1. The driver’s wisdom
In Chapter 15 of *Di-soñar*, we used a story to explain two very different ways of relating to knowledge:
‘OK, Alex, I get the hint,’ I said. I’m going to tell you a story that will help you clarify your thoughts a little. The story is called ‘The Chauffeur’s Wisdom’ and goes like this:
“After receiving the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1918, Max Planck went on a tour throughout Germany. Wherever he was invited, he would deliver the same lecture on the new quantum mechanics. Over time, his chauffeur knew the lecture off by heart. ‘Professor Planck, it must be boring for you to give the same lecture over and over again. I suggest that I take your place in Munich and that you sit in the front row wearing my chauffeur’s cap. That way, we’d both experience a bit of a change.’ Planck found this amusing and agreed, and so the chauffeur delivered the lengthy lecture on quantum mechanics to an audience well-versed in the subject. After a while, a physics professor addressed him with a question. The chauffeur replied: ‘I would never have imagined that in a city as advanced as Munich they would ask such a simple question. I shall ask my chauffeur to answer for me.’”
“That’s brilliant!” exclaimed Alex, “now I really do understand.” The chauffeur was familiar with the subject because he’d heard the scientist’s talk a thousand times. But in reality, his knowledge was very superficial; he knew very little, if anything, about what he was talking about. I realize that repeating and regurgitating what others do is very easy, and anyone can do it. The chauffeur felt cornered when he was asked the first question, which is why he told the Nobel laureate to answer.
‘Very well explained, Alex. I think the author of this story is trying to tell us that there are two types of knowledge: on the one hand, there is the ‘authentic’ knowledge possessed by experts, the result of work and intellectual effort accumulated over the years; and on the other hand, there is the knowledge of the ‘chauffeur’—these kinds of people want to give the impression that they know what they’re talking about and recite words and concepts without having reflected on them or explored them in sufficient depth.
‘And in football?’ asked Alex, half asleep.
‘I’d like to think that the vast majority of coaches possess “Planck”-style knowledge rather than “chauffeur”-style knowledge.’
‘Right…’ muttered Álex.
The story is amusing, but behind it lies an extraordinarily important question for those of us who are dedicated to training coaches:
How much of what we know are we actually able to understand, and how much have we simply learnt to regurgitate?
2. Do we actually know, or do we just know how to repeat?
In football, we have developed an increasingly broad and sophisticated vocabulary. We talk about drawing in, holding off, releasing, the third man, the free man, numerical superiority, width, depth, pressing after losing possession, structures, advantages, perception, decision-making, neuroplasticity… Concepts that are now a regular feature of courses, methodologies and conversations amongst coaches.
This evolution reflects a greater interest in understanding the game and the processes involved in a footballer’s learning. But it also poses a risk: confusing mastery of the language with mastery of the knowledge.
Because knowing the words does not necessarily mean understanding what they represent.
A coach may attend training courses, read books, memorize a presentation, learn specific terminology and even accurately replicate exercises, principles or behaviors from a particular methodology. They may speak about it with confidence and give the impression of having mastered it.
But true understanding begins to emerge when the script disappears.
When what we know has to help us solve a problem different from the one we learnt about.
3. Knowledge becomes visible when the problem changes
Perhaps one of the best ways to distinguish between reproducing knowledge and understanding it is to observe what happens when conditions change.
Whilst everything goes according to plan, reproduction can appear to be understanding. We can apply a known solution, repeat an exercise we have learnt or correctly apply the concepts of a methodology. But football rarely sticks to our scripts.
The opposition changes the way they press. A player interprets a situation differently to how we had anticipated. A task does not elicit the behaviors we expected. A rule produces different consequences. A structure that worked with one team ceases to do so with another.
And, suddenly, someone asks us:
‘Why?’
It is precisely at this point that the depth of our knowledge begins to become apparent.
It is no longer enough to recall a slide, replicate a task or repeat what someone taught us. We need to interpret what is happening, relate it to what we know, justify our decisions, adapt our approaches and, when necessary, question what we thought we knew.
Understanding does not mean having a ready-made answer for every situation. That would be impossible in a game as complex and ever-changing as football. It means having built up a sufficiently deep understanding to be able to apply it when conditions no longer resemble those in which we learnt it.
That is why true knowledge is not demonstrated solely by solving familiar problems.
It is demonstrated when what we understand enables us to devise solutions to problems we do not yet know.
4. The danger of football methodologies
Here lies a paradox that we – particularly those of us who design methodologies – should acknowledge.
A methodology is created to help. It organizes knowledge, establishes principles, builds a common language, offers tools, and provides the coach with a framework from which to interpret the game and guide learning.
But that is precisely where the risk lies.
The problem, therefore, does not lie in having a methodology. It lies in turning it into a formula.
When a methodology ceases to be a framework for understanding and becomes a set of answers to be replicated, it can end up causing exactly the opposite of what it was intended to achieve.
Principles become instructions.
Tools become solutions we apply automatically.
Concepts become words we repeat.
Experiences become exercises we copy.
And certain decisions begin to be justified simply because ‘that’s how we do it here’.
That is when ‘driver’s knowledge’ can emerge.
The coach knows the ‘what’. They know which exercise to use, which concept to name, which behavior to ask for or which correction to make. But when the familiar context disappears, and we ask ‘why’, that knowledge begins to show its limitations.
And even more so when the question changes:
What would you do if the conditions were different?
Because a methodology should not provide answers for every situation.
Its true value should lie in providing principles that are robust enough to interpret different situations, make decisions, and devise new responses when the context changes.
That is why a methodology should not tell the coach what to think.
