"Watch out, or I'll smack you in the face"

Game 24, 2019-20

The good news first - the weather's turned mild and it's stopped raining. It's my last game of the year, a men's mid-table clash, level 10. I'm warming up next to the pitch, where a boys' U13 game is coming to a close. There's a very young ref in charge, so I already have half an eye out on the game, but there's no major excitement from the touchlines and he seems to be fully in control.

Then, the away team coach starts yelling at him. I'm too far away to work out what it's about. There's no one down injured and there hasn't just been a goal or a penalty awarded, so there isn't any obvious cause. The coach is gesturing and shouting and he doesn't want to stop, so the young referee goes over to talk to him. I break off my warm-up and walk towards the field, though I'm still a few dozen yards away. The teenage referee is trying to talk to him, but the coach - a man of around 40, I'd say - is talking back over the top of him, loudly and vehemently. The young referee eventually gives up and goes back to re-start play. If this had been my game, the coach would have been red-carded, but I can see why a young ref might feel too intimidated to follow through in the face of such a performance.

Seconds after the game has resumed, I walk up to the coach and ask him why he's screaming at such a young referee. He looks at my warm-up jacket and sees the pennant of the city's refereeing association. Then he says, "Have you got a problem?" I tell him that as a referee I most certainly do have a problem with his touchline behaviour. His response is: "Well you'd better watch out then, or I'll smack you one in the face..."

On a dark, wet night when you just don't feel like refereeing...

Game 23, 2019-20

There are some days when you don't feel like leaving the house. It's getting late on a dark Sunday afternoon and the Scottish League Cup Final's just a click away. Everyone else in the family is on the sofa in the warm living room, a plate of Christmas sweets on the coffee table alongside the remote control. It's been raining for the past three hours. And I have a 5pm kick-off - boys U19, preceded by a cycle ride up a rutted, puddle-pocked and very busy road.

Many, many people ask me, "Why do you bother?" I should point out one thing that's maybe not always clear on this blog. I love refereeing. On a good day. In that respect, I'm like almost any fan. Some days I want to write a love letter to the sport that I coach, that I ref, and that I played for over four decades. And there are days when I want to sign off with 'Dear Football, It's taken me a long time to reach this conclusion, but it's finally time we went our separate ways...' It's always enticing to imagine the potential freedom that lies on the other side of such a break. Yet the fear of a head-fucking, latter-life crisis in the resultant void always prevents me from having the guts to take that ultimate leap.

And as Mrs RT says, "You'd be back out there four weeks later anyway." And no one knows me better than Mrs RT. She lived through my three previous attempts to retire from playing, and once from coaching...

Frankly, my dear, I’ve had enough of your effing „emotions“

Game 23, 2019-20

The home team’s coach has been trying to get my attention to make a substitution, but there’s a lot going on so I haven’t noticed. When I see him waving his arms at me and yelling, I signal for him that it’s okay to make the substitution. „I’ve been standing here for two minutes trying to get your attention,“ he screams. I don’t like his tone, so I walk over to ask him to calm down. He continues to yell, so I show him the yellow card. Then he starts to yell about the yellow card.

I could show him a red now, but instead I fight back. „I couldn’t hear you because there are 22 players out there all yelling at the same time - perhaps you should yell at them to shut the fuck up. I come all the way out here to ref your game for my shite 22 Euros, and you expect me to put up with you screaming at me?“ He claims now that he wasn’t screaming, he just wanted to get my attention. You were screaming, I counter, and you were completely lacking respect. HIs assistant coach chimes in with, „He’s right, you know.“ Which for once is a very welcome intervention...

