"Excuse me, but we would like to form a wall." Too late, mate

Games 11-12, 2024-25

Second half of a boys' U15 game. The goalkeeper of the away team comes out of his penalty area and carelessly picks up a through-ball with his hands. I blow for the free-kick, he puts the ball on the ground, and begins to run backwards. A forward on the home team looks at the ball, looks at me, and then says, "I can take the free-kick, right?" Of course, I reply. He runs up to the ball, chips it over the goalkeeper's head into the goal, and celebrates with his team-mates.

I turn towards the half way line for the re-start while all around me yell. The defenders on the away team are screaming that they didn't have the chance to set up a wall. Their coach is screaming about the same thing - at least, I imagine he is. I've been ignoring him all game because he's a choleric knave, and I continue to do so now. I'm not about to waste my breath explaining the laws of the game to a ranting idiot. If he doesn't know them, that's his lookout. The same goes for his dirty, fouling, rat-shit team - a sporting collective modelled after their moronic mentor.

After the game, which they deservedly lose 6-2 (including three yellows and a time-penalty), the players make sarcastic comments about what a great game I had. I choose to pretend that I'm not listening to the insolent little shits because I can't be arsed with any more drama and disciplinary reports. One day, likely later than sooner, they will find out that they have no inherent right to form a fucking wall after they have committed an infringement. The number of times that defending teams ask to do this reflects the baffling widespread ignorance about the correct procedure.

During the following week I mention the incident to two separate coaching colleagues, both of whom have played and coached for decades. They both respond with surprise. "What, the defensive team can't ask to set up a wall? I never knew that!" Jesus Christ. Well, let your teams know, otherwise they'll end up cussing at the innocent referee. To all other coaches: teach your players to take free kicks quickly. Teach your players to be ready to defend a free-kick as soon as the referee blows. They will only have a right to form their fucking wall if the attacking player requests a whistle from the ref, or if he's stopped play for, say, an injury or to show a yellow or red card.

[I still have traumatic flashbacks to my playing days when a team-mate took a quick free-kick and passed me the ball. I controlled the pass on the edge of the opponent's penalty area, and then scored. And then the referee called it back "because the defending team wasn't ready". I KNOW THEY WEREN'T FUCKING READY. THAT'S WHY WE TOOK A QUICK FREE FUCKING KICK! It's been at least 15 years. Can you sense that it still rankles? Never forgive and forget the important stuff.]

The previous day, I'd been coaching a young referee taking just his third game, a U10 fixture. I talked with both sets of coaches before the game about their forthcoming conduct. Of course, they assured me, they will behave themselves in a manner befitting their role model status. Except that in the second half, my young ref whistles a penalty against the away team, who are leading 2-0. Uproar from the away bench (which has added a couple of vociferous dad coaches to coax the seven-player team through a doubtless tactically tricky 50-minute game), even though the call is 100 per cent correct.

I walk around to the away bench, and tell them in no uncertain terms to calm down. The two dad coaches look at me like I'm pissing all over their uncivil rights. A couple of minutes later, with the score now at 1-2, one of their defenders makes an error that leads to the equaliser. One of the dad coaches chews the nine-year-old player out, then subs him out, yelling at him all the way to the bench. I'm standing right behind the bench and pat the disconsolate kid very lightly on the head and tell him that he played fine. One of the coaches sees this and start screaming at me that I can't touch his player.

"I was just consoling him because you were screaming at him," I say.
"I'm allowed to do that, I'm his dad."

The other two coaches, delighted at the chance to get me back for remonstrating with them about their conduct over the penalty call, start barracking me too, like I've committed the worst form of child abuse by patting a kid on the head. The kid himself now plays to his audience, flinching away from me like I've been walloping him with a rolling pin. It's a Larry David Moment. Rather than escalate, I walk away. Luckily, my young ref is focused on the game and doesn't notice anything. He puts in a great performance, unlike the grown-ups on the touchline (me included).

These two games were almost four weeks ago. It's taken me this long to write about them. It was a depressing weekend.

Two weeks later, I ref a boys' U19 game. It's a gorgeous autumn afternoon, and I cycle 20 miles down the Main to get there. The game goes well, until injury time, when a home player recklessly fouls an opponent right in front of The Parental Block. I caution the player, and it should perhaps be something harsher as the fouled player turns out to be in some pain and has to leave the field, clutching his shin. The Parents discuss the foul with some measure of passion, and have to be separated by their own kids. One woman claims an opposing father has spat at her and called her a slut.

The cycle ride home is even more beautiful. I'm just happy to be pedalling away from them all.

Game 11: 6-2 (3 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)
Game 12: 4-3 (4 x yellow)

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!