When a coach wants the world to know: I'm a wanker!

Games 41-44, 2023-24

On Friday night I cycled nine miles up and out of town to referee a boys' U17 game, keeping my eyes on the road, of course, but occasionally glancing upwards. There had been a warning on the news that a giant battery pack from outer space - galactic junk - was due to re-enter the earth's stratosphere round about now, and south Hessen was one of the places for its possible landing.

There was one place that I hoped it would land during the game - on the away team's bench, where there appears to be no ground control. I would have been happy to write the headline in my match report: Bawling Ass Crushed by Falling Trash.

The team is often a reflection of the coach. One of his players trips an opponent up just before half-time. Not in the course of play, I should add. The ball has just gone out for a throw-in, and without any apparent provocation, the away team's number 7 sticks out his leg as the home team's number 10 trots past him. About five yards from where I'm standing. The number 10 and I both look at each other, as if to say, "WTF?" There was no pretence, no cover-up. Just plain stupidity, for all to view.

"Out, five minutes," is the judgment. It's now the number 7's turn to give me the WTF-expression. As if the government had just specifically legislated, "All forms of stupidity are allowed." As if it had been on the news earlier in the evening, right after the segment about the falling battery pack from outer space.

While his team are down to ten men, the home side take a 3-1 lead. As the final score is 3-2, that turns out to be the winning goal. Even if stupidity's not yet illegal, it can still have consequences. Which is a terrible shame for number 7 and his team.

Back to my good friend on the away team bench. There are no remotely controversial decisions for him to explode about, but he manages it anyway. He rants and screams about a couple of throw-in calls that he's very sure I've got wrong. Who knows, maybe I did. I briefly think about showing him a yellow card. This is how my thoughts run when I'm feeling calm and in complete control of a very fast and hard game:

"Should I card the wanker? Or is that what he's after, so he can further claim that somehow I'm against him? It's like Trump, in a way. You prosecute him for his blatant crimes that are there for the whole world to see or hear, and he claims victimisation. But if you ignore him, he says, 'See, I didn't even get a yellow card for yelling at the ref, so that just goes to show I must have been right all along, and that was definitely our throw-in that Mr. Whistle-Toting Shit-Eyes there missed.' Still, I'm going to ignore him. I actually love ignoring wankers. Wankers were born to be ignored. Especially choleric, arm-waving wankers, standing there like great big wanky windmills going, 'Look at me, everyone, I'm a wanker! Yes, me! The great big gesticulating wanker with the jerk-off running mouth - come and have a closer look at what it takes to be a gargantuan wanker at the top of his game!' Just leave him, metaphorically wanking away in full public view."

At the end of the game, with the rogue battery pack from outer space having failed to fulfil its mission, the wanker swerves out of my path to avoid shaking my hand. I'm glad about that. We've all seen where that hand's been for the past 90 minutes. Loser coach, wanker coach, didn't-like-the-ref-so-he-got-all-shouty-and-wanky-coach, and now he's not going to shake my hand, that will show me what he thinks of me, eh? God, how will I ever get over not being acknowledged and thanked by a Class A wanker who can't even bring himself to offer the briefest and most basic sporting gesture?

At 10.30pm, google maps sends me cycling on to a pure dirt path through the middle of a field. It's a chill, still and gorgeous night, the city skyline below is a picture rolled out for my pleasure as I bump and rattle along, not a scrap of technological detritus to be seen falling from anywhere above. Five goals, five cards, one sin-bin, one wanker. A decent enough haul. And a great game of football.

Game 41: 0-8 (2 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)
Game 42: 6-1 (no cards)
Game 43: 0-10 (no cards)
Game 44: 3-2 (5 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)

Want to read more tales of refereeing darkness and light? My quite frankly fantastic book Reffing Hell, covering six years of blog entries no longer available on this site, can still be purchased directly from its publisher Halcyon. Please support this blog and independent publishing by buying a copy. Referees and all their undoubted admirers alike will relate to its stories of bampot coaches, unhinged parents and hysterical players. Thank you!