Loud Arsehole Dad, Captain Argument and... A Flare

Games 24-26, 2022-23

In the centre of the city there are 15 minutes to go in this toxic, fractious, foul-flooded U19 game. Yet again, there's a player on the ground clutching some part of his leg, and an exasperated opponent with hands held up, claiming innocence. As I check on the player's welfare, there's another collective cry from behind me, even though the ball's out of play. What now? I turn around to see red flames and a cloud of smoke wafting across the artificial surface. One of the away contingent has thrown a flare on to the field. Every weekend, we mine a new depth of shithousery.

A home team official runs on to pick it up and extinguish it. He's the same official I asked at the start of the match to provide two field marshals in yellow vests, as required by the competition rules. They never materialised. I wouldn't normally have asked, but the away team has a certain reputation, and it's not a fantastically good one. Their following - and in case you're wondering, it's definitely not common for U19 away teams to bring fans along - has been loud throughout. Shite rap music ('Turn it off!' My order); standing on the wrong side of the perimeter fence ('Get behind the barrier!' - me again, always the asshole spoiling everyone's fun); the occasional smell of weed (not going to get involved in that discussion); and exaggerated reactions to every tackle and refereeing decision (they're just being 'fans', I suppose - nothing I can do about that). When I yellow-card the home team's right back directly in front of them, there's a huge cheer in my name: "Yes, referee! Go, referee!"

Now that there's an actual security risk, thanks to the flare, I order all the spectators out of the ground, around 50 in all. It's not a popular move with any of them, but the game's not going to continue until they're all gone. The home team's official tries to reason with me that all's under control. Yeah, sure. I say that maybe if we'd had those two field marshals I'd asked you for an hour and a half ago, we wouldn't be in this situation. "But it's just a U19 match!" he disclaims. Exactly, I respond. Why the fuck are we even in this situation for a fucking U19 match? 

Several away fans stand by the gate to the field. I go over and order them to leave the ground entirely. They tell me in no uncertain terms what they think of me. Later, long after the game's over, several are still mooching around at the exit. They could be waiting for friends on their team, they could be waiting to continue the discussion. But I'm on a bike, with a hat and neckwarmer on, and I slip past them in the dark. Within five minutes I'm cycling past the Christmas market, abuzz with chat, warmth and the smell of Glühwein. 

The flare aside, there were several other amateur football staples this weekend:

1. The LAD - Loud Arsehole Dad, during a U15 game. He offers very little encouragement to his son, just bellows instructions, and hoots in despair when the boy misses a string of chances. I wonder what's affecting his confidence? When he does score a very nice goal, his Dad's reaction is to shout, "Finally!" Tough love, eh? Tough love from the Loud Arsehole Dad. "You're a good player," I say to the striker at the final whistle - he's bagged a brace, and he plays with a smile, despite the efforts of LAD. "Don't let yourself feel under pressure from the touchline." 

2. Captain Argument. The lad from the U19 away team (see above). He tells me several times that he has the right to dispute my opinions because he's the captain. I tell him several times that the rules explicitly state that he doesn't. Here's a yellow card to back my case. I wish they'd re-write the law to make it a little more clear: Being captain does not entitle you to act like a twat.

3. The Hostile Home Team. On Sunday I'm back out in the rural deadlands, involving a train journey and a complicated cycle ride at the other end. The home team's bottom of the Fair Play table, and it's not hard to see why. Their bench is in a state of rage throughout the entire 90 minutes. I ignore them - they become like a background graphic in an old-style computer game, little figures jumping up and down and waving their arms, their faces red and their mouths in a permanent O for Outrage. Their club linesman throws his flag down in protest, because I call a throw-in when he hasn't seen the ball cross the line. Go on, mate. Knock yourself out and go on strike. I think I'll be able to cope without you.

4. The Designated Intimidator. The away team's number 11 complains about my very first call against him, and then bellows at me two minutes later when I cancel out a goal from his team for a very clear offside. We've played eight minutes, and he gets the first yellow of the day. After that, not a word. So, it seems like I've passed the early test to see if the ref's a walkover we can intimidate by disputing every call against us.

5. HART - He's A Referee Too. That'll be the away team's defender, who informs me at the end of the game that, excuse me, but HART, and I'm too quick to call offside. This may be something to do with me disallowing two offside goals, both from his team. Here's another person to walk past and quickly ignore, otherwise I'm in danger of saying, "You're a referee too? Guess what? I'm a wanker with no respect too! So why don't you just fuck the fuck off, you cunt?" On the way into his changing room he kicks the door. Fucking shit ref robbed us of two points again.

6. The dirty 0-0 draw on a muddy pitch on a cold, dark November afternoon. Endless long balls, countless fouls, habitual moaning. That's how it ended. Both sides unhappy, which is arguably the best outcome from my point of view. The hosts don't even offer me a drink, let alone a wurst. They have Glühwein too, but no warmth to go with it. My match fee and travel expenses are counted out to the last cent. They believe they should have had a penalty. But I don't give penalties just because the home bench screams for one. It's only the first of Advent, not Christmas fucking Day.

Game 24: 2-6 (3 x yellow)
Game 25: 2-0 (6 x yellow, 2 x time-penalties)
Game 26: 0-0 (9 x yellow)

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.