This is a good one!
Taken from http://www.arsenality.com/2010/01/boltons-bizarre-plan-to-stop-arsenal.html
"Okay boys, listen up," Owen Coyle shouted, jogging out onto the Bolton training pitch with a ball at his feet. He was the embodiment of optimism after his side's spirited performance against Arsenal, his demeanour at odds with the bleak mists enshrouding the complex. His eyes twinkled lightly like the morning dew through which he happily cantered, and his relaxed smile exuded an aura of positive calm.
Spotting the ball, a wild-eyed Zat Knight sprinted headlong into his manager, rugby-tackled him to the ground and attempted to strangle him. Matt Taylor stood over Coyle, tugging at his hair and preparing to kick him in the head.
The Bolton manager gagged, and with all the energy he could muster gestured feebly for help from his coaches.
"No, Matty!" Sandy Stewart bellowed, clapping his hands and whistling. "Zat, get off him!" The two players scampered out of the assistant's way as he lifted Coyle to his feet.
"Right, this is what I came over to talk to you all about," the manager yelled as he dusted himself off. "If we're going to really cope with Arsenal on Wednesday, we're going to have to change our strategy."
Kevin Davies was perplexed. "Strategy?"
"Yes, strategy," Coyle responded, forcing himself to shake off the assault and return to his previous light-hearted manner. "You know, a plan of how to approach the game. Tactics."
Davies looked enquiringly at Gavin McCann, who simply responded with a frown and a shrug.
Coyle took in the reaction of the Bolton squad; it was less than promising. Sam Ricketts was gawping absent-mindedly back at him, Andy O'Brien was scratching his head, and Paul Robinson was holding a worm and poking at it inquisitively.
"No one has heard of strategy? Tactics? Plans for how to compete in midfield, use the space, get through the opposition's backline, that kind of thing?"
There was silence.
Fabrice Muamba stepped forward and shyly raised a hand. "Mr Coyle, I think I know what you mean. Back in my Arsenal days, they taught us to pass it to one another and try to keep possession."
"Good, very good," Coyle replied, visibly relieved. "This is what I taught my Burnley team to do, and now I want to make Bolton do the same. We have to try and get ahold of the ball for as long as possible."
"What, like this, boss?"
Coyle turned to see Paul Robinson holding a ball.
"What? No, Paul, I mean you have to try and pass it to each other -"
"Oh." Robinson walked over to Zat Knight and placed the ball in his team-mate's hands. He turned back to Coyle and smiled.
His manager was less than impressed. "For God's sake. Right. Paul, Andy and Gretar, come over here. I want to go through a practice exercise."
Robinson, O'Brien and Steinsson came forward and stood in a row in front of Coyle, gathering as close together as possible and holding their hands over their groins.
"What are you all doing?" Coyle enquired, baffled by their response. He clapped his hands and gestured for them to separate. "Don't bunch up, spread out! We can't do this exercise if you're all standing next to each other."
The players each took a few steps apart, exchanging worried glances.
Andy O'Brien raised a hand. "Boss, how are we supposed to defend set-pieces if we spread out?"
Exasperated, the Bolton manager held his head in his hands. Struggling to maintain a positive outlook, he took a deep breath and looked up at O'Brien. "Andy, we're practicing something different now. You don't spend most of a football match defending set-pieces!"
"Well, Bolton do," O'Brien responded.
Coyle glared incredulously at the defender, but held his tongue and composed himself. "Okay, well not any more. We're going to work on our passing. That way, we can try and play Arsenal at their own game, and then exploit the gaps they leave when they push forward. So we'll start with a simple passing exercise." He rolled a ball to Robinson.
Panicking, Robinson hoofed the ball with all his might, sending it to the other side of the training complex.
"Paul, what the hell are you doing?!"
Robinson was doubled over, clutching his chest and catching his breath. After taking a moment to recover from the fright of having the ball at his feet, he slowly stood up and shrugged his shoulders. "If we get the ball from a set-piece, we pass it up to the striker," he wheezed.
"That's not a pass, it's a clearance!"
"No, there is a massive difference between a pass and a clearance, they are two very different things. Watch me." Coyle placed the ball at his feet, and played a simple pass to Gretar Steinsson.
Venom in his eyes, Steinsson repeatedly stamped on the ball, eventually puncturing it with his studs.
"Okay, fine," Coyle sighed. "Never mind, everyone. Just keep doing what you did to Fran Merida, we might come away with a point."
I liked the "O'Brien was scratching his head, and Paul Robinson was holding a worm and poking at it inquisitively."