Why amateur refs are quitting in huge numbers

Game 22, 2019-20

The weekend before last, just south of the city where I ref, a 22-year-old referee was knocked unconscious by a player who'd just received a red card in a Level 11 game (see right). The referee had to be air-lifted to hospital. Thankfully, he recovered physically, but it made the national news and - as always when an incident like this happens - caused a lot of (temporary) agonising in the media and the football community about the way that referees are treated. Again and again I heard this figure quoted - over the past few years the number of registered referees in Germany has gone down from around 80,000 to 58,000. That's a massive and significant drop in numbers. There have been similar worries in the UK about the decline in the number of officials, and it's all for the same reason - who in his or her right fucking mind would want to spend their free time refereeing amateur football games in the current climate of General Anger About Everything?

I don't quote this exact statistic while shouting at the home team coach and the players of both teams in general during last night's Level 10 men's game. But I do forcefully make the point that "soon there'll be no one to referee your shitty games because we've all had enough of your shit behaviour, so shut your mouths and get on with the game, for Christ's sake." Still mad, I break into English: "You're acting like a bunch of fucking wankers..."

A very early yellow, and disallowing a beautiful goal

Games 20-21, 2019-20

I look at my watch - we've played 45 seconds of this boys' U19 game, and I've already shown the first caution. The away team's number 10 barrelled in to a challenge with no intent to play the ball, and every intent of sending the home team a signal. His opponent goes flying. Number 10 gets a bright yellow signal in return, along with a roar from my mouth that this is not how things are going to play out this afternoon. The home team's captain, shaping up to take the free-kick, whispers, "Thank you."

Lightning quick yellow...

My dad always used to say to me, "Make sure your first challenge counts. Go in hard so your opponent knows you're there and that you're serious." These were wasted words on me, unfortunately - as a lad I was built like a beanpole and tackling wasn't the strongest point of my game (my team-mates at the time said it wasn't part of my game at all). I wonder if the number 10 has a dad who offers him similar advice. He looks momentarily amazed that I've shown him a card so early on in the game, but then accepts it without any complaint...

Big decision time - does this game really need a red card?

Games 18-19, 2019-20

Small-town home field
(pic: RT)

The away team's number eight, a midfielder, goes in way too hard and late on an opponent, about 40 yards from the home team's goal. It's a foul, no one's going to dispute that. The 100 or so home fans dutifully roar in outrage at the challenge, while the fouled player go downs with a cry and clutches his thigh. Part of me thinks it should be a straight red. Another part of me instantly counters that a red card would be too harsh.

At moments like this, in the few short seconds I have to make the decision, I try to take into account the temperature of the game. The home team is second from the bottom, the away team is second from the top. The score is 1-1 and there are 15 minutes to play. It's been an intense, hard-fought game, with lots of shouting and what we are now obliged to call "emotion" (but which I'd more often than not classify as hot-headed stupidity). The underdogs have come back strongly in the second half after going in at the break 0-1 down...

Playing on when the pitch is unplayable

Games 16-17, 2019-20

A Sunday afternoon men's game in the arse-end of a satellite town attached to our city. It's raining, so I take the train and then walk two miles to the ground alongside a busy four-lane road, passing petrol stations, dubious car dealerships and repair shops, and a lone bar grandly called the Bistro Royale with brown cafeteria tables and a sparse, all-male clientele. I reach the ground an hour before kick-off and immediately take a look at the compact cinder pitch, bordered by a huge car park, a faceless housing estate, and a grass field that looks in much better condition, but is already closed off by a protective groundsman.

Slightly moist conditions on
the far touchline
(pic: fussball.de)

The pitch is playable at 2pm, but by kick-off at 3pm it's already developing puddles, and the rain's only getting worse. Amazingly, people are actually paying to get in at the gate and watch this, around 50 in all, most of them equipped with umbrellas. A van pulls up in the car park and its driver starts hooting and screaming out the window. When the home team goes 1-0 up after 20 minutes, he does it all over again, but after that he's mute - within another three minutes, his side's trailing 2-1.

After this, it gets chippy for a while. The away team's number 8 goes down in an aerial challenge, but his team gets the ball in a promising position and I play advantage. They lose the ball and, as the number 8 is still lying in a heap, I stop play. He peels himself out of the slime and starts to yell at me for not calling a foul. I tell him that I played advantage. "Advantage?" he repeats, incredulous. "Advantage?" Like he'd ordered and paid for champagne, and I'd just served him up a jug of steaming rat's piss. "Yep, it's part of football," I say and run off, because he's back on his feet and remarkably unhurt...

