Add This Chapter to Playbook

Soccer is the wedding ring that won’t come off, the head cold you can never shake. I love every lousy minute of it.

“Coach?”

“Huh?”

“Are we ever going to win?”

“Win?” I say.

The little girl’s soccer team is having a little trouble winning this season. No one’s fault. Our defense is strong. Our players relentless.

Still, we have not won. So we try to keep it in perspective. That’s right, we lie.

“Winning is for losers,” I explain.

“It is?” asks the little girl.

“Winning is for the weak,” I say, “the shallow, the insecure.”

“It is?”

Ever had one of those coaching seasons where nothing went right? Ever been winless in September and O-for-October?

To ease the pain, here’s a coaching survival guide from my new book, “Losing With Dignity” (Or “25 Great Cuss Words to Say When You Get Home”).

The Draft

The first sign of trouble is that you are sitting in a room with 15 other coaches, drafting players from a list of 250 kids, most of whom you’ve never heard of.

“I’ll take Meghan Amado,” one coach says, and seven other coaches groan as if bullwhipped.

“I was going to take Amado,” another coach whines.

Several of the coaches at the draft have laptops. Some, no doubt, have designed special software programs that measure a potential draft pick’s running, kicking and dribbling skills.

They balance this rating against the strength of opposing teams, the kid’s heart rate and her father’s golf scores.

“I’ll take Elizabeth Sarley,” the next coach says, and all the laptop coaches groan again.

You, on the other hand, have five names scribbled on the back of an old ATM receipt. On the way over, you wrote them down while waiting for a light.

When you announce your picks at the draft, there is silence, then a few snickers.

“She’s a stud,” you assure the coach next to you.

“Yeah, she’s Pele,” he says with a laugh.

The First Practice

This is a good time to instill discipline and team philosophy, especially with the parents.

“And if you’re late,” you should tell the kids at the first meeting, “we’ll make your moms run laps.”

“My mom doesn’t run,” one kid says.

“My mom ran once,” says another. “But then my dad laughed at her.”

Since most moms haven’t been out of breath since their honeymoons, it’s important not to require them to do too many laps at first. Twenty. Thirty, tops.

This first meeting is also a good time to go over team curfews, drug policies, that sort of thing.

“Any questions?” you’ll ask.

“When I do this with my lips, do I look like a monkey?” one little girl will ask.

“Monkeys are funny,” her teammate will say.

“Boys are stupid,” someone else says.

“I swear to you, my mom won’t run,” adds another.

The First Game

Remember all that stuff you worked on in practice? This is where your players forget it all.

After the first game begins, many of the girls behave as if they are seeing a soccer ball for the very first time.

Others see the ball and react as if it were chasing them, like in a Woody Allen movie.

“Cross!” you’ll yell over and over, hoping they’ll cross the ball to a teammate on the other side. “Cross!”

By the third game, you will realize that they don’t really understand what you mean and that they think “cross” is some sort of religious exhortation, indicating that you are praying.

By the fourth game, you will be praying.

Because by then you’ll realize that your games are being refereed by guys who have to squint to read a restaurant bill, who waddle up and down the field on muscles hard as truck springs, choking on their whistles and nullifying any good thing your team happens to do.

And every time the ball rolls weakly near the opponent’s goal, you will huff and puff as if trying to blow the ball across the goal line, your only chance of scoring.

This will leave you dizzy but pleasantly lightheaded, sort of like morphine.

“What’s wrong with him?” someone will ask when you drop to one knee to catch your breath.

“I think he’s praying,” they’ll say.

Post-Game Pep Talks

At the end of games, parents usually provide snacks and drinks to the team.

Keep in mind that there is no ideal menu for team treats. Some teams favor box drinks and granola bars. Other teams are less picky about what they serve.

One year, our team handed out Ritalin and those little bottles of airline booze. The kids loved it. By the middle of the season, they were behaving like the Rolling Stones. We spent one practice just discussing the benefits of rehab.

As the players eat their snacks, it is a good time to congratulate them on their play.

“Great job,” you should tell your team over and over, win or lose.

Only the parents will listen, but that’s OK. The parents are your team owners. Your destiny is in their hands.

“Winning is for losers!” you’ll yell as the parents chase you around the field with flaming torches. “Winning is for losers!”

“Losing is for losers!” the parents will scream.

Which is a different philosophy entirely.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.