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...