Game 9 (Friday night). There's a lump of shit on the field. It's the away team's number 10, who plays absolutely shit, and acts like an absolute shit. But he's consistently shit. Every time he gets the ball, he passes to an opponent. For a playmaker, there's one principal deficit here - he can't play. He has other skills, though. When I blow up for a foul against this dirty, foul-footed bastard, he yells in disbelief. When I blow for a foul against any of his team-mates, he yells in disbelief. When I don't blow for a perceived foul on one of his team-mates (you'll be guessing the outcome by now), he yells in disbelief.
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| Yellow-card scoreboard... |
"There's really something wrong with you tonight, isn't there?" It's not me who says this to the Non-Playmaker, but one of his opponents. They also complain, but their complaint is that the other team won't stop complaining. After more yellow cards than I can count, I just ignore the away team. It's a game of 1001 fouls (from both sides), with a lack of collective sporting ability one of the few discernible features alongside grunt-swollen square-ups, compulsive shirt-pulling, deliberate trips, hostile fans on the touchline, and the away trainer jumping up and down like he's working off years of frustration for being small, bald and stupid.
At half-time I say to both captains: "Seven yellows already. Soon there will be sin-bins and reds if your players don't shape up." They thank me for the warning. After half-time, the home team's behaviour improves, the away team's less so. At one point, they're down to eight men, with three players sin-binned for 10 minutes for the usual portfolio of shithousery - kicking the ball away to prevent a re-start (yellow), followed by sarcastic applause for the yellow (get another one for free - see you in 10!), a deliberate and nasty off-the-ball foul (for once, no complaints - he even apologises), and then my friend the Non-Playmaker, with whom I'd already had the following exchange:
Me (holding out the whistle): Here, have a go yourself. Feel free to ref the game, because I'm ready to fuck off home.
Number 10: Me too!
Me: Then go! I'm certainly not going to stop you. Go on, clear off!
But he doesn't, he waits for the next outburst of dissent before he joins his colleagues taking a 10-minute timeout. When I'm close to the bench, the coach screams, "You're seeing nothing. You've seen nothing all night!" Certainly haven't seen any football. Or decent behaviour. But I am definitely seeing this yellow card being waved in your face, you twat.
After a fraught and utterly shit-ridden 90 minutes, two things lift my mood. A colleague materialises out of the crowd - he'd kept himself hidden, but had come to watch the game because he's been worried about my mental state of late while refereeing shithousery like this. He smiles and we shake hands, which gives me an excuse to walk away from all the players who still "have questions", and he tells me that all my decisions were correct, but that I shouldn't have played so much advantage early on in the game. "They're crap at this level, they can't play football anyway, so just blow every time so that they know they can't get away with stuff." I really, really appreciate his presence, and his advice too.
In my changing-room, I check the international football scores. Scotland are 3-0 up at Cyprus. I holler with joy, my mood now up at 100, and the game I've just reffed is already as good as forgotten. When I come out, a couple of the home players smile at me. "Tough game, eh?" I give them a knowing laugh in response. It's Friday evening, we're all regaining our humanity as this lamentable encounter is flushed down the reeking cludgie of football's fecal-stained history.
Game 10 (Saturday morning). I am supposed to be coaching a young ref doing his first game. To arrange a meeting time and place, and to make sure he has everything he needs, I email him well in advance (no response), call him (he doesn't pick up) and message him (again, no response). He doesn't show up, though given last night's game I can't say that rejecting a career in refereeing right from the very first game is a bad choice. I ref the game instead, a friendly between two boys' U13 teams. There's a right little shit on the away team who screams at his team-mates whenever they make a mistake. I tell him to quit with the noise, because his coach isn't doing anything about it. This is where a glorious career in model sporting conduct gets a head-start.
Game xx (Saturday afternoon). A boys' U19 cup game, but the away team only has seven players. Given that it's 30+ degrees, they concede the game. I feel bad for them - they have no trainer, no adults along, and several of their team-mates have called off at short notice. Before all this happens, I bump into a colleague who's just refereed a U15 cup game at the same ground. As he's picking up his expenses from the home coach, I ask him if the coach behaved well - it's meant to be a joke. But the coach chips in tetchily before my colleague can answer with, "No, I didn't, I got a yellow card, because he [my fellow ref] didn't see an elbow to the face, and missed a clear offside. And I would complain just the same again." On and on he goes. My colleague and I look at each other and shrug. What can you do? Now coaches are fully owning their twattery. It's like they're proud to have been cautioned, like there's some political nobility involved in their protest. I took a yellow card to protect my team from the savage injustice of the referee!
