Attempting the art of early de-escalation

Games 1-3, 2022-23

Cycling towards my first friendly of the season, heavy black clouds pollute the north-east horizon somewhere close to where I'll soon be refereeing. Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the river, a woman is screaming at me, but I can't understand what she's saying. Maybe she's some sort of soothsayer calling out, "Don't embark on another season of madness! Turn your bike around and quit now! Heed the storm ahead and lay down your whistle!" Or maybe she's just calling out, "You're shit, ref! I already know that wasn't offside and we haven't even kicked off yet!"

I keep pedalling, because it won't go down too well if I tell my assignor that I didn't show up because a mad woman on the banks of the Nidda was hollering portents of grief. Maybe I should have paid her more attention, though, because just 12 minutes into the game, I'm showing the first caution of the season when the home team's number 10 flies in and takes out an opponent with the kind of challenge which, if you cut it open down the middle, would reveal the words PRETTY FUCKING UGLY engrained from top to bottom. The player betrays a flicker of exasperation when he sees the yellow in my hand, but thankfully refrains from claiming immunity on the grounds that it was "my first foul, ref!"

Around 20 minutes later, he should be seeing yellow again after executing a tactical foul to break up a promising away team attack. Quick decision to make - do I want to send off a player 30 minutes into a so far fairly contested pre-season friendly (his first challenge aside)? We have a chat instead about how his team should theoretically be playing the final hour a man down. No one on the away team complains that I leave it at a lecture instead of a dismissal. At the end of the game, number 10 thanks me for my lenience.

There are two late penalties, both for clear trips just inside the penalty area. The first is for the home team, with the score at 4-4. The away team decides to try and persuade me that the foul was outside the box, and I just laugh. "Maybe if you're blind, or if you're playing for the team that committed the foul," I reply. They give up. When they're awarded a penalty a few minutes later at the other end, I ask out loud, "Anyone want to claim that was outside the box too?" Ho ho, you're so funny, Mr. Ref. Final score: 5-5 (it stays at just the one early yellow).

Game Two

Men again, the following night. Five minutes in, the home number 11 screams, "Referee! Referee!" claiming that an opponent has taken a foul throw (he hasn't). I stop the game and ask him why he's yelling at me in a disrespectful manner. "I'm not!" he says. I imitate the call of "Referee! Referee!" we all heard 10 seconds earlier and demand to know how that's not disrespectful. It's a rhetorical question, followed by the general order to behave for the rest of the night.

33rd minute: the home coach and several of his players loudly dispute a throw-in call I've given to the away team, right in front of the benches. The away team's number 9 mutters something in a language I don't understand, and the home coach starts an aggressive dialogue with the player, which I interrupt with a yellow card and the call to desist. But the coach keeps it up, so I send him off. It seems harsh, but time and again I've seen these verbal exchanges escalate very quickly into mass brawls. This season I've decided to try and get in hard and early on dissent and shithousery. Meanwhile, my dear friend the number 11 tries to claim his coach was merely giving him instructions in their native language. Yeah, right - while staring out the away team's striker. Number 11 gets a yellow all of his own for sarcastic applause just before the break when I fail to agree that he's just been fouled, when in fact he's just been robbed of the ball for about the tenth time (too old, too slow. Pack it in, mate. Become a ref!).

At half-time I see the home coach coming towards me and get ready for the next confrontation, but that's not what happens. He apologises sincerely and at great length. He does the same at the final whistle, saying that I was absolutely right to send him off, and we have a chat in the club house about tactics and the art of not bringing frustrations from your day job to the football pitch (he's a social worker). The number 11, who'd thankfully left the game at half-time, walks by and also says sorry, but adds, "You laid it on a bit thick, though, didn't you?" I presume he means my mini-tantrum after five minutes when I was laying down the law for the rest of the night.

Whatever works, I think. I'm tempted to point out how much better his team played without him, and how much more pleasant the atmosphere was. It was an intense but excellent match with some impressive dribbling and trickery from both sides, but the visitors were a crucial step quicker. Final score: 2-6 (1 x yellow, 1 x yellow-red).

Game Three

Boys U17, a very quiet encounter without any kind of dispute or controversy. At the end, a touchline dad praises my use of advantage to let the game flow. Coming off the field, only one lad out of a total 32 players and coaches thanks me. Later, the home coach grunts a token 'Thank you" when he hands over my cash, and I can't help but mention that next time he hosts a ref on an afternoon as hot as this one, maybe he could at least offer them a bottle of water. And train his players to say a quick thanks too. I'm a bit embarrassed myself that I've said all this, and turn away before I can see his reaction. But if no one ever says anything, nothing will ever change. Final score: 1-4 (no cards).

My book Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong is now available from Halcyon Publishing here. Please buy a copy if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. It has been described by Harry Pearson as "insightful, hilarious and hair-raising. Reffing Hell will make you wonder why anyone becomes a match official, and very glad that Ian Plenderleith did."