Stephen Kolker put our correspondent to the test. Photo: Telegraph/Paul Grover
“Personal training available,” began Stephen Kolker's LinkedIn post. Well then. How often do you get the opportunity to have undivided attention to the football skills (or lack thereof) of a Premier League player and former England international for just £80?
Caulker made 123 Premier League appearances playing for » Tottenham and Liverpool. , Southampton and QPR, and last played in English football for Wigan last year. In 2012, Roy Hodgson invited him to the England national team, and ten years later he switched to the side of Sierra Leone.
My football credentials? Although many 30-year-olds claim to have gone through some kind of ordeal, I dare not even pretend that they have. My football skills could be described as rustic, if such a word can be applied to the “beautiful game.”
Fast forward 72 hours from my opportunistic seat, and I'm standing on a crumb-rubber-covered field below Heathrow's flight path. This is my first start in over ten years, and yet I'm strangely confident. Perhaps I'm not as bad as I remember? Perhaps I've somehow matured as a footballer without playing, well, football.
But then the entire 6ft 3in Caulker greets me with a firm handshake and the fear begins. This is a real athlete, a real man, who will spend the next hour honing his football «skills.»
«I'm a really crappy football player,» I say meekly, by way of tentative mitigation. “I'm sure you're modest,” came the hoarse reply. Oh wait, Steven.
Former Spurs and Liverpool defender Stephen Caulker shares his experiences on LinkedIn. Photo: Telegraph/Paul Grover
After getting over the initial embarrassment of not having the necessary footwear, we start with shuttles and a little weaving between the cones. I successfully navigate the stairs and make a touch. It’s bad, and my cheeks are burning red.
– So, how quickly do you make a judgment about a player? I'm asking. «Straightaway.» Yeah!
The next exercise is a short pass, first inside the foot and then out. “Remember, someone has to get a pass, too,” Kolker said delicately.
“These are the exercises you should start every session with,” Kolker explains. He did not become involved with a club until, at the age of 15, Tottenham spotted him playing county football for Middlesex. “When I first came in, the other guys were doing it like this…” he continues, gesturing, suggesting that the pace was too much for him at first. His kind attempt to assess my abilities is appreciated, but not deserved.
Caulker had recently accepted a position as player-manager at Spanish fifth division football club Malaga City, but was back in London sorting out his visa, hence an unusual opportunity to train one on one.
We'll be exchanging passes soon. until Kolker shouts out a number. This is my signal to run around the corresponding cone and quickly return. “We'll do 45 seconds,” he says.
Twenty minutes ago I ran about a mile from Hayes Station. When, after what seems like millennia, Caulker shouts, “Come on, 10 seconds left,” I regret that choice.
I make one last pass and buckle up, placing my hands on my knees. “Do football players deliberately avoid this look during games?” I manage to get out mid-pants. To my relief, Kolker grins and nods. “Don’t worry, everyone is like that in training. Adrenaline helps in games.”
What we do is simple. Essentially, I only walk a few yards and yet I gasp to fill my lungs with what now tastes like sweet, sweet London oxygen.
Being a Premier League footballer is about more than just controlling the ball. Photo: Telegraph/Paul Grover
It's a small portal into the multitasking that the game requires. It's good to be fit, or brilliant on the ball, or have the intelligence to read the game. But weaving all three together? Almost impossible, at least for me.
I try to be a little more skillful in asking questions to slow down the session. Caulker reads my game and starts making more passes. At first they are gentle, but then a precise ball hisses at me.
I try — really try — to soften the trajectory of the ball. Alas, the received touch ends somewhere behind my teacher. “That’s the speed of the ball in the Premier League,” says Caulker, grinning widely. “Even if it seems like the ball is just rolling, the speed will be that way.”
We'll move on to 1v1 soon. I defend first and — in a display of world-class intelligence — show Caulker his weaker base. In doing so, the gap between my ankles is wide enough to pass the triple-winning Manchester City bus parade. Kolker accepts the invitation.
Kolker did not miss the opportunity to get nutmeg. Photo: Telegraph/Paul Grover
We change positions, but Caulker doesn't buy my first move. The second one, believe it or not, also fails. «Who is the best defender you've ever played with?» “I ask, trying to break his concentration. “Ledley King—he was incredible,” Kolker replies. At the same time he takes the ball away from me: I never had a chance.
Suddenly, Kolker's next student appears. He arrived early, but relief washes over me. “Don't worry about me,” I protest, “this guy's needs are greater than mine.”
Caulker isn't having it, so we end with a heading drill. I am asked to touch the ball he holds out, roll back and rise to meet his throw. Channeling my inner Andy Carroll, I jump. Boom. “Very good,” exclaims Kolker.
After a few attempts, one of the best central defenders says: “You know, you've got some serious power in that neck. Has anyone ever told you that?” I'm shaking all over. Finally, sincere praise — and who would have thought that it would be associated with my previously unrecognized neck strength!
Headline This was an unexpected force for our correspondent. Photo: Telegraph/Paul Grover
It is clear to both of us that the 15 minutes Kolker usually devotes to mentoring will be wasted on me. However, he explains, it is a vital part of the job for an aspiring professional. The mental side of football is starting to get more airtime and Caulker, through his Behind the White Lines Academy, now runs much-needed courses on emotional intelligence.
When I leave, my light gray sweater is soaked with sweat, I loudly vow never again to criticize the lack of effort from those on the pitch as the clock ticks towards 90 minutes. It's finally my turn to tell an white lie.
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