My hobby is upsetting people. I don't mean that I set out to upset. It's not my hobby in itself to upset people. It just so happens that what I do in my free time makes a lot of people angry. I know this makes no sense. I know that I should seriously consider finding another hobby. I don't like upsetting people.
 |
| Game of Rage |
And yet, if I hadn't called the penalty, the other team would have been upset. It's so hard to keep everyone happy.
A short while later, the home team's number 10 is upset. He thinks an opponent was offside, and that I should have blown my whistle. Except, the away team's player was not offside, not even close. If I had called offside, though, the away team would have been (understandably) upset. The number 10 ends up sitting out a ten-minute time penalty. I'm hoping that during this time he will get over his upset. Perhaps there will even be a coach who talks to him about it. Perhaps, but probably not.
There is also a man in the crowd who is upset at a lot of my decisions against the home team during the first half. He stands and yells loud commentaries about the standard of my refereeing. In a small crowd, the gobby fuckwit is the sonic king of cuntishness. Nobody at the home club comes to tell him, "Hey, we know you're upset, but how about you shut the fuck up? You're embarrassing our club." They should, but they don't. I ignore him, and after the interval he's quiet (or perhaps he's gone for his therapy appointment). In fact, after half-time, everyone goes quiet. It's almost as if someone has said, "We're 4-0 down at home to a team that play a level below us. It's not the ref who's shit, it's us. Why don't we focus on that?"
In Game 7, the away team's coach is twice very upset with me during the first half. I can not for the life of me remember why. They weren't major decisions. There he is, though, throwing his arms up in the air, yelling like I insulted his mother, and his mother's mother too. Generations of mothers. Producing generations of motherfuckers who spend their Sundays jumping up and down and screaming about a handball or a shirt-pull I may have missed while trying to enjoy my hobby.
By this time, both teams have taken a dislike to each other and are fouling and moaning more out of habit than a desire to win the game. I miss a possible penalty because the foul comes so late that I'd already turned my attention to the path of the ball. "How could you miss that?" a player yells at me. He's (understandably) upset, as are several others surrounding me. I almost certainly screwed up the call. But then I get upset too. I tell them all to shut the fuck up. A minute later, I blow for full-time and curse out loud all the way to my changing room, grab my stuff and leave. They look at me from a distance, a little wary. They're suddenly the sane ones. The ref, though, he's fucking lost it. He's very upset. About his hobby! What's his problem?
Yet I enjoyed Game 6 so much that I almost started levitating. Meditating in midfield. It was that quiet. No calls from the crowd or the bench. One player started to protest about one foul that I called against a team-mate, but then stopped herself after half a second. Probably thought, "That's not worth getting upset about." We played on. We enjoyed our hobby for a couple of hours and then went home.
I'm taking a break for a few weeks, which is definitely good timing. I'll be back in September, I suppose, unless I've found a better hobby in the meantime. Like standing in front of the mirror for 90 minutes and raging at my reflection. It's the kind of thing I do for fun.
Game 5: 1-6 (5 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)
Game 6: 3-0 (no cards)
Game 7: 2-1 (3 x yellow, 2 x time-penalty)
My 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment