tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90395483074160341432024-03-13T17:55:47.079+01:00Referee TalesEvery game tells a story. Dispatches from the amateur leagues of a multi-ethnic city somewhere on Earth. Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.comBlogger221125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-36756983869835704692024-03-11T10:10:00.001+01:002024-03-11T10:10:22.223+01:00When a coach wants the world to know: I'm a wanker!<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 41-44, 2023-24</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtvNXEzCSCuTaXAQ_b8HjKyOFpWsL1C9RWi0VhUbYHd3X88VABz8OZlLXUlE21OMjKpCc9yKOjhoo8ZXZjRD37vyAgvkMe0ifTmn44AdadphpfP46GsmP0dB4zDDTk8CqQ1gNq0wBBWvHO0wPAOwusFKmb61HAiIiMKKnvmPg44ZUtOHxuz5bt4rPQGg/s300/space%20trash.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtvNXEzCSCuTaXAQ_b8HjKyOFpWsL1C9RWi0VhUbYHd3X88VABz8OZlLXUlE21OMjKpCc9yKOjhoo8ZXZjRD37vyAgvkMe0ifTmn44AdadphpfP46GsmP0dB4zDDTk8CqQ1gNq0wBBWvHO0wPAOwusFKmb61HAiIiMKKnvmPg44ZUtOHxuz5bt4rPQGg/s1600/space%20trash.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>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.<br /><br />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: <b>Bawling Ass Crushed by Falling Trash. </b><br /><br />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.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj88SqxSaaGzT-2Ks95aPGukw4O4uK-eBkODsYAZUBNFlZLooKFtL9Hpjx3CBdJTgauFp7ECHBNZt3t3AUp6OwFhWGTpBZC9LHrUymG2LOVWtTJ_oVmi3lMLXeuQhcQXlp3FSddmi7TgjLsyXOvg-AXHHOe9iP1g-kcc1T-MLphqa-QiCGB7aIc29aAJbw/s1106/trump%20wanker.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1106" data-original-width="1106" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj88SqxSaaGzT-2Ks95aPGukw4O4uK-eBkODsYAZUBNFlZLooKFtL9Hpjx3CBdJTgauFp7ECHBNZt3t3AUp6OwFhWGTpBZC9LHrUymG2LOVWtTJ_oVmi3lMLXeuQhcQXlp3FSddmi7TgjLsyXOvg-AXHHOe9iP1g-kcc1T-MLphqa-QiCGB7aIc29aAJbw/w200-h200/trump%20wanker.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>"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."<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br /><b><i>Game 41:</i></b> 0-8 (2 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)<br /><b><i>Game 42:</i></b> 6-1 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 43:</i></b> 0-10 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 44:</i></b> 3-2 (5 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)</span><div><br style="font-family: helvetica;" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: helvetica; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/w200-h200/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" width="200" /></a></div><i style="font-family: helvetica;">Want to read more tales of refereeing darkness and light? My quite frankly fantastic book <b><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" target="_blank">Reffing Hell</a></b>, covering six years of blog entries no longer available on this site, can still be purchased directly from its publisher <b>Halcyon</b>. 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!</i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-7029961051169767222024-02-20T09:54:00.004+01:002024-02-20T09:58:00.634+01:00Dark night. Shit ref. Laughable ref<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 40, 2023-24</b><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8gw3A02yF6htSBSi-Egyy1BJEyfjqzKNlnfyLyc3kYbMI6JuP4XTh84EZXIcyiKKexckaqDKaJxciGK6EFfJqj3D7fjVMC35kVwil89VxXKhAAVokc-gsomr_H7FlVseWUg7DpgCC-P4cPxnseP04F320EIY9LWWG7vGgtbRA0wOCktADtURMSWgKII/s900/dark%20lager.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8gw3A02yF6htSBSi-Egyy1BJEyfjqzKNlnfyLyc3kYbMI6JuP4XTh84EZXIcyiKKexckaqDKaJxciGK6EFfJqj3D7fjVMC35kVwil89VxXKhAAVokc-gsomr_H7FlVseWUg7DpgCC-P4cPxnseP04F320EIY9LWWG7vGgtbRA0wOCktADtURMSWgKII/s320/dark%20lager.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Sometimes, you miss a key decision, and you know it. The players know it, the coach knows it, the crowd thinks they know it too. How they react can have a knock-on effect on your confidence, and uncertainty creeps in. You start to second-guess what you just saw before your very eyes. Or thought you saw. Exasperation spreads among those around you, mutating to incredulity and then abuse.