The Romance and the Rain (and the home coach is a pain)

Game 10, 2022-23

A men's cup game in the rain under floodlights - that always sounds so romantic. Does this constellation bring out the best in the two teams, though? Is this game the sporting equivalent of a candlelit dinner with a laid-back jazz trio playing smooth grooves in the background? If you've been reading this blog for the past six years, you'll know the answer to that without reading a further word.

Romance in the rain. It's over-rated.

The home team play two levels below the visitors, but clearly relish their role as underdogs. Their bench is loud, as refereeing colleagues had warned me it would be. "The first time their coach yells at you, show him a card," is their advice. "Don't worry, he's used to it." Indeed, by the eighth minute, I've flourished the lightly coloured plastic towards a man whose default setting appears to be: hysterical hobgoblin on the verge of a cardiac arrest. A few minutes later his son - playing in midfield - follows suit for commenting, "You might as well go upstairs and ref the game from there." I'm not sure what that actually means, to be honest (their clubhouse only has one floor), but the tone's enough to again lure the card out of my pocket.

With just 17 minutes gone, the home team's 0-1 down and has four yellow cards for a combination of dissent and extremely robust play. The insane thing is that this goes on to help them win the match. They temper their fouling and their verbal attacks on my decisions, and focus a little bit more on playing football. They realise that the visitors are not actually much better than them and have possibly sent a second-string XI. When the home side stops targeting shins and griping about my whistle, they're a swift counter-attacking unit that seems to thrive on adversity.

Nowhere is this better illustrated in the second half when, with the score at 2-2, their central defender screams at me for apparently missing an offside. The attack's already broken down and his team is on the counter-attack. I stop the game, send him out for 10 minutes (he's already seen yellow), and give an indirect free-kick where he was standing, right in front of his own penalty area. Not only does the home team survive this free-kick, they go ahead 3-2 during the ten minutes that they're down to ten men.

Not that they're thanking me. When I send the player out and give the indirect free-kick (see Law 12, Section 2) there are a number of screaming tantrums about my unfitness to referee. The home bench is again quite loud, especially the assistant coach, a shrieking, single-dick comedy pantomime all of his own. The next time there's a throw-in close to where he's standing, I offer him the whistle and say that as he's obviously a massive expert on the Laws of the Game, perhaps he'd like to take over and give me a rest.

He stares past me like I'm not there. All of a sudden, he's not so keen to have my attention. I'm not aggressive in my offer, I'm just trying to siphon off some of his heat. After that, he's less vocal. For one away team player, though, the theatrics of the home coach are all too much, and he shouts at him, "You've been at this for 20 years now, it never stops." Yep, that's the impunity for idiots this city's footballing culture nurtures with such pride.

The home team are entirely ungracious in victory. As the final whistle approaches with the score still 3-2, the coach's son greets every failed shot from the away XI with a crowing jeer. Is that unsporting behaviour? It most certainly is, and I'm thinking about sending him out for the rest of the game when his captain tells him to shut up and focus on making it to the final whistle. There's a final breakaway goal in injury time to wrap up the win, then some celebrations to reflect that this qualifies as a giant-killing, of sorts, albeit one witnessed only by a handful of gum-bumping codgers who've been barracking me from beneath their brollies from the opposite side of the field to the coaching zone. Just for balance, I suppose.

The home coach offers me a limp handshake and a lukewarm thank you. I say nothing, the words, "It was an absolute pleasure" being unavailable at that point in time. On my way out the ground I pass him again, but there's no goodbye, and it's better that way - why pretend we're anywhere close to liking or respecting each other? The night of romantic cup football's over (the candlelit dinner deteriorated into a full-blown row), and yet another club's done its best to be as inhospitable as possible to both the visiting team and the referee. Stay classy, lads. Can't wait until next time.

Final score: 4-2 (8 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)

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