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ON Sunday Brian Smith turns 56 and starts an exciting new journey as head coach of the Roosters. Jessica Halloran peels back the layers of a coaching enigma.
MONDAY
THE ritual started 121 days ago. Each morning, Roosters coach Brian Smith would take a black Texta and scrawl the number of days until season kick-off on the back of his left hand.
"We've got to make every one of those days matter," Smith would tell his Roosters players. Every day he'd walk past the group on the training paddock and hold up his left hand.
"It's corny," he says. Still, it served as a good reminder for his players and himself. He'd look at the number and think: "You don't have to rush, Brian" - or "Geez, we've got to get a bit more done".
Today the back of his hand is blank, for no reason other than it just didn't seem right to keep the ritual going. Today is full of meetings and in the afternoon he draws up the coaching plan with his assistants. He also talks about who will start, his interchange plans and what to do with those who don't make final squad.
By dusk, Smith feels very nervous. Those nerves bubble to the surface at the Roosters' season launch. People flock to him, but the coach doesn't feel he can talk to them.
"I wasn't communicating," he says. "I didn't want to talk, it was just nerves, but once it was over I felt great." He gets home, half watches sport he recorded on IQ and then crashes at 10.30pm.
TUESDAY
HE wakes at 6am. He always does. It is a hangover from being a dairy farmer's son and waking before dawn to do the milk run as a kid. Soon he is cutting through Centennial Park on his way to work. He loves it here. The coach finds the activity of it all, the heaving, sweaty joggers and cyclists, motivating. He envies the horse riders the most.
"I have just gotta get a horse to ride at least once or twice a week," he thinks to himself. The horses remind him of his childhood on the dairy farm outside Casino. Smith walks to work because he hates being stuck in traffic.
When he gets to the club, he briefs the coaching staff at 10am and then he heads to Flemington Market, where he meets loyal Roosters people Nick Moraitis and his sons Stephen and Paul. He admires their cabinet stacked with horse racing trophies. Back at the club, he eats lunch while watching more video. The players have the day off.
That night he attends the Newtown Jets' season launch.
WEDNESDAY
THE drizzle is annoying. The summer humidity has disappeared, replaced by autumn rain and chill. Smith is wearing a Roosters parka, zipped up to his neck, a white cap and he carries several A4 sheets with the training schedule on it as he directs the morning session.
"It's my playground," he later remarks of the training ground. All his players have been profiled and tagged. When he talks to his players, his delivery of information is altered by whether they have been dubbed a "thinker", "feeler", "mozzie" (always doing something), or "enforcer". "We all know who each other is," Smith says. There are also a few "chameleons" (people hard to pigeon-hole and a have a "bit of each"). This labelling started in the summer after sports psychologist Phil Jauncy addressed and profiled them.
Smith says since profiling the team, his communication has become more effective. "All the players got into it," he says. "I'm learning why/how players receive messages in different ways. I feel nowadays I do less growling and more; 'now, tell me what you were thinking, what was going on'."
Manly recruit Jared Waerea-Hargreaves likes his style. "You do something wrong, which I've done already, and instead of blowin' up at you, he encourages you to do it again," he says.
Jason Ryles found the coach to be very different to what he expected. "Everything I read or heard second hand wasn't right," he says. "As far as the texting, the intense school teacher type of training and whatever, I haven't found that. Then again, we haven't lost a couple in a row. They always tend to change if that happens. Everything is great."
After training, Smith has lunch with the forwards at Taylor's Tavern in Surry Hills. He loves the Greek lamb. Today there are no nerves pulsing through Smith.
Today he is excited. "Can't wait for Sunday," he says.
THURSDAY
THERE'S a Picasso print of a Rooster on his desk that his wife gave him for Christmas. On his office door there's a dog-eared Bruce Lee poster, belonging to his son Keiran. There is also an old wooden pencil holder, with "DAD" carved into it. They're small but extremely significant reminders of his family.
He's due to meet his daughter at 11am for coffee. She cancels, saying the sunshine has wooed her to Coogee Beach.
Smith is a different coach now, a less intense man. His son Rohan, an assistant at the Roosters, remembers how his father seemed to dart around in his own intense world.