<br /><br />Saturday evening, a U15 game, the hosts are the girls' team of the city's biggest club, against a local boys' club one year younger. The girls are expecting to win, they're far higher up the table, in second place. The first half is physical, but not unfair, and an even 0-0. The turning point is at 1-1, early in the second half. The girls take a corner kick, the boys' team heads it clear, and in the melee a girl goes to floor with a yell. But I haven't seen a foul, just a cluster, and I'm already following the ball upfield, where the boys score on the counter-attack to make it 2-1.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />There's all-round outrage that I didn't immediately stop the play. The player is okay, on her feet now, but claiming she was hit in the face by a flailing hand. I ask her if she needs treatment, she says no. I didn't see the apparent foul. The boys didn't play the ball into touch, why should they? Of course, I wish that I'd seen the infringement, if that's what it was. Maybe I should have stopped play as soon as she went to ground. But I didn't, because I didn't see anything. I played on. I possibly got it wrong. Or I probably got it wrong. There was a goal, maybe an unjust goal. Now there's anger. The girls' parents - who've been making the odd loud comment when decisions have not gone their way - have now started vociferously expressing their opinions, and they do so for the rest of the game as their offspring squander chance after chance and get caught twice more on the break.<br /><br />"You're a shit ref!" Or, as an imaginative variation: "You're refereeing's shit! You're laughable!" Every time I run across to the spectator side of the pitch, this is what I keep hearing, over and again. There's been a new guideline to break a game off for five minutes if you're insulted by parents in youth games, but being "shit" is specifically defined as not being an insult. You have to be called something supposedly much worse, something explicitly genital. Not that I can be bothered with all the officially outlined process of taking both teams off to the changing rooms for five minutes (a three-minute walk both ways, even without all the discussions that would ensue) and then bringing them back out again. It's Saturday, and I don't want to spend my entire evening on a municipal field with people who think I'm shit.<br /><br />Every time one of the girls gets caught in possession, their parents scream for a foul. There are no stewards. The only person listed responsible is the young home coach, a nice lad I've chatted to about coaching girls' teams at previous games, and before tonight's game too. He eventually also loses his rag at me (a hard but fair tackle on one of his players. Or was it? I don't fucking know any more), and he sees a yellow card. I send a player from each side out for five minutes when they get into a shoving match. Parents - outraged! The closer we get to the final whistle, the more I dread the end of the game, knowing that the girls are about to lose, and that their parents are straining at the leash to let me know what they think. As if I don't already know. I'm a shit ref, an absolutely laughable one.<br /><br />At the end of the game the home coach gets into an immediate row with an away team father, and then he tells me that the man has been insulting him "all game", and that I need to write it up in my match report. I tell him I didn't hear anything, he was probably drowned out by the yelling from the other side of the field. I point out there should have been stewards, in orange vests, appointed by the home team to keep all the parents under control. The coach calms down and acknowledges that I've spent the whole second half being verbally abused. When the parents arrive at our side of the field, he orders them to apologise. A couple of them shake my hand and then immediately start complaining about specific decisions. Then they get in a huge row with the away team parents. I just stand there and watch everyone. They think I'm shit and I feel like shit. Am I responsible for all this aggression, this bile, this crappy confrontation about a game of youth fucking football? <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfePEstSrKETI5W-toFjJVavFXYR3FIostbMVyrP_VmxywCpVaUe63RpwVOV5Io0HU8Jj1J52IfH4ApUtXHsPZJnLjAkox0z55aaNWRCbzwB0CPUoApbk3425ng_fdEgJl__fzWsLt9pFpsgo96jE93c5a1YbVTDVY8MH07KsqPlX-iFCdXqtAICGmKDk/s259/dark%20lager%202.