A seemingly perfect game, until the Angry Men appear...

Game 15, 2019-20

The assistant coach of the U17 home team is (guess what?) in a rage. It's just a few seconds after the final whistle, his team's lost 0-2, and both he and someone else who is probably nothing to do with the team come stalking off the dugout to Have Their Say. Something to do with a handball.

We all know that all coaches know
 these better than the ref.

I think they're referring to an incident in the fourth minute of injury time when an away team player deliberately stopped an attack with his hand. The trailing home team took an immediate free-kick, so I didn't bother with the yellow card. The offender was probably looking for the yellow card anyway to waste time. I try to explain this to Mr. Angry and his outraged chum.

Only, this is not what they're upset about. It's another incident which they claim I missed, and which should have been a penalty and a yellow card. The problem is this - I've just reffed an 80-minute game and made dozens of decisions. I genuinely don't know what incident they're all tearful and red in the face about.

The rare and vital value of a calm captain

Games 13-14, 2019-20

It's been a quiet Sunday - I'm almost an hour into my second game of the day and I've yet to show a card. The away side's number 10, however, has been in my field of vision since a series of fouls in the first half. Now he trips an opposing player a few yards outside his own penalty area, then kicks the ball away when I whistle for the foul. I show him the yellow card.

'A Quiet Sunday' by
 John Inglis McClymont

His captain asks me politely if a yellow card is not a bit harsh for the offence. I reply that the player had already committed three fouls in the first half, and that I'd had a word with him about his conduct. The captain says, "Ah, I see. Okay, that's fine." And moves away.

A few minutes later, one of his own players is clattered in central midfield, and stays down briefly injured. The home team's player apologises and tries to help him up, but the player's not ready. The fouled player's team-mate marches over from his position at right-back and loudly starts a sentence aimed at me with the words, "With all due respect..."

Why can some players not just shut the hell up?

Game 12, 2019-20

Why are some players quiet throughout every game of their career, and some just can not stop their gobs? They yell at team-mates, they yell at opponents, they yell at referees, they'd probably yell at Jesus Christ if (s)he floated down on the pitch for a second-half Second Coming. "Not now, Jesus, we're 2-0 up with 10 minutes left. Come and save us after the final fucking whistle, Christ almighty!"

"Jesus Christ, get off the ****ing pitch!"

I reffed the home team a few weeks ago in a pre-season friendly that ended up with nine yellow cards, four of them for this particular team. I check the game report to see who offended, and what the offence was. I take particular note of players I've cautioned for unsporting behaviour and, even more so, dissent. That would be the diminutive number six, a central midfielder.

Last time around I showed him a yellow after just 19 minutes, which ensured that not only he, but everyone else too, stayed mostly quiet for the rest of the game. This time, he starts up again not long after the opening whistle, moaning about every call. I reach for my pocket...

"Why is your refereeing so shit tonight?"

Game 11, 2019-20

One of the reasons I love refereeing is the number of philosophical discussions it leads to about the game, both off the field and on. At the end of 90 minutes in last night's City Cup game, for example (score: 1-1, with extra time about to be played), a defender on the away team came up to me and asked, "Why is your refereeing so shit tonight?"

My reffing, last night.

Good question. Am I having a bad day? Am I biased against his team for reasons real or imaginary? Am I just in general not fit to arbitrate the game of football due to a lack of knowledge, experience and temperament? Or does the player hold a distorted view of my officiating skills because five minutes earlier I'd sent off one of his team-mates for his second yellow card offence, and now they had to play extra-time one man down?

Correction, make that two men down. Insulting the referee is a straight red card.

The player is astonished. What was the red card for? Well, I explain, you just insulted the referee. No I didn't, he maintains. I didn't say you're a shit referee. I just said that tonight your refereeing is shit...

