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The sideline simmered with frustration. Every missed pass, every wayward shot, ignited a flicker of primal heat in your clenched fists. Was it just the roar of the crowd, the electric tension in the air, or the gnawing sense that the tactics were askew? Whatever the fuel, a primal urge to deliver a well-placed critique via fist instead of whistle danced on the tip of your tongue. But you, of course, knew better. The art of coaching was a delicate dance, a tapestry woven with strategy, encouragement, and the occasional tactical tweak. So, the urge settled, replaced by a simmering hope that the final whistle would bring a chance for a calmer, more constructive conversation. For now, a deep breath and a mental replay of the next set play were the only punches needed.
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