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfePEstSrKETI5W-toFjJVavFXYR3FIostbMVyrP_VmxywCpVaUe63RpwVOV5Io0HU8Jj1J52IfH4ApUtXHsPZJnLjAkox0z55aaNWRCbzwB0CPUoApbk3425ng_fdEgJl__fzWsLt9pFpsgo96jE93c5a1YbVTDVY8MH07KsqPlX-iFCdXqtAICGmKDk/s1600/dark%20lager%202.jpeg" width="194" /></a></div>"Sad," says one parent as I'm walking towards the changing room, and I know he's talking about my performance, not the behaviour of the parents. "Wait til we watch the video!" a righteous mother announces. That should be a fun night for the whole team. I walk past them and onwards. Now I feel really, really shit, like I fucked up the whole game, the whole evening, the home team's whole season (though the victorious boys are absolutely cock-a-hoop - they're low in the table and had expected to lose).<br /><br />I'd hate to watch the video in case it showed me screwing up very single call. Shit ref. Laughable ref. It disturbs me that this video exists, showing the €15 referee and his 74 minutes of shitness, including injury time. I go home and think yet again about quitting. I don't want to be the cause of so much aggro and disharmony. Not tonight, not ever again. But I also know that right after a game like that is not the best time to make any kind of decision, except which kind of beer to have. I go for dark. The darkest you have, please.<br /><br /><i><b>Final score:</b></i> 2-4 (1 x yellow, 2 x time-penalty)</span><div><br style="font-family: helvetica;" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: helvetica; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/w200-h200/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" width="200" /></a></div><i style="font-family: helvetica;">Want to read more tales of refereeing darkness and light? My quite frankly fantastic book <b><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" target="_blank">Reffing Hell</a></b>, covering six years of blog entries no longer available on this site, can still be purchased directly from its publisher <b>Halcyon</b>. Please support this blog and independent publishing by buying a copy. If you are a referee, I promise that you will relate to its stories of bampot coaches, unhinged parents and hysterical players. Thank you!</i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><br /></div></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-75016622246635266432024-02-12T10:50:00.002+01:002024-02-14T09:32:10.489+01:00Bloody hell. Not one apology, but two<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 34-39, 2023-24</b><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP1gp2t0_7F8jxLXspwdc6ldTTYGuqyuPUa7E8RDdjXkWQLXw-gVVECgUstLbNXmRPA1Gp8BBchb3sdqYtd7stFcL8D7nTFUG6GjLe-HtQjZocEIclcP0JGxuEu4A_ig27tKXdGYnsIA9T6KcFKluBIv8fKkzrWNMsSnKm3PRM1bQoage4pX38t3Qv-7g/s553/Obst%20bei%20Nied.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP1gp2t0_7F8jxLXspwdc6ldTTYGuqyuPUa7E8RDdjXkWQLXw-gVVECgUstLbNXmRPA1Gp8BBchb3sdqYtd7stFcL8D7nTFUG6GjLe-HtQjZocEIclcP0JGxuEu4A_ig27tKXdGYnsIA9T6KcFKluBIv8fKkzrWNMsSnKm3PRM1bQoage4pX38t3Qv-7g/s320/Obst%20bei%20Nied.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>A father comes up to me at the end of Game 38, a boys' U15 league match. He's laughing as he asks how many cards I showed. I'm not laughing as I tell him - seven cautions and a time-penalty. Another father shakes my hand, thanks me, and says he admires referees for turning out for games like this one. I nod in acknowledgment, but I'm in no mood for a chat. I retreat to my changing room and fill out the match stats. Then I add in the box under 'other observations':<br /><br />"Seven yellows and a time-penalty in a U15 game - it's a crying shame that teams in this age group are already being coached to foul relentlessly and moan disrespectfully at the referee. An extremely unpleasant game."</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thankfully, by the time I come out of my changing room everyone's gone home except for the home coach, who's bringing in the corner flags. He smiles and shakes my hand, a different person to the one who - along with his assistant - was complaining on auto-drone throughout the second half. I'm still not smiling, the game has put me in a shit mood. I tell him that they both deserved yellow cards at least, and he nods ruefully. Instead, I'd just ignored them. Some days, you can't be arsed with the drama and just sink into a kind of melancholy daze, wishing the minutes away as every call you make is greeted with bleats and brays.