The untouchable dignity of the referee. Plus, beer and a sausage sandwich

Game 15, 2022-23

It takes me three trains to get to Sunday's game, in a small town way south of the city. I have to leave the flat three hours before kick-off, because the train that would get me there in perfect time has been cancelled. There's a 20-minute walk at the other end, and the only sound is of the rain as it breaks against my protective umbrella. Like all small German towns on the week's only sacred day, it's so peaceful that you wonder how they allow raucous, tonsil-testing football games to take place at all. Though the ground is beyond the town boundaries and any potential noise complaints.

As it's been raining for two days, I envision a sloping cow-field covered in puddles - because we're out in the countryside, right? In reality, it's a lovely little pitch surrounded by hedges and, along one side, three shelves of wooden terracing. There are some weird circles of dirt among the green grass, caused - the groundsman tells me - by underground sprinklers that will no longer water where they're told to. "But, you know, they cost €800 each to replace," he adds with the stoicism that's pre-requisite to being counted among amateur football's sub-nation of unsung volunteers.

Back in my changing room, I confront the familiar pre-match emotion of mild dread that now settles into my gut prior to all men's matches. What level of gamesmanship, dissent, anger and all-round shithousery will be in store for me today? There's a consensus that leagues outside of the city are easier to manage, and that clubs are far more hospitable. In general it's true, but it's not guaranteed. I take note of the laminated A4 sheet on the changing-room's desk. Respect. Tolerance. Fairness. There's a special section for the referee:

"The referee is just as much a human being as everyone else. Their dignity is just as untouchable as the dignity of all others. We respect the decisions that they make. We do not see them as our enemies, but as our friend. After the game they are due just as much respect as our team-mates, and for that reason alone they deserve a handshake."

Of course I take a picture of the proclamation, in case I have to quote it back later. Just as I have done now. Not, though, to ridicule its lofty ideals, but to confirm: at this club, they are true to their word. The visitors, bar a couple of moans about offside, are no trouble either. There is one (undisputed) yellow card all afternoon, for a deliberate and very late foul. The home team win 5-0, and at the end of the game several players shake my hand and say thank you.

It's not gratitude for me having a great game, because I didn't. Hardly anyone says 'Well reffed', but they do say, 'Thanks, ref.' They're so polite that I start to feel guilty about some calls I'm pretty sure that I fucked up. An offside or two, and a foul by the away keeper that I waved off as a collision with the opposing striker. But no one's getting on my case about any calls at all. Maybe that's down to the clear result and the dominance of the home side - none of my decisions had any effect on the final outcome. Or this really is just the way they play here.

Once I'm done with the game report and ready to pick up my expenses in the bar, I still have 45 minutes until the next train. I accept the offer of a liver-sausage sandwich and a beer drafted fresh from the tap - a crisp and cold local brew called Pfungstädter. There's Leeds v Villa on the big screen, though I'm the only one watching. I could easily sit here for several hours. Olaf, a club functionary, comes over for a chat.

"We don't get may refs coming out by train," he says, though he's not particularly engaged when I eco-splain why. We chat about the game instead. Sure, he says, they won 5-0, but there's plenty of room for improvement. Always, I agree. I take care to add how much I appreciate the way the club and the players have treated me, and that's it been a real pleasure to ref here. He reacts like it's understood, as if it's barely worth mentioning. But it is.

When I get up to leave, one of the other men at the bar calls out, "Ah, that young man must be the referee!" Gentle laughter all round. Then as I walk back to the train station, I wonder, "Is that why they were so nice to me? Because I'm old?" Well, fine - that works for me too.

Final score: 5-0 (1 x yellow)

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.