Coaches on the top teams are discouraging — or altogether banning — their kids from playing high school soccer. College players and coaches think that's a disservice to the athletes.
"Playing high school got me prepared to play for a different coach, because my club and high school coach weren't the same," says Brittany Cole, a freshman at the University of Arizona on a full-ride soccer scholarship. Cole played for Corona del Sol and for a club that allows its players to compete in high school, AZFC.
Arizona Action Photos
At the Sereno Pro Classic Tournament in October in Phoenix.
Courtesy of Brittany Cole
Brittany Cole, a scholarship athlete for the University of Arizona, also played high school soccer for Corona del Sol.
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Many of the girls on the soccer team at Xavier Preparatory, a private Catholic school in central Phoenix, do manage to play both club and high school soccer.
Xavier's athletic trainer, Laurie White, says that with the increase in club competition has come an increase in career-ending injuries. "I have to say that, from back then [in the '80s] until now, I just see so many more over-use injuries and chronic things," White says.
Some former club parents also think the training has gone too far.
"I would say that [Armstrong's] training style is a somewhat abusive, controlling style," says Peggy Neely, a soccer mom — and the vice mayor of Phoenix. Neely's daughter, who now plays for University of Nevada-Las Vegas, walked away from Armstrong's Sereno team during her senior year — after she felt punished for deciding to play high school soccer.
"Les' deal was always to control everything they did at all times," Neely says. "There were kids who had brothers and sisters graduating from high school. They didn't go to the graduation because they were too afraid of what Les would do. Those are just some of the tactics he would use. Les wouldn't even let the parents stay at the hotel with the kids."
Asked about over-training his female athletes, Armstrong says there's no such thing as over-training.
"Over-training, it doesn't exist. The bar was set here," he points to his chest. "We took the bar, and we made it up here," he points above his forehead. "Some kids are not capable of stepping out of the comfort zone. Those are the parents who will complain. They don't want to travel. They just want to have fun and have cupcakes after the game and play some baseball, too. That's not how it works."
Armstrong says that if a kid won't play up to the level he or she is capable of, he'll tell them: "No, take your boots, get the hell out of here. We don't want players who are going to decide when they're going to train and not. This is a special environment. If you want to be here and prosper, then you'll play by my rules."
The scholarship dream rarely comes true. Some 36 years after Title 9 went into effect, women's soccer is incredibly competitive. That doesn't keep Arizona parents from dreaming, though, or from paying thousands of dollars to keep their daughters in the best clubs.
"I know now kids are thinking about playing college when they're like 8 or 9," says Kyleyn Felts, who attended ASU on a soccer scholarship.
She was a starter and captain of ASU's soccer team until spring, when she finished her senior year. ESPN the Magazine named her to the all-district team twice. Now, Felts coaches under-9 soccer for the Ahwatukee Foothills Soccer Club.
Felts, who played club soccer in California, says Arizona's club culture has an increasing over-emphasis on scholarships.
"Now I see more pressure from parents to get scholarships. A guy approached me in the gym and asked if the SoCal Blues helped prepare me for a scholarship. I was like, 'Yeah, they helped.' Then I found out in the stream of the conversation that his daughter was 9 years old. I was just blown away."
Few, if any, parents will recoup the thousands they invest into club soccer, college coaches and other experts say. Alan Meeder, former college coach for University of California-Santa Barbara and director of The Soccer Academy, says most scholarships are only partial.
"Cobi Jones [an American soccer legend who played for the Los Angeles Galaxy] was a walk-on at UCLA. He was not a scholarship student. That's a reality check for some of these kids. Cobi Jones wasn't a scholarship player at UCLA," Meeder says.
Bell agrees. "That's nonsense that you have to play club to get scholarships. I have sent players — very, very good players — to Division I programs. I'm talking about Alan Gordon, who now plays for Galaxy. That's quality. Now, did Alan Gordon get 100 percent at Oregon State? No. He got an 85 percent scholarship, but that didn't start until he was a junior," Bell says.
Other coaches confirmed that the majority of scholarships they give out are not a full ride. Many are not even awarded until an athlete's junior or senior year.
Jim Dougher spent $32,000 for his daughter Maggie to play three years at Sereno. During her first two years at Washington State University, Maggie didn't receive any athletic scholarship. Now the captain of the team, she gets a 70 percent athletic scholarship, which will equate to about $22,911 in scholarship savings by the time she graduates. That's about $9,000 less than Dougher invested in club soccer.