"You wanted that, didn't you? You wanted that!"

Games 9-10, 2019-20

Coming soon to my city -
XXX-rated football

There's a new under-class in the city's football scene. Sensing that there's room to sink even further, a new City League C was created out of the bottom-feeders of last season's B divisions. At some point, I'm fully expecting us to plummet all the way to Z, barely pausing for breath at X, XX and triple X on the cascade downwards.

After 40 minutes of Class C sport, I stop the game and tell both captains to huddle with their teams and tell them: "Either you quit fouling and fighting, or I'll call the game off and recommend that both sides face lengthy bans." We've just seen the game's fifth and sixth yellow cards after a second mass confrontation. For once it's not me, they just seem to hate each other.

The home team's been banned before, so they in particular take notice. At half-time I chat with their trainer on our way to the locker room, and he promises that he will make clear to his players the need for discipline...

When 22 moaning men shatter your confidence

Games 7-8, 2019-20

"This isn't a football game any more," states the home team's captain as he leaves the field. I've just shown him his second yellow card after he pulled back and brought down the away team's swift outside right as he hares towards the penalty area. The score is 0-4. Five minutes earlier I'd shown him his first yellow for his sullen, sarcastic query of, "Are we not playing offside today?" after the away team's fourth goal.

What now? Hungry? Lost dummy?
Or just another scandalous offside call?

No, it's not a game of football any more. It's a forum for petulant whiners. It's a maelstrom of bleating, skill-deprived tossers in acrylic uniforms. It's a platform for snorting, righteous, hot-eyed wankers viewing every call against them as a heinous affront to their dignity as human beings. This has nothing to do with a football game. Especially not among the home team, most of whom are shit (five minutes in, I predict a scoreline of 0-4).

Both teams are at it, though. All afternoon. Every foul called is not a foul. Every foul not called is, by contrast, a foul. Every offside decision called is not offside. Every call of 'play on' after an offside appeal is - you've guessed it - horrifically erroneous too. Of course it's offside. Four slow, stubby and rubicund defenders are screaming that it's offside, so it must have been...

Justice, mayhem and two very quiet games

Games 5-6, 2019-20

First, some news: I heard from a fellow referee over the weekend that 'Danny', the coach sent off during The Game From Hell at the end of last season, has been suspended. He didn't know for how long, though my personal hope is that it's a life ban valid across the entire EU. "Every referee in the city knows him," says the young ref, who's registered at Danny's club. It's reassuring to know it wasn't totally personal.

'Friends of Sport' line up
for Saturday's reserve game.

In other events, the reserve team of the club whose name translates as 'Friends of Sport' yesterday played the reserves of the club I belong to. Four of their players were red-carded, as well as the head coach. His assistant then physically attacked the referee. The game was suspended.

I referee the 'Friends of Sport' U15s the day before, and they are absolutely fine, although they're on the right end of a hammering, which always helps. I speak with both teams beforehand in their changing rooms while checking their passes. "If I make a shit decision, and it might happen, still keep your opinions to yourselves, please." Most of them smile at the instruction, they're not yet quite full-on teenage moody-mouths.

I also talk individually with each coach and ask them not to yell at me, rather to save any questions about decisions for the interval, or after the game. "I do get emotional," confesses the home team's coach. "Me too," I reply. "But not when I'm at the football pitch." His emotions remain in check, though, and after the game he thanks me sincerely for a good game, despite the result.

On Sunday it's back to the amateur men's league on another hopelessly hot afternoon. It turns into quite a well-played, well-balanced game. At 1-1 in stoppage time, the away team's forward breaks clear through on goal, but he was already a yard offside when the ball was played. "Never, never was that offside!" cries the hulking centre-back from 30 yards further back. But it was. The score stays 1-1, and this heart-ripping protest plea is the only time anyone objects to a call during the course of the afternoon. 

