I sometimes wonder if I'm too quick to show yellow cards. There's a fine balance between setting the tone in a potentially difficult game, and coming across as an over-officious twat who loves to dip into their pocket and display what they've got. On Saturday afternoon, I observe a referee who's in charge of a U19 game on the field where I'm about to referee U15s. Instead of dishing out punishments, he deals with every conflict by delivering a few calm and well-chosen words. It's never too late to learn, and for 20 minutes I'm captivated by this young man's ability to manage potentially tense situations.
Of my three games this weekend, I knew that two were unlikely to cause many problems - the above-mentioned U15 game (it's only at the next age group - U17 - that the hormonal shithousery starts to take off, and finally dwindles about 30-40 years later), and a girls' U17 game on early Sunday evening. Inbetween, on Sunday lunchtime, there's boys' U19 at city level, a league with perpetual firework possibilities. Could I somehow get through this game by imitating the style of my colleague the day before?
My interaction starts with the away team, who have just four players, still in civvies, standing outside their changing-room with ten minutes until kick-off. They know what I'm gong to say, so they start to reassure me that everyone's on their way. By some miracle, we only start five minutes late, though they have no coach, who's come down with Covid. "We got lost," they tell me, and although it's true we're way out on the edge of town, you wonder how many cell phones it takes to find a football club with a clearly denoted address in the match plan.
With no coach, the captain manages the team and the subs from his position at centre-back, and he does it very well - they're as nice a bunch as you could hope to ref. That's less true of the home team, especially the number 2 at right-back who keeps playing the away team onside, then loudly complains when I let a goal stand that's purely down to him, not to me. Yellow card for dissent? No, let's try ignoring it. Just as I ignore the many partisan shouts coming from the touchline in what's become quite a crowd, with an underlying and borderline unpleasant air of Country Boys v Townies. But I stick to keeping my cards hidden and resolve a pair of niggly incidents with quick lectures and the request of a handshake (along the lines of 'this is a request, but it's actually an order').
The home team are 1-4 down when they really start pushing themselves with a quarter of an hour left, and score two quick goals to cut the deficit (the third goal resulting from me playing advantage after a trip, despite shrieks of horror all round - you're welcome, lads!). Suddenly, the game dons a new level of stress and challenges take on an extra edge of nasty intent. With seven minutes to go, the home team's number 15 kicks the ball at an opponent after he's fouled him, and that means the end of the card amnesty.
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| Put that damned thing away, ref! |
My interaction starts with the away team, who have just four players, still in civvies, standing outside their changing-room with ten minutes until kick-off. They know what I'm gong to say, so they start to reassure me that everyone's on their way. By some miracle, we only start five minutes late, though they have no coach, who's come down with Covid. "We got lost," they tell me, and although it's true we're way out on the edge of town, you wonder how many cell phones it takes to find a football club with a clearly denoted address in the match plan.
With no coach, the captain manages the team and the subs from his position at centre-back, and he does it very well - they're as nice a bunch as you could hope to ref. That's less true of the home team, especially the number 2 at right-back who keeps playing the away team onside, then loudly complains when I let a goal stand that's purely down to him, not to me. Yellow card for dissent? No, let's try ignoring it. Just as I ignore the many partisan shouts coming from the touchline in what's become quite a crowd, with an underlying and borderline unpleasant air of Country Boys v Townies. But I stick to keeping my cards hidden and resolve a pair of niggly incidents with quick lectures and the request of a handshake (along the lines of 'this is a request, but it's actually an order').
The home team are 1-4 down when they really start pushing themselves with a quarter of an hour left, and score two quick goals to cut the deficit (the third goal resulting from me playing advantage after a trip, despite shrieks of horror all round - you're welcome, lads!). Suddenly, the game dons a new level of stress and challenges take on an extra edge of nasty intent. With seven minutes to go, the home team's number 15 kicks the ball at an opponent after he's fouled him, and that means the end of the card amnesty.
The question is - yellow, time-penalty or straight red? I opt for the middle ground and send him out for five minutes, prompting predictable outrage from home players and fans. Yet the team manages to level anyway thanks to a cracking shot from their lively number 10 from outside the penalty area. 4-4. There's time for a single yellow for the home number 2 after he shoves an opponent over (his coach subs him out straightaway, and I wonder if he should have had a time-penalty too, or even red), and then the game's done. It stays peaceful after the whistle, emotions and energy all used up, and there's a smattering of murmured thank yous and handshakes from players on both teams.
On my way out of the ground to my next game far across town, I pass a group of home players, among them the number 15 (the time-penalty 'victim'), who tries to give a 57-year-old man on a bike the hard man's stare, like he wouldn't mind making something of it. I give him a big smile and say, "Enjoy the rest of your Sunday!" before pedalling off. I feel that I reffed the game just fine, but I didn't enjoy it one bit. Should probably have shown an early yellow - it's the only language these boys understand.
Having had an early game to coach too, I'm out and about on Sunday from 8.30am for 11 hours in total, with nothing to eat but an apple and a bar of chocolate. At the end of the girls' U17 game (no cards!), there's a single "Thank you, ref" from the playing side. Well, it's good to be invisible for once. Then the home coach comes and shakes my hand and thanks me with such lavish praise - for being engaged, and for taking the game seriously (why wouldn't I?) - that I'm almost in tears, while dismayed when he tells me straight out that most of my colleagues don't bother running or even paying much attention when they're reffing this league.
Still, at the end of a very long day it's really nice to have some acknowledgment. We don't ask for much more than that, and this one coach - as well as several parents who subsequently thanked me as I left the field - absolutely made my weekend, cards be damned. Thank you in return.
Game 16: 5-2 (no cards)
Game 17: 4-4 (1 x time-penalty, 1 x yellow)
Game 18: 3-0 (no cards)
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| Hard stare bear |
Having had an early game to coach too, I'm out and about on Sunday from 8.30am for 11 hours in total, with nothing to eat but an apple and a bar of chocolate. At the end of the girls' U17 game (no cards!), there's a single "Thank you, ref" from the playing side. Well, it's good to be invisible for once. Then the home coach comes and shakes my hand and thanks me with such lavish praise - for being engaged, and for taking the game seriously (why wouldn't I?) - that I'm almost in tears, while dismayed when he tells me straight out that most of my colleagues don't bother running or even paying much attention when they're reffing this league.
Still, at the end of a very long day it's really nice to have some acknowledgment. We don't ask for much more than that, and this one coach - as well as several parents who subsequently thanked me as I left the field - absolutely made my weekend, cards be damned. Thank you in return.
Game 16: 5-2 (no cards)
Game 17: 4-4 (1 x time-penalty, 1 x yellow)
Game 18: 3-0 (no cards)
My new book 'Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' documents six years of whistling torment. Please buy a copy direct from Halcyon if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.
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