<span><a name='more'></a></span></span></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />All the more gratifying, then, to receive a text message from the club chairman later that night as I'm sitting in the pub watching Leverkusen maul Bayern Munich (this day really did take a turn for the better): "I heard that you had to put up with a lot today from our U15 team. It's shameful, and as club chairman I'd like to offer our profuse apologies. We'll be asking the trainer team in for discussions so that we can change this in the future. It's not our style, and never has been. We'll be making sure this doesn't happen again." <br /><br />Fucking hell, that's never happened before, and I tell him so as I write back to thank him for the message. I've long since got used to the fact that clubs only ever find excuses for shit behaviour, rather than actually apologise for it. Until now. There's more to come the following day. Just as I'm about to go out and referee a women's friendly, the coach messages me as well:<br /><br />"After we slept on it, we as trainers would like to apologise for yesterday's game. Sorry that the second half went downhill, especially when it came to dissent. We're planning to discuss the issue with the team at training this week. I hope you will accept this apology and that it won't happen again." <br /><br />Of course I accept the apology. I always do. Just the previous Wednesday, also during a boys' U15 game, a player apologised to me at the final whistle. A few minutes earlier, he'd stood on an opponent's foot and then yelled at me when I'd given a free-kick. I understand instinctive negative reactions - I'm prone to them myself when I'm dealing with my computer's printer. An apology pretty much cancels out the offence, while the yellow card remains on the record as a warning against future infractions.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnolvScrn0gmOAZ-cWOLnXsKQkWfF3h_LFkn4L_DhwgjTN4LXUdYFgpUmrpN-aGKZ_5dFuKKjvGJTziO9HavT5Elxrqz98whML7gF8ZVjgqhD9vB0d8TAhoTEnO_uzRWRC6W7Qx9wKR70DS9jT31oQq_CMrmXCaoc3m2aC59hRERcz0VXGxRpO-aEwmTM/s1280/BLUE-CARD.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1280" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnolvScrn0gmOAZ-cWOLnXsKQkWfF3h_LFkn4L_DhwgjTN4LXUdYFgpUmrpN-aGKZ_5dFuKKjvGJTziO9HavT5Elxrqz98whML7gF8ZVjgqhD9vB0d8TAhoTEnO_uzRWRC6W7Qx9wKR70DS9jT31oQq_CMrmXCaoc3m2aC59hRERcz0VXGxRpO-aEwmTM/s320/BLUE-CARD.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Nonetheless, both of these U15 games point to a further seeping down of poor behaviour. While there have been outraged and disbelieving reactions to FIFA's reported plans to trial a <b>blue card</b> for dissent with a 10-minute time penalty in some top level men's competitions, here down at the bottom end we're still waiting for things to change for the better. If the pro game really doesn't want blue cards, then start showing yellows and reds for the plague of backchat we see in every televised top-level game. Only then will teenage boys learn that non-stop moaning doesn't need to be an embedded part of our ever more degenerate sport.<br /><br /><b>Note:</b> the picture at the top of the post is from my changing-room before Sunday's game. Referees in general really like to find nutritious food and drink when they arrive. Even if we're not hungry, it makes us feel valued and welcome. It happens slightly more often than an official club apology for bad behaviour, but not much.<br /><br /><b><i>Games 32-33:</i></b> US college girls' trial games (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 34:</i></b> 5-1 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 35:</i></b> 10-2 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 36:</i></b> 1-1 (5 x yellow)<br /><i><b>Game 37:</b></i> 11-0 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 38:</i></b> 0-3 (7 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)<br /><b><i>Game 39:</i></b> 0-4 (no cards)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/w200-h200/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" width="200" /></a></div><i>My quite frankly fantastic book <b><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" target="_blank">Reffing Hell</a></b>, covering six years of blog entries no longer available on this site, can still be purchased directly from its publisher <b>Halcyon</b>. Please support this blog and independent publishing by buying a copy. If you are a referee, I promise that you will relate to its stories of bampot coaches, unhinged parents and hysterical players. Plus, I try not to take any of this (or myself) too seriously. Thank you!</i></span></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-73641861216241971572023-11-27T11:03:00.005+01:002023-11-27T11:03:50.428+01:00Have I still 'got it'?