So, the first two league games, and just one yellow card. In some parts of town, sanity's broken out. A club elder seeks me out to shake my hand and compliment me on a good afternoon's work. I'll repeat what I've said before - such simple gestures of gratitude mean the absolute world to referees. Don't be shy about being decent.

Game 5: 1-8 (no cards)

Game 6: 1-1 (1 x yellow)

Want to read more? Click here to order Reffing Hell: Stuck In The Middle Of A Game Gone Wrong by Ian Plenderleith (Halcyon Publishing), published on August 8, 2022. 

Club linesmen - they only have one job...

Game 4, 2019-20

Unless they find a way to reverse the aging process, I will never again referee with 'proper' linesmen. I don't miss running the line myself - too much quiet time, and you get to hear too many comments from spectators who think they're being funny but in fact are just being twats. There are times, though, when I wish that I could still referee with a proper three-person team. A lot of times, in fact - that is, almost every time I have to deal with a club linesman.

Quick recap - club linesmen have only one job. To indicate when the ball is fully out of play. Just that one job. Despite that single, simple task, sometimes it's easier to do without them. Not tonight, though.

Typically keen posture of a club
linesman (pic: Bobbles Blog)

I'm refereeing a men's friendly on a manicured grass field, but the lines are marked in a fading white. It's a 7pm kick-off, and the descending sun's rays slant across the pitch to make them even less visible. We start the game with a sub from the home team holding a flag on the bench side, but leaning back against the dugout with his arms folded. The other side of the field is unmanned and the line is almost entirely invisible. After 10 minutes I ask the away team to send someone over - so one of their subs hunts down a flag and reluctantly traipses around the sideline to take up his position...

Can I be your in-house referee?

Game 3, 2019-20

If you whistle for a penalty that no one's appealed for, does that mean the foul really happened? In the fourth minute of last night's game, an away team defender shoves over the home striker as the two of them are competing for a bouncing ball. It seems so blatant, yet there are none of the familiar shrill cries of "Referee!" before I make the call. Is it because it happened so early in the game, and no one quite expects to see such an unnecessary infringement so soon after kick-off? 

A penalty-area tussle during last night's game

Even more uncanny is the fact that no one complains. There are not even any groans of exasperation at my myopic decision. Not a single away team player tells me that I've got to be joking. The defender does not stride over and insist that he was only doing a, b or c - with a. denoting they played the ball or b. they were just shielding their space or c. that they didn't even touch the opponent. But no, they just accept it. The number nine steps up and converts. 1-0. And after that early setback, there's still not a breath of dissent.

It worries me for a while. Let me repeat: no one appealed, and no one complained...

A new season starts with silence in the dugouts

Games 1-2, 2019-20

Another year, another season - Game One of the 2019-20 season happens to coincide with my 54th. birthday, doubly accentuating the sense of embarking upon yet another cycle that may well turn out to be the same as the last one, and the one before that. But wait, I hear you say. That can't be true. Fifa has introduced several new Laws! Ah, so the game of football matures a little every year. Fat chance of that happening with me, Mrs RT might observe.

"You need to calm down!" Will new laws
 mean less hassle from the bench?

From a disciplinary point of view, there has been one particular change that should make a huge difference to referees at the dog-scrap amateur level. Now we can show yellow and red cards to team officials, and no longer have to follow the laborious process of a verbal warning, followed by a second and final verbal warning, concluded with a straight-arm dismissal and a further verbal justification. Why was this system so deficient? Because it not only required a lot of effort to explain three times to coaches that they are "behaving in an irresponsible fashion", but also allowed them room to disclaim and involve the referee in an always unhelpful discussion. Plus, in amateur football showing a red card is much more effective and straightforward than pointing to a non-existent stand.

Even better, the head coach is deemed responsible for the behaviour of everyone on the bench. So if you can't identify which one of half a dozen substitutes or team officials screamed at you, you just caution the coach, who carries the can of conduct for those in their charge. That's a significant and beneficial change to those of us alone on a field with 22 young male players and a dozen more potentially temperamental time-bombs planted along the touchline.

