is so rich that it can wear pajamas wherever it wishes.
Belichick's opponent, Rams Shon McVue's chief coach, is his polar opposite. McVeigh, a former lawyer with a secondary education option, who turns 33, radiates youth power. McVee holds his blonde coat of yellow fur in solid perfection, and his beard stacked. For the most part Belichik has led his team in a state of impressive but comfortable silence, and he seems to express his gratitude to Tom Brady for having brought him the mighty Chewbak. Macwei, on the other hand, is as kinetic as his crime, crack and jump on the side line, assuring observers that for as much as is known for his offensive mind, his body is just as active.
Actually so active that McVay needs an observer so he can not deviate from the field during games. Ted Rath, the Rams Strength Training and Performance Officer, must follow McVay to prevent him from literally skipping the line.
Backgammon coaches are nothing new in football. Each NFL team appoints at least one coach to make sure that dozens of players, coaches, and team members who form an NFL team do not come too close to the sideline; every big crowd of people will mix and move in one direction or another, and if this crowd gets too close to the field during play, it can pose a danger to players or judges moving along the sideline.
But some coaches who stand in front of the crowd have hired a personal coach. It's not just McVeigh; Clemens Brent Vennballs team co-ordinator has an assistant coach who holds him off the field during matches, using methods from a light touch on the shoulder to a full shirt on Venables shirt. And look at McWee as he walks through the above video. He looks focused, focused, even locked. This is part of the image we expect from a football coach: dedicated to being monomorphic, so full of desire that it takes an entire adult man to keep him coming out to join his players.
Here's what happens with return coaches: they are fashion accessories. There are all reasons of a different legitimate cultural significance, not to mention the fact that McVeigh, an elderly person assigned to watch dozens of staff, apparently can not stand on a level surface without a human strap.
In the first place, it flows into the culture of a football coach who celebrates fatigue, or at least the appearance of overload. If you do not sleep in a baby cot in your office, you are not dedicated enough. If you do not stumble through the chain gang as you move along the side lines, you do not pay enough attention. Secondly, the idea that a person has to be physically restrained to follow the rules is a gratuitous macho. There is nothing delightful about the impossibility to stand where you need to stay – think how annoying it is when someone steps on your fingers in the subway or cut in line in the café or hits you on the sidewalk because too busy to look where they go . We do not think of these people as inspiration; we think of them as fools.
In addition to the bigger social considerations, having a personal trainer looks really stupid if you stop looking at the construction for even a second. Let's look at the two scenarios that require a personal trainer.
The first is that high-level coaching or professional football is hard work. Work that requires careful attention to detail. Do we have to believe that McVeue is adequately oriented in detail to manage an effective NFL crime but is not sufficiently focused on details to notice another elderly person wearing high-visibility stripes on his way as he walks around your workplace? Or perhaps McVeigh records the official's presence in some abstract way, but does not see it as an obstacle that is worth avoiding.
Does McVeigh need to hide Jared Goff for not reading an incoming blitz while both Goff and McVee know that McVee itself can not read or read where the giant white strip on the side of the field ends? Maybe McVeigh has driven a car or took the metro at some point in his life, and is therefore able to recognize the boundaries of the ground in front of him and change his own way to avoid obstacles if such a need arises. He could stay away without help if he wanted – most football coaches. Honestly, anyone who lost their ability to navigate when he hit the grid should not be trusted by a football team.
It seems that McVeui needs a man who comes back because he is so focused on the action of the field, walking in a state of transection, which makes him unobtrusive to his surroundings. This, unlike the Venezuelans, needs a man coming back because without him he would bark in the field in a rage of rage, which is even worse. It seems that a prominent and well-compensated public-sector employee must have more self-control than a frightened Doberman, right? Is this unjustified expectation?
Obviously, both McVeigh and Vennballs have the ability to avoid obstacles and control their own temper, at least in terms of football standards that are more cries than most professions. It is believed that McVew had no problem keeping up when he was a player or a coach who was not important enough to appreciate a side observer. If so, McVeue chooses to leave the impression of being unable to stay within. It may just turn off the part of his brain that is interested in the sideline as he trains as a computer that shuts down inactive background processes, but that is unlikely. NFL has more rules than East Germany, and McVeigh does not throw away others because of its immediate intellectual or emotional convenience. Downline compliance is unlikely to be the only exception.
That's why the man who turns back seems to be affected, symbolizing the intensity, the way in which Lamborghini manages to symbolize wealth and glamor. At first glance, there is nothing wrong with coaches showing their players – and fans and television operators who eat the ideal of football as a paramilitary form of a bastion of masculinity – that they are focused, dedicated and passionate. There is a long history of stupid fiction in football motivation, and the personal trainer certainly sticks to this century-old tradition.
But there must be a way to communicate these values without being seen as the millionaire's leader of the team that does not have the situation awareness to navigate the sideline without supervision. McVeigh is a highly conscious image; you can say, because no one who is not very conscious will keep his beard so tidy. And he is not only able to send a message that without another coach holding his belts he will wander in the field of play; he actively promotes this image.
The NFL franchise faced himself to hire the next Sean McVay, a charismatic sorcerer and a quarterback guru. Perhaps the next McVee will also pay more attention to where he goes as he goes along the side line.