"We knew, as a family, we probably wouldn't want to spend too much time with him," Rohan says, smiling. "We'd be happy to let him do his own thing. It was at the forefront of his mind. He was intense, nervous and excited. But he didn't separate things as well as he does now." Rohan adds slowly, "he was very, very intense".
This year, this week, it's different.
"He's a lot more relaxed and trusts his staff to get a lot of the specifics done so he can look at the big picture," Rohan says. "He seems to enjoy himself more often these days than when he was a younger, more fiery coach. He's got the good balance now."
At 4.30pm, training starts and three men in suits watch on - chief executive Steve Noyce, chairman Nick Politis and board member and David Jones chief Mark McInnes.
Smith directs the playing group around and then goes over to the suits to engage in light discussion. Throughout the session, he notices the relaxed state of his side. "Loving the loose feel of our players," he thinks. "Excited and lots of smiles."
FRIDAY
THERE'S a ragged, old red cricket ball he fidgets with and throws around in his office. "It's my little souvenir of my first time as coach of the Roosters at the SFS," he says. He found the ball in the warm up before the Foundation Cup against the Tigers. This morning, Paul Kelly is blaring on his iPod dock.
"I'm weird," Brian says when asked of his musical taste. "I play everything."
For the first time in his career he has moved a huge bookshelf from home into his office. It is packed with all types of books, mostly sport-centric. He pulls his favourite book out off the shelf, Finding the Winning Edge by Bill Walsh. His other favourite is Teacher Man by Frank McCourt. In the afternoon, he walks over to inspect the Kippax Lake training field.
He then goes to the movies and watches the sports film Blind Side.
SATURDAY
HIS nerves have skipped up in intensity. He's been sleeping well. He couldn't sleep on just one night last week. He went to bed at 11pm but was still wide awake at 1.15am.
"I was wired," Smith says. "I was just full of it." So instead of sleeping, he watched more video of footballers. This morning, he woke at six, like he always does, and went for a walk around the Coogee cliff tops. He heads to Moore Park for training. It is light and easy. "All our guys are ready," Smith thinks. "No doubt our preparation has been solid." There's a team lunch at Bar Reggio on Riley St. Politis presents the jumpers to the debutants.
SUNDAY
IT is game day - it is also Smith's 56th birthday. And after 526 first-grade games as coach, you sense he still has only one wish: "Blow that whistle, ref."
MONDAY
THE ritual started 121 days ago. Each morning, Roosters coach Brian Smith would take a black Texta and scrawl the number of days until season kick-off on the back of his left hand.
"We've got to make every one of those days matter," Smith would tell his Roosters players. Every day he'd walk past the group on the training paddock and hold up his left hand.
"It's corny," he says. Still, it served as a good reminder for his players and himself. He'd look at the number and think: "You don't have to rush, Brian" - or "Geez, we've got to get a bit more done".
Today the back of his hand is blank, for no reason other than it just didn't seem right to keep the ritual going. Today is full of meetings and in the afternoon he draws up the coaching plan with his assistants. He also talks about who will start, his interchange plans and what to do with those who don't make final squad.
By dusk, Smith feels very nervous. Those nerves bubble to the surface at the Roosters' season launch. People flock to him, but the coach doesn't feel he can talk to them.
"I wasn't communicating," he says. "I didn't want to talk, it was just nerves, but once it was over I felt great." He gets home, half watches sport he recorded on IQ and then crashes at 10.30pm.
TUESDAY
HE wakes at 6am. He always does. It is a hangover from being a dairy farmer's son and waking before dawn to do the milk run as a kid. Soon he is cutting through Centennial Park on his way to work. He loves it here. The coach finds the activity of it all, the heaving, sweaty joggers and cyclists, motivating. He envies the horse riders the most.
"I have just gotta get a horse to ride at least once or twice a week," he thinks to himself. The horses remind him of his childhood on the dairy farm outside Casino. Smith walks to work because he hates being stuck in traffic.
When he gets to the club, he briefs the coaching staff at 10am and then he heads to Flemington Market, where he meets loyal Roosters people Nick Moraitis and his sons Stephen and Paul. He admires their cabinet stacked with horse racing trophies. Back at the club, he eats lunch while watching more video. The players have the day off.
That night he attends the Newtown Jets' season launch.
WEDNESDAY
THE drizzle is annoying. The summer humidity has disappeared, replaced by autumn rain and chill. Smith is wearing a Roosters parka, zipped up to his neck, a white cap and he carries several A4 sheets with the training schedule on it as he directs the morning session.
