Dread. It’s not a positive emotion. It’s what you feel on the way to a job interview or before a major exam. When the phone rings in the middle of the night. When you turn on the news to hear that the war in Ukraine has escalated, and that the glaciers are melting way too fast. When your partner says, ‘We need to talk.’ It’s what you feel when Scotland play the Faroe Islands.
It shouldn’t be what you feel when you’re on your way to referee a game of amateur football.
It's the last game of 2022. It’s a very cold Sunday in mid-December, and it’s snowed overnight, maybe an inch or so. I check my schedule and see that the game is set to be played on artificial turf, considerably reducing the chances of it getting called off. It’s an overwhelmingly grey day, and I have to get the train to take me half an hour out of town. But that isn’t the reason for the dread, this tugging, gut-based fear that something very bad’s going to happen. That I’m going to fuck up a major decision. A decision that will make a lot of people go red in the face and loud in the mouth.
I arrive at the ground an hour before kick-off. Both teams are already changed and warming up. There’s still some light snow flailing down from the sky, but there’s not a trace of it on the field. There’s no escaping the truth. I am going to have to referee this game. Even though something very bad is going to happen.
It’s a month now since the game took place. I can remember very little about it, aside from the dread. That the dread fuelled my conviction that there is something wrong with a hobby that makes you feel this way. That makes you so afraid of making a single mistake. When anticipation means angst, that’s no leisurely pastime. Unless you’re a referee.
It’s a close and competitive game, with an average quota of fouls and poor sportsmanship. The home team score the winning goal in the 76th. minute when their striker is played through on goal, and he lobs the keeper. The away team claims the scorer is offside. In fact his team-mate had been offside, but he knew it, so stood still and let the scorer run on to the through-pass. There is shouting, whining, frustration etc. I explain what happened, from my point of view. Eventually the away team accepts it, having no other choice, and play re-starts.
In the 87th. minute, one of the away team players screams at me over some decision or other. I show him a yellow card. He makes that dismissive gesture that leaves you feeling like yellow cards are a waste of time. A gesture that says, “Yeah yeah, go on, show me your poxy yellow card if that makes you feel better. You officious twat.” It’s all I’ve got, though.
Still, the sense of dread at last begins to ebb as the final minutes play out. It looks like I’m going to get out of here without being booed off the field or yelled at by angry men. Yay. A normal day with just one disputed goal and one red-faced, belligerent arsehole. I’ve experienced so much worse.
At the final whistle, the away team’s right back comes to shake my hand, but also to tell me again that, in his view, the winning goal was offside.
“No, it wasn’t,” I reply. But I doubt that cogent perspective will have persuaded him to change his view.
I don’t care, because I now have six weeks off. I feel light inside, almost elated. I got through the game, and no one hates me! Much.
Final score: 2-1 (4 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.
It’s a month now since the game took place. I can remember very little about it, aside from the dread. That the dread fuelled my conviction that there is something wrong with a hobby that makes you feel this way. That makes you so afraid of making a single mistake. When anticipation means angst, that’s no leisurely pastime. Unless you’re a referee.
It’s a close and competitive game, with an average quota of fouls and poor sportsmanship. The home team score the winning goal in the 76th. minute when their striker is played through on goal, and he lobs the keeper. The away team claims the scorer is offside. In fact his team-mate had been offside, but he knew it, so stood still and let the scorer run on to the through-pass. There is shouting, whining, frustration etc. I explain what happened, from my point of view. Eventually the away team accepts it, having no other choice, and play re-starts.
Still, the sense of dread at last begins to ebb as the final minutes play out. It looks like I’m going to get out of here without being booed off the field or yelled at by angry men. Yay. A normal day with just one disputed goal and one red-faced, belligerent arsehole. I’ve experienced so much worse.
At the final whistle, the away team’s right back comes to shake my hand, but also to tell me again that, in his view, the winning goal was offside.
“No, it wasn’t,” I reply. But I doubt that cogent perspective will have persuaded him to change his view.
I don’t care, because I now have six weeks off. I feel light inside, almost elated. I got through the game, and no one hates me! Much.
Final score: 2-1 (4 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.
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