What you get if you google "small
birthday gift". Awwww.

It's only fair to warn them of the new laws, though. In Game One, I make the mistake of not bothering...

The Game from Hell

Games 31-32, 2018-19

The home team is coached by an old friend of this blog, 'Danny'. I intuit before the game that it's not going to be a quiet afternoon. When Danny's on the touchline, it never is. When we met in March I let him get to me. Today I resolve to remain absolutely calm, no matter how much shit this U19 match-up propels in my direction. By the end of the afternoon, I'm indeed in fecal heaven.

The game kicks off.

The away coach tells me before the game that when the two teams met earlier this season, Danny hounded and intimidated the young referee throughout the game. It's the same story I've heard now from three other coaches in this league. Just to recap, it's over three years since Danny and I sat in front of a disciplinary panel and he was fined €150 and told they didn't want to see his face there again. Yet to no one's surprise he's still here, a malignant cancerous growth on the city's already diseased amateur football scene. 

I gather all four coaches in the centre circle to remind them of the punishment process for irresponsible behaviour. First warning, then the second and final warning, followed by dismissal. They all nod, except for Danny. "Did you get that, Danny?" He gives a token gesture of the head, but I can't read his expression - he's wearing reflective sun-glasses to go with his hipster beard, giving off the usual air of 'I don't give a fuck'.

Neither do the teams, who go at each other right from the off. There are obviously numerous scores waiting to be settled from the first game...

Stormy skies, stormy games

Games 29-30, 2018-19

There's a momentary tentacle of hot lightning followed a few seconds later by a loud groan of thunder. It's as though the very heavens are exhorting me to call an end to this shockingly poor boys U17 game. We're only 22 minutes in and I've already shown three yellow cards, all for nasty fouls. I blow my whistle to interrupt play, secretly hoping that the skies will roar, burst and electrify, and then we can all go home.

Nature's way of telling us to
shift our arses indoors

"It's not even raining," moan some of the players. I tell them that if a fork of lightning hits the field, they'll know about it. Neither they nor their coaches care, and they all stay out on the pitch while I retreat to my dressing room. After a few minutes I check the radar on my cell phone, and as the storm appears to be moving slowly off to the west, I risk resuming play. For the rest of the game it hovers close by, rumbling and threatening like the home team's coach, who's already been warned for encroaching on to the field of play to confront an opposing player about a challenge. Very responsible, that. Thank you for your help and co-operation, fellow adult.

At half-time, the teams stay out on the field. I seriously consider walking back to the dressing room, getting changed and cycling away from it all. Right in to the storm, if necessary. I've lost all desire to whistle another dirty challenge. Barely any of these players seem willing or capable of playing football. Why are they even here? Why am I even here on a Sunday evening when I could be...

Ultras in the park, and getting away with a conflict of interest

Games 27-28, 2018-19

I'm waiting with the away lads for the home side to come out of the changing room. It's a U19 team in an end-of-season mood, and we make flippant small-talk. "How many of you are playing for the U17s tomorrow morning?" I ask. Four of them raise their hands. "Oh good," I say, "I'll see you there - I'm your opponent's coach." Most of the team laugh and make a comment about how the four players are now in extra danger of a red card so that they'll be banned from the following day's game.

Better be really careful with these today...

I laugh too, but I'm restrained. I've just made a potentially serious error. What if one of these four players does indeed commit a red card offence? This is a conflict of interest that I should have avoided, but I only noticed the anomaly that morning when it was too late to pull out of the game. On the plus side, there's nothing really at stake for the away team in today's game - it's the home side that can win the championship if they pick up three points.

The Bloke Who Stares and other small club archetypes

Game 26, 2018-19

It's half-time and the home team in this boys U19 game is 3-0 down. My changing room's across the corridor from theirs, but I can hear the coach through two brick walls. He's demanding to know what the fuck they are playing at, because it's certainly not football. He wants some extra effort, he wants them to show that they really want to be out there, otherwise what's the point of being here at all. COME ON NOW!

