When Saturday came, I took a day off to hang out with Mrs Ref. We acted like we were on holiday - got up late, went out for breakfast, took in a gallery and a film, then indulged ourselves at dinner. Football only came into play when we watched the Bundesliga highlights just before midnight. When the game's become a year-round, all-pervasive, seven-day affair, it does no harm to shut it out for a short while (or a long one).
Just under two hours later, spattered with mud, I'm greeted by the club secretary with the usual query when he doesn't believe his own eyes: "You came by bike?" The bike rack's empty, but the car park's full. The reserves are struggling at 3-1 down. There's no official referee, so they've commandeered someone from the home club, who's wearing a track-suit and following the government directives to save as much energy as possible. He gives the home side a penalty, generating an opera's worth of choral disbelief from the visitors.
The penalty's saved, but the home team scores from the rebound. A full half-minute later, fake crowd sounds suddenly cough out of the speaker just above my head, prompting me to jerk in surprise, much to the amusement of the bloke standing nearby. The canned noise is still celebrating the goal when the away team re-starts and promptly makes it 4-2. I look at my neighbour again, and this time we're both laughing. The tannoy cuts the recording, which sounds like it was made in the 1950s at the very latest, and instead an announcer reads out the names of the goal-scorers in a slightly embarrassed tone of voice.
The pitch is muddy down the flanks, patchy in parts, but playable enough. The main game is rough at the edges in terms of technique, but the two sides compete without too many fouls or complaints. There are the usual howls for a penalty from the away team when a ball springs up from a home defender's thigh and hits him on the arm, but they're happy enough with my explanation at the next break in play. Their group of 30 or so fans, though, have decided that I'm 'against' them, and greet every decision from now until the final whistle with jeering and incredulous dismay at my chronic incompetence.
There's balance in the universe, though. The home fans are feeling just as upset at the game-spoiling referee, which probably means I'm getting things approximately right. From a philosophical slant, even if every decision I make is wrong, it's roughly balanced out, and that's reflected in the final scoreline of 2-2. There's also a mathematical conundrum for all those football thinkers out there on the touchlines today: if there are not enough referees available in our state to man the reserve teams' game, how come there are at least four dozen absolute experts on the laws of the game in attendance for the very next match? Why are we not tapping into this rich reserve of bounteous football wisdom?
The game gets tetchy towards full-time, as games so often do when both sides sniff the win, but don't quite have the ability to turn the scent of victory into a celebratory three-point banquet. The vocal home centre half gets a yellow in the 86th. minute for scything down the opposition outside-left, then two minutes later a 10-minute time penalty for screaming at me about a corner, or something. He can't believe that one punishment follows the other so quickly after he's been such an angel all afternoon (he hasn't). "It's simple," I explain. "I'm not here to be disrespectfully yelled at." As no one on his team's defending him, he gives up looking aggrieved and trudges off.
His team-mates hold on through four minutes of stoppage time. When the final whistle sounds, there follows the flat silence of thwarted glory from all sides of the ground. I love that silence. It almost always means no aggravation among the players, just tired handshakes and the feeling that, well, at least one point is better than no points at all.
As I'm walking off, a small girl comes running on to the pitch to greet her dad, no older than six or seven. I smile at her and she says, "You did a good job." The kindest fan in the ground, and the cutest compliment of my entire refereeing career. From her vantage point above the field on the swing set behind the goal, she clearly had the best possible view of the game.
Which day did I enjoy more: Saturday or Sunday? I'll leave it up to the reader to decide.
Final score: 2-2 (3 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)
My new book 'Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please buy a copy direct from Halcyon if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.
The pitch is muddy down the flanks, patchy in parts, but playable enough. The main game is rough at the edges in terms of technique, but the two sides compete without too many fouls or complaints. There are the usual howls for a penalty from the away team when a ball springs up from a home defender's thigh and hits him on the arm, but they're happy enough with my explanation at the next break in play. Their group of 30 or so fans, though, have decided that I'm 'against' them, and greet every decision from now until the final whistle with jeering and incredulous dismay at my chronic incompetence.
The game gets tetchy towards full-time, as games so often do when both sides sniff the win, but don't quite have the ability to turn the scent of victory into a celebratory three-point banquet. The vocal home centre half gets a yellow in the 86th. minute for scything down the opposition outside-left, then two minutes later a 10-minute time penalty for screaming at me about a corner, or something. He can't believe that one punishment follows the other so quickly after he's been such an angel all afternoon (he hasn't). "It's simple," I explain. "I'm not here to be disrespectfully yelled at." As no one on his team's defending him, he gives up looking aggrieved and trudges off.
His team-mates hold on through four minutes of stoppage time. When the final whistle sounds, there follows the flat silence of thwarted glory from all sides of the ground. I love that silence. It almost always means no aggravation among the players, just tired handshakes and the feeling that, well, at least one point is better than no points at all.
As I'm walking off, a small girl comes running on to the pitch to greet her dad, no older than six or seven. I smile at her and she says, "You did a good job." The kindest fan in the ground, and the cutest compliment of my entire refereeing career. From her vantage point above the field on the swing set behind the goal, she clearly had the best possible view of the game.
Which day did I enjoy more: Saturday or Sunday? I'll leave it up to the reader to decide.
Final score: 2-2 (3 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)
My new book 'Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please buy a copy direct from Halcyon if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.
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