<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 27, 2023-24 </b><br />Saturday evening game, boys' U15. The home coach tells me he'd like to start on time as it's his dad's 80th. birthday, and the party's already started. Also, with a knowing laugh, "By the way, none of my lads can play football." He's not joking. The fact they win 12-0 tells you something about the quality of the opposition. Yet, the losing team plays in great spirit, and both teams smile and laugh like they're actually having a good time. Which they are. On the football pitch - just imagine! Me too. <b><i>Final score:</i></b> 12-0 (no cards)<br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRw9J-B99AVZOdya5oYjSqBcsvzThiWyht1icsAfF04YjWzT0KBvNP9-h5q3uiTdL9a-tPNqRppYxER4Kbc0VPJJoGEm5hxka3_gaCO4JphPIy0KCSSeNnJqu956eBX1dc2i3hf9TGCrGPJIwzHuzvtSlTgkhhgTJhrGOUqSmxNzJ-oqbqbQNyvYCpJJc/s561/Kickers%20Nov%2023%202.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="561" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRw9J-B99AVZOdya5oYjSqBcsvzThiWyht1icsAfF04YjWzT0KBvNP9-h5q3uiTdL9a-tPNqRppYxER4Kbc0VPJJoGEm5hxka3_gaCO4JphPIy0KCSSeNnJqu956eBX1dc2i3hf9TGCrGPJIwzHuzvtSlTgkhhgTJhrGOUqSmxNzJ-oqbqbQNyvYCpJJc/s320/Kickers%20Nov%2023%202.png" width="320" /></a></div>Game 28</b></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">At the end of the game (girls' U15), the away team coach tells me he would have loved a penalty so that his goalkeeper could have got on the score sheet. "She hasn't scored a goal in two years," he says, like this was unusual for a goalie. I say that I didn't think the handball incident was worth a penalty, but that's not what he was talking about - it was apparently some foul or other that I can't recall. I shrug, we smile and shake hands. <b><i>Final score:</i></b> 0-8 (no cards)<br /><br /><b>Game 29</b><br />In the 80 minutes of this girls' U17 game (thanks to <b>Kickers 16</b> for the above photo of an old fella trying to keep up with play) I blow for exactly one foul, and play advantage maybe twice. An away team player complains at length that I don't call a foul when she's been robbed fairly of the ball. As she won't shut up, eventually I ask her, "Seriously, how long do you want to talk about this for?" Her team are 7-0 up. The dissent maybe warrants a yellow card, but the game doesn't. Plus, I'm on such a roll here of games without cards, it seems a shame to spoil the sequence. <b><i>Final score:</i></b> 0-10 (no cards)<br /><br /><b>Game 30</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">A boys' U13 cup-tie. The home team has conceded one goal all season, and scored 76. When they're 2-0<span><a name='more'></a></span> up, no one's betting against a home win. But the visitors - much to their own delight and astonishment - score twice from free-kicks to level the game. The favourites then snatch a winner three minutes from time, prompting some tears at the final whistle. Very calm trainers on both benches, all players and spectators behave impeccably. Great game to ref, and I come home exclaiming at the fact that I love my hobby again. Mrs Ref says, "Hmmmmm." <b><i>Final score:</i></b> 3-2 (no cards)<br /><br /><b>Game 31</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">And then, I'm assigned a boys' U17 game at a level higher than I've ever reffed in my life. Is this a mistake? Is it a test? For weeks on end I've been given the less stressful games I asked for. Now I'm being asked to referee a match at an age and a level I've specifically asked not to be assigned to? Of course, I accept. Just to see if I've still 'got it'.<br /><br /> I make the five-mile bike ride on a Sunday afternoon that's peak November - drizzling, morbidly grey, and very cold too. I turn up early to watch the second string U17s, and it's a frighteningly fast game. I can either fret about this, or see the upcoming 80 minutes as the final frontier. If it's too much for me, then that just confirms I need to keep winding down. If not, then...</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErGFtKGRbZb1H5JsAZeRaNXIurE591R_xKubwNKU35OKqiHcpo4gV-voRDtM_FC301ejjHSEzdNZ_61aj-kfRSMHezycXBBnGAq8x68ilo4LG8SCw7flY1Z2ujDRUMP-pld8VZIRq873SzpnkNG1uXCeIgXSNgYt-RSS-6SDezZ12CELj0JObAzaAX3A/s612/Game%2027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="612" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErGFtKGRbZb1H5JsAZeRaNXIurE591R_xKubwNKU35OKqiHcpo4gV-voRDtM_FC301ejjHSEzdNZ_61aj-kfRSMHezycXBBnGAq8x68ilo4LG8SCw7flY1Z2ujDRUMP-pld8VZIRq873SzpnkNG1uXCeIgXSNgYt-RSS-6SDezZ12CELj0JObAzaAX3A/s320/Game%2027.