Game 11: (Sunday afternoon). Almost an hour by train, and then another 30 minutes by bicycle for a level 8 men's game. It's seven hours out of my Sunday, but I'm happy to get out of town, and the home club knows how to welcome referees (see left). The teams can play, and are focused on their game. I card one player early on for dissent, and it's preventively effective. Every conversation I have out on the pitch is constructive and de-escalatory. There's not a single macho square-up between opponents. I give a penalty and there's not a breath of complaint. The away team's goalkeeper has an absolute blinder, making a very level game look lopsided. Despite the heat, I really enjoy it. Imagine that - enjoyment in sport. It's still so easily possible.
One other thing - the home team had a scoreboard with an actual working digital clock (see pic at top of page). I have never reffed at a ground with one of these, and they even remembered to stop it when we had a drinks break. Best of all, no one asked how long there still was to play. Well, one player did, but all I had to do was point at the clock. Seven minutes, then we're done. Thank you for not behaving like shit.
Game 9: 2-2 (10 x yellow, 3 x time-punishment)
Game 10: 3-0 (no cards)
Game 11: 0-4 (3 x yellow)
After a fraught and utterly shit-ridden 90 minutes, two things lift my mood. A colleague materialises out of the crowd - he'd kept himself hidden, but had come to watch the game because he's been worried about my mental state of late while refereeing shithousery like this. He smiles and we shake hands, which gives me an excuse to walk away from all the players who still "have questions", and he tells me that all my decisions were correct, but that I shouldn't have played so much advantage early on in the game. "They're crap at this level, they can't play football anyway, so just blow every time so that they know they can't get away with stuff." I really, really appreciate his presence, and his advice too.
In my changing-room, I check the international football scores. Scotland are 3-0 up at Cyprus. I holler with joy, my mood now up at 100, and the game I've just reffed is already as good as forgotten. When I come out, a couple of the home players smile at me. "Tough game, eh?" I give them a knowing laugh in response. It's Friday evening, we're all regaining our humanity as this lamentable encounter is flushed down the reeking cludgie of football's fecal-stained history.
Game 10 (Saturday morning). I am supposed to be coaching a young ref doing his first game. To arrange a meeting time and place, and to make sure he has everything he needs, I email him well in advance (no response), call him (he doesn't pick up) and message him (again, no response). He doesn't show up, though given last night's game I can't say that rejecting a career in refereeing right from the very first game is a bad choice. I ref the game instead, a friendly between two boys' U13 teams. There's a right little shit on the away team who screams at his team-mates whenever they make a mistake. I tell him to quit with the noise, because his coach isn't doing anything about it. This is where a glorious career in model sporting conduct gets a head-start.
Game xx (Saturday afternoon). A boys' U19 cup game, but the away team only has seven players. Given that it's 30+ degrees, they concede the game. I feel bad for them - they have no trainer, no adults along, and several of their team-mates have called off at short notice. Before all this happens, I bump into a colleague who's just refereed a U15 cup game at the same ground. As he's picking up his expenses from the home coach, I ask him if the coach behaved well - it's meant to be a joke. But the coach chips in tetchily before my colleague can answer with, "No, I didn't, I got a yellow card, because he [my fellow ref] didn't see an elbow to the face, and missed a clear offside. And I would complain just the same again." On and on he goes. My colleague and I look at each other and shrug. What can you do? Now coaches are fully owning their twattery. It's like they're proud to have been cautioned, like there's some political nobility involved in their protest. I took a yellow card to protect my team from the savage injustice of the referee!
One other thing - the home team had a scoreboard with an actual working digital clock (see pic at top of page). I have never reffed at a ground with one of these, and they even remembered to stop it when we had a drinks break. Best of all, no one asked how long there still was to play. Well, one player did, but all I had to do was point at the clock. Seven minutes, then we're done. Thank you for not behaving like shit.
Game 9: 2-2 (10 x yellow, 3 x time-punishment)
Game 10: 3-0 (no cards)
Game 11: 0-4 (3 x yellow)
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.
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