You could call this place the archetypal city club. I've been here plenty of times before, and to plenty of clubs just like it. It's tucked in to the allotments, a stone's throw from the Autobahn. You can see the towers and lights of the city centre to the east, and on a clear day you can see the hills of the wealthy satellite towns to the north. Both feel beyond reach of a club which, unless you were looking for it, you'd never know was here.

There are certain other staples. In the club house there's an elderly woman in charge of everything. She's civil but she's not over-friendly - after all, how many referees pass through here every week...

When a teenage player breaks down and cries

Game 25, 2018-19

"Thrice he assay'd, and thrice, in spite of scorn,

Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth."

(John Milton, Paradise Lost)

Paradise Lost - 4-1 to
Hell after extra time.

Just over 20 minutes gone in a boys U15 game, regional league. The dominant home team leads 2-0. From a direct free-kick just outside the penalty area, the diminutive but agile away goalkeeper makes a fantastic, flying one-handed save up in the top left-hand corner of his goal. Corner kick, and applause.

I stand on the end-line closest to the taker, as I always do for corner-kicks. The corner swerves in on goal and the keeper, unchallenged, can only punch it into his own net. 3-0. He's angry with himself now - the great one-handed save has been annulled, at least in his eyes. Then two minutes later he makes another save, attempting to turn a shot over the bar. Only, he doesn't get enough hand on it and it loops behind him into the net. He scrambles back to try and rescue the situation, but he's too late and ends up in a heap in the back of the goal. 4-0, and the game's effectively lost with just 26 minutes played.

I run back towards the halfway line, but when I turn around for the re-start I notice that the goalkeeper's still lying on the floor, curled up in a ball in the back of the net. I run back to check if he's injured, just as a team-mate is trying to help him to his feet, but he doesn't want any help. He is crying, and crying hard. He hadn't wanted anyone to see, but now that he's getting to his feet there's no mistaking his emotion. He screams in frustration, grabs at the net, and kicks the goalpost. Added to his two mistakes is now the supposed shame of being the boy that cried...

Having less than a second to make a call on "Handball!"

Game 24, 2018-19

It's 0-2 with half time approaching, but the home team is on the attack. Their central midfielder takes a shot from around five yards outside the penalty area. It strikes the away team's central defender on the arm, which is in front of his body in a defensive, self-protective position. The defender is standing just inside the penalty area. The home team and all their followers scream "Handball!"

Model sportsman Franck Ribéry
 has spotted an infringement 

This is a direct result of the professional game's Video Assistant Referee. Of course, there have always been loud and righteous cries for 'Handball!' whenever the ball strikes a player's arm or hand, no matter from what distance or in what part of the field. But the calls have become markedly louder and more urgent in the past couple of years since VAR entered our lives. That's because slow-motion replays, examined several times with forensic keenness, have lead to many more decisions in favour of the attacking side. Many of these calls have been dubious at best, typified by Manchester United's spot-kick in the final minute of their Champions league last-16 game at Paris St. Germain, plus numerous bizarre VAR penalty awards for handball in the Bundesliga.

A magnificent night, despite the teeming rain

Game 23, 2018-19

Last night's game is a girls' U15 Regional Cup semi-final, played by floodlight beneath an unrelenting rain. A 0-0 draw that goes to extra time and penalties. A crowd of around 80 look on, hunched under glistering brollies as the clouds unleash their loads without mercy for those of us on the ground wearing shorts and nothing to protect our heads.

Both the players and the coaches allow me to focus fully on what's important - the run of play. Almost every foul is followed by a handshake and a hand to help an opponent stand back up. The only slight whine all evening is on a decision I definitely get wrong - two opposing players go in simultaneously studs up for the ball near the halfway line and connect. I instinctively whistle, then hesitate before pointing my arm randomly in one direction, when I should have given a drop ball (or just let play continue - there's no injury). I'm relieved when nothing comes of the free kick.

There's also one major roar of disapproval from half the crowd...