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I focus intently on my positioning and keeping up with play, while commentating every touch to myself. "Orange, white, white, white, orange, orange, white..." There are three early offside calls against the home team, none of them contested. I've got this. There are some tasty challenges, but mostly in the category 'hard but fair', and I mostly let play flow or play advantage. There's a crowd of around 60, but none of the usual "Referee!" calls every time I whistle. The away team scores a lovely goal just before half-time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Was this all too good to be true? Of course. The home coach approaches to inform me of the indisputable fact that one of his players was "shoved" in the build-up to the goal. Why did I not call the foul? I ignore him and walk away for my half-time meditation, which consists of me taking deep breaths and telling myself, Don't slack off!<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> In the second half, the away team comes out in sixth gear and scores two more goals: 0-3. The home team coach is moaning like fuck about fuck knows what, and I continue to ignore him. He's the only dissenter in the ground. "Your decisions are unbelievable!" he yells. Unbelievably good, you mean? I agree, mate. Here's the yellow card you've been craving. And now you've broken my streak of seven games without a caution, bollock-jaw.<br /><br /> There's a square up between two players that I interrupt with a loud whistle, a brief lecture and a double yellow. Now that I've found the caution card again, I might as well use it. One more for a bad foul, one more for dissent, just like old times, but happily not too much like old times. The home team start to come back into the game. 1-3, then quickly 2-3, and then with nine minutes left two defenders crush an attacker as he's homing in on goal from the left side of the penalty area. There are some weary appeals against the awarded spot-kick, but I'm waving them away, in the manner of referees throughout the history of humankind. The keeper gets a hand to it, but can't prevent the equaliser. At the final whistle, there's just silence, like neither side can believe they haven't won. <br /><br /> The home coach comes to shake my hand, but then he starts to moan again and I just turn and head for the changing-room. Through the silent crowd of parents at the edge of the field and in front of the club house. At this moment you can feel like a criminal who's just been granted amnesty against the wishes of the people. But then, it comes. "Great game, ref, well done." "Super game, ref." "Thanks, ref - really good game." <br /><br /> I nod and murmur a thank you back. It would be unseemly to start crying and to tell them, "Guys, I love you all!" I ran my knackers off and did the best a 58-year-old man can do to keep up with almost two dozen 17-year-old athletes, and some people noticed and were kind enough to thank me. It's all that it takes to keep us going at it for another week.<br /><br /> Plus, have I still 'got it'? Yes, I fucking have! <b><i>Final score:</i></b> 3-3 (5 x yellow) <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSLotTbdybyoE7sU6drRAOOZ-T_6wrgA5_Nk1WraSb3zq0cE-7HtN29UK43al5hovyvVRaxCdmG-rHiUvBqEo-DrbXdQmOikAM7TswB4Yv8TNEg2Ac2RjlG0GoVUB6Zhw90sfOQ1MndixmgbgByNyDa_zK21Hbxw_Vt9zyVf7HvFdAlKoVbq7vVaANTg/w200-h200/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" width="200" /></a></div><i>My quite frankly fantastic book <b><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" target="_blank">Reffing Hell</a></b>, covering six years of blog entries no longer available on this site, can still be purchased directly from its publisher <b>Halcyon</b>. Please support this blog and independent publishing by buying a copy. If you are a referee, I promise that you will relate to its stories of bampot coaches, unhinged parents and hysterical players. Plus, I try not to take any of this (or myself) too seriously. Thank you!</i></span><br /> </div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-3813985337637251852023-11-08T17:55:00.000+01:002023-11-08T17:55:51.072+01:00This blog is dull. Thank fuck for that at last!