"It's my playground," he later remarks of the training ground. All his players have been profiled and tagged. When he talks to his players, his delivery of information is altered by whether they have been dubbed a "thinker", "feeler", "mozzie" (always doing something), or "enforcer". "We all know who each other is," Smith says. There are also a few "chameleons" (people hard to pigeon-hole and a have a "bit of each"). This labelling started in the summer after sports psychologist Phil Jauncy addressed and profiled them.
Smith says since profiling the team, his communication has become more effective. "All the players got into it," he says. "I'm learning why/how players receive messages in different ways. I feel nowadays I do less growling and more; 'now, tell me what you were thinking, what was going on'."
Manly recruit Jared Waerea-Hargreaves likes his style. "You do something wrong, which I've done already, and instead of blowin' up at you, he encourages you to do it again," he says.
Jason Ryles found the coach to be very different to what he expected. "Everything I read or heard second hand wasn't right," he says. "As far as the texting, the intense school teacher type of training and whatever, I haven't found that. Then again, we haven't lost a couple in a row. They always tend to change if that happens. Everything is great."
After training, Smith has lunch with the forwards at Taylor's Tavern in Surry Hills. He loves the Greek lamb. Today there are no nerves pulsing through Smith.
Today he is excited. "Can't wait for Sunday," he says.
THURSDAY
THERE'S a Picasso print of a Rooster on his desk that his wife gave him for Christmas. On his office door there's a dog-eared Bruce Lee poster, belonging to his son Keiran. There is also an old wooden pencil holder, with "DAD" carved into it. They're small but extremely significant reminders of his family.
He's due to meet his daughter at 11am for coffee. She cancels, saying the sunshine has wooed her to Coogee Beach.
Smith is a different coach now, a less intense man. His son Rohan, an assistant at the Roosters, remembers how his father seemed to dart around in his own intense world.
"We knew, as a family, we probably wouldn't want to spend too much time with him," Rohan says, smiling. "We'd be happy to let him do his own thing. It was at the forefront of his mind. He was intense, nervous and excited. But he didn't separate things as well as he does now." Rohan adds slowly, "he was very, very intense".
This year, this week, it's different.
"He's a lot more relaxed and trusts his staff to get a lot of the specifics done so he can look at the big picture," Rohan says. "He seems to enjoy himself more often these days than when he was a younger, more fiery coach. He's got the good balance now."
At 4.30pm, training starts and three men in suits watch on - chief executive Steve Noyce, chairman Nick Politis and board member and David Jones chief Mark McInnes.
Smith directs the playing group around and then goes over to the suits to engage in light discussion. Throughout the session, he notices the relaxed state of his side. "Loving the loose feel of our players," he thinks. "Excited and lots of smiles."
FRIDAY
THERE'S a ragged, old red cricket ball he fidgets with and throws around in his office. "It's my little souvenir of my first time as coach of the Roosters at the SFS," he says. He found the ball in the warm up before the Foundation Cup against the Tigers. This morning, Paul Kelly is blaring on his iPod dock.
"I'm weird," Brian says when asked of his musical taste. "I play everything."
For the first time in his career he has moved a huge bookshelf from home into his office. It is packed with all types of books, mostly sport-centric. He pulls his favourite book out off the shelf, Finding the Winning Edge by Bill Walsh. His other favourite is Teacher Man by Frank McCourt. In the afternoon, he walks over to inspect the Kippax Lake training field.
He then goes to the movies and watches the sports film Blind Side.
SATURDAY
HIS nerves have skipped up in intensity. He's been sleeping well. He couldn't sleep on just one night last week. He went to bed at 11pm but was still wide awake at 1.15am.
"I was wired," Smith says. "I was just full of it." So instead of sleeping, he watched more video of footballers. This morning, he woke at six, like he always does, and went for a walk around the Coogee cliff tops. He heads to Moore Park for training. It is light and easy. "All our guys are ready," Smith thinks. "No doubt our preparation has been solid." There's a team lunch at Bar Reggio on Riley St. Politis presents the jumpers to the debutants.
SUNDAY
IT is game day - it is also Smith's 56th birthday. And after 526 first-grade games as coach, you sense he still has only one wish: "Blow that whistle, ref."
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