Refereeing the perfect team - from Japan

Games 20-22, 2018-19

A couple of years back I refereed two games in one weekend involving ethnically based teams from the following four countries: Greece, Morocco, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Korea. Ever since, I've enjoyed asking family and friends, "Which team do you think gave me the most hassle?" And every single person gives the Korean team as their final answer after exhausting any combination of the first three. All wrong. It was the Koreans who picked up more cautions than the other three teams combined. Wahay - our ethnic and cultural pre-conceptions take another kick in the nuts.

So, to a three-game weekend: on Friday night I referee a friendly between one of the city's top U19 clubs and a touring team from Nagoya High School in Japan. I'm intrigued to see how the teams shape up not just in football terms, but in how they respond to my calls. Another test of the cultural archetype.

I heart Nagoya

The Japanese team come bearing gifts. Not just for the home players, but also for the referee. I've never received anything other than a post-match Wurst and a €2 tip when no one's got any change, so in comparison this feels like the big time. Like when teams used to exchange pennants, medallions and memorabilia and all that 70s stuff. So I now own a pin badge marking 130 years since Nagoya was declared a city (I think). 

The lavish gift doesn't influence me in thinking that the Nagoya team is impeccable in every way...

Playing along with Archie of the Arseholes

Game 19, 2018-19

Another Sunday, and another afternoon in the reserve leagues choking on dregs from the bottom of the sporting barrel. I look at the 'Fair Play' table. Out of 15 teams in the division, these two are 13th and 14th, with 15 red cards between them. When my phone goes two hours before kick-off, I'm hoping it's to tell me that the game's called off. Instead it's my niece asking me if we want to hang out and play board games. Sounds like fun. Sorry, I can't make it.

Saner games for Sunday afternoons.

I know the captain of the away team. He's a fellow ref and we get on, so I appeal to him to ask his team to keep it sane. I make the same appeal to both teams as we line up to enter the field. The same old speech about me only having two eyes and no assistants. About not screaming at me every time I whistle for offside. About how we should play in a fair and sporting fashion and actually try to enjoy the game. They all applaud. Sounds like fun. So happy I could make it.

My speech is quickly forgotten by the home team. It's the offside calls that get them going...

Anger, dissent and a mass brawl - another night out with the Reserves

Game 18, 2018-19

Nice smooth surface on a beautiful
spring night - we'll soon fuck that shit up.

Good news for pedlars of anger - supplies are still running high. There is absolutely no shortage.  In fact, anger levels seem to be going through the shattered glass skylight. As I wrote in my game report, "For the away team, I recommend an immediate and urgent course of fury control therapy." I'm absolutely sure they will take my advice.

A relegation battle in the League of ragged Reserves, football's abandoned grave-pit where you will find only the cluttered, dehydrated bones of the game's sporting values. Too old? Play in the Reserves. No discipline? We'll drop you down to the stiffs. No fucking use at all? We'll call you when we're short, on a Thursday night at the butt-end of another failed season... 

Like Groundhog Day without the punchlines

Game 17, 2018-19

It's been a year or two since I last encountered 'Danny', the city's loudest youth coach, and when I saw his name on the team-sheet of the away team for a U19 game last weekend I wasn't exactly leaping through the air and pumping my fists at the thought of an emotional reunion. Still, everyone has the opportunity to change. Although in the times we'd met since I was a witness three years ago to him receiving a fat fine and a heavy warning from the disciplinary panel for unacceptable behaviour on the touchline, he hadn't changed one bit. 

"Hey, Danny - great to see you again!"

Sure enough, Danny has coached a team in his model image. Right from the start they foul their opponents, and then complain loudly when I whistle. They are backed up by Danny on the touchline, who screams, "Referee!" every single time. It's an obvious ploy to intimidate both their opponents and the ref. By half-time they have three yellow cards - one for foul play and two for dissent. I've spoken to Danny twice and given him his first two warnings of the afternoon. Does he listen and shut up? Does he fuck.