It should help them build the knowledge to think, interpret, and decide for themselves.
5. Methodology as a framework for thinking
If we aim to develop intelligent, creative, and independent players, it would be contradictory to do so through coaches who rely on our answers.
Therefore, our aim should not be to get all coaches to do the same thing, but rather for them to understand the principles that guide what we do and to be able to apply them judiciously in different contexts.
We do not want them to copy our exercises. We want them to understand the learning challenge behind each experience and why it has been designed in that way.
We do not want them to repeat our questions. We want them to understand why we ask them, when to ask them, and what processes we aim to trigger in the player.
We do not want them to memorise our guidelines for reflection. We want them to learn to observe the game, identify needs, and help each player broaden what they are able to perceive, interpret, and consider before making a decision.
We do not want them to replicate our Learning Model. We want them to understand its principles, question them, relate them to one another and be able to use them to construct their own responses to different situations.
Because a truly shared methodology should not produce identical coaches.
It should produce coaches capable of thinking based on common principles without sacrificing their own judgement.
Otherwise, we would fall into a profound contradiction:
seeking to develop players capable of thinking for themselves through coaches who need others to think for them.
6. From ‘What’ to ‘Why’
Perhaps one of the simplest ways to test the depth of our knowledge is to keep asking ‘why’.
Why are we doing this task?
Why are we introducing this rule?
Why are we intervening now rather than letting the game continue?
Why are we asking this question?
Why do we want to elicit this behavior?
Why is this problem arising?
Why might a solution be appropriate in this situation but not in another?
And, perhaps most importantly:
Why do we believe the player is learning?
The ‘what’ allows us to replicate an action. The ‘why’ forces us to understand the principles that underpin it.
When we know only the ‘what’, our knowledge remains tied to the conditions in which we learnt that response. We know what to do as long as the problem resembles the one we are familiar with.
Understanding the ‘why’ allows us to go further. It helps us to connect information, interpret what is happening, and adapt our decisions when the player, the team, the opponent, or the context changes.
But we can go a little further still.
After the ‘why?’ comes a particularly powerful question to check whether we really understand:
WHAT IF…?
What if the opponent does something different?
What if we remove this rule?
What if we alter the space?
What if the player finds a solution we hadn’t anticipated?
What if what we expected to happen simply doesn’t happen?
The ‘what if…?’ forces us to leave the safety of the known answer behind and face up to new possibilities.
And it is precisely there that we can test the true depth of our knowledge:
when we no longer need the problem to be familiar in order to be able to think about it.
Because understanding does not mean always knowing what to do.
It means knowing how to think when we do not yet know what to do.
7. Training coaches also means encouraging them to think
All of the above has an important pedagogical implication: if we want coaches who are capable of developing in-depth knowledge, we cannot train them simply by providing them with answers.
A presentation can convey information. A manual can organize knowledge. A video can help us observe a situation. A methodology can offer principles, tools, and a framework from which to interpret the game.
All of this is necessary.
But having access to knowledge does not mean having built it up.
Understanding requires active participation in that process: observing, making connections, asking questions, arguing, comparing, applying, making mistakes, revisiting what we thought we knew, and applying it again in different situations.
That is why there is a pedagogical consistency we should not ignore: the way in which we train our coaches should be consistent with the way in which we want our coaches to train their players.
If we want players who observe, interpret, question and construct their own solutions, we should also offer coaches opportunities to do exactly that.
It is not enough simply to explain to them:
‘This is how it’s done.’
We need to present them with real problems and help them ask themselves:
Why is this happening?
What information am I using to interpret it?
What does this player need to learn?
Why am I intervening?
What could I change about the experience?
What consequences might that change bring about?
Is there another possibility I haven’t yet considered?
Ultimately, training coaches should not consist solely of transferring our knowledge to them, but of helping them develop the tools necessary to build their own.
Because deep understanding is not demonstrated when we are able to correctly repeat a known answer.
It is demonstrated when we are able to think, interpret and construct a response to something that no one has yet explained to us.
8. Planck’s knowledge or a driver’s knowledge?
Perhaps the difference between these two types of knowledge is not as simple as choosing between one or the other.
We all have a bit of Planck and a bit of a driver in us.
Much of what we know began as the knowledge of others. We read books, listen to other coaches, attend courses, observe training sessions, study methodologies and, very often, we start by replicating ideas and solutions that we do not yet fully understand.
And that, too, is part of the learning process.
The problem isn’t in starting out by replicating. The problem lies in stopping there.
In repeating a word without delving into what it means.
In copying an exercise without understanding the problem it is intended to address.
In applying a rule without knowing what consequences it brings about.
In using a methodology without understanding the principles that underpin it.
Because when we stop asking ourselves ‘why’, knowledge runs the risk of gradually becoming mere reproduction.
And then words can replace concepts, exercises can replace principles, and methodology can replace our own ability to observe, interpret and think.
Perhaps that is why we should periodically put ourselves to a very simple test:
If tomorrow our manuals, our presentations, our exercises and all our terminology were to disappear… would we still know why we train the way we do?
Would we be able to observe a problem and understand it?
To design a new experience?
To justify our decisions?
To change what we do when the context demands it?
If we can do that, that knowledge has probably already begun to become our own.
If we can only reproduce what we’ve learnt, perhaps we still have some way to go.
Because the real difference between Planck and his chauffeur wasn’t who was capable of delivering the lecture.
It became apparent when a question arose for which there was no memorized answer.
And perhaps that is also one of the best tests of our knowledge:
What happens when football asks us a question that nobody had taught us how to answer?