<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 23-26, 2023-24</b><br /><br />Let's be honest. No one would watch a soap opera where everyone gets along just fine. We wouldn't pick up a novel where the characters all lead wonderful and fulfilling lives, and no one ever gets sick, dies, or maltreated by fate or fellow human. We wouldn't bother going to the theatre to see a play called Sunshine, Love and Happiness unless we were expecting a high dose of irony. So I must apologise. This blog's becoming dull, and I really hope it stays that way.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszffFN7jFcm-cDLAg83YmYu6C83E0t-nlR6WmGUkPnzG9_Y-Mp3rVTJc17GJxnO-9KwFbTjbpNQpx6vWnvqTi3Ah-ml1zQNAM5NMzVRLn_ms9S7GgQoigTnoXDtlgagHMAMk0TBwUcgjZmjz1BEerDgESP-QsbREbJ5vwV0qb0leKVTkOT4al0FHdiAs/s1458/EastEnders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="1055" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszffFN7jFcm-cDLAg83YmYu6C83E0t-nlR6WmGUkPnzG9_Y-Mp3rVTJc17GJxnO-9KwFbTjbpNQpx6vWnvqTi3Ah-ml1zQNAM5NMzVRLn_ms9S7GgQoigTnoXDtlgagHMAMk0TBwUcgjZmjz1BEerDgESP-QsbREbJ5vwV0qb0leKVTkOT4al0FHdiAs/s320/EastEnders.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>I refereed four games this past weekend, and the weather was ultra-Novemberish throughout - very windy, with periodic rainfalls and temperatures dipping down into single figures. Cycling against a head wind to my fourth game on Sunday afternoon, though, I was struck by a delightful realisation. In spite of the weather, I was looking forward to the game. I started to laugh. Just imagine - for the first time in years, I'm glad to be refereeing.<br /><br />The stats below tell the story. Four games, with a sole yellow card. It was for dissent in a boys' U15 game, handed out for a second offence after a verbal warning. There was no great drama involved. The dissent was born of frustration, and the caution was accepted without protest. <br /><br />The away team had raced into a 4-0 lead by half-time, and much to everyone's surprise - home players included - the host team turned it around in the second half, finally scoring the winner in the game's last minute. Their untrammelled joy made you glad to be there and part of a thrilling game. The home team will be talking about it for years to come, especially the lad who scored the winning header from a corner kick, completing his hat-trick and sealing the victory with a twist of the neck and a well-executed nod on leather. <br /><br />No coaches complained. No one shouted from the touchline that I was shit (or, if they did, I didn't hear it). One player said, "Really, really well reffed - thank you," and they weren't being sarcy. One coach who came to pay me was in a bad mood after his team lost 5-0, but apologised and clarified that "it's nothing to do with you". Well, that's good to know. I didn't offer him the consolation that at least he had plenty to work on at training this week. <br /><br />I also coached a young ref doing his first game. He's the fourth successive teenage referee over the past few weeks to give me hope for the future. Smart, articulate, competent and curious, he had no trouble at all taking charge of a U11 match-up. He asked me what level I referee at. I explained how I'd recently asked to be taken off men's and U17/U19 boys' games. "You can do that?" he asked. Well, as I've realised, no one can force you to do something that you don't want to. I was expecting to be assigned no more than a couple of games a month, but on both Saturday and Sunday I got phone calls asking me to jump in and referee a second game at the last minute. When things stay this quiet, I'd happily ref half a dozen games every day.<br /><br />It's wonderful to no longer dread doing the hobby I love. As long as that continues, this blog will be updated on an occasional basis only, which is surely a relief to us all. <br /><br /><b><i>Game 23:</i></b> 5-4 (1 x yellow)<br /><b><i>Game 24:</i></b> 0-5 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 25:</i></b> 21-0 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 26:</i></b> 1-1 (no cards)</span><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB971IrWjOa3zXGWt-8UHRDqqm88O7-jIfXdfnoyPw2hsD__JFbPI2envgg7mH57X2fP8d8aTLMTxyT8_ZIGGpchhBkO-e02D5Gv0r7Q_lawFQ39WX3giohoMAuXx-7_72uLKcGeuq0Y2o63S41w3XspHUagq-QKvR2MTgPG_WKEHoM5RccAdZKYhN8q8/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB971IrWjOa3zXGWt-8UHRDqqm88O7-jIfXdfnoyPw2hsD__JFbPI2envgg7mH57X2fP8d8aTLMTxyT8_ZIGGpchhBkO-e02D5Gv0r7Q_lawFQ39WX3giohoMAuXx-7_72uLKcGeuq0Y2o63S41w3XspHUagq-QKvR2MTgPG_WKEHoM5RccAdZKYhN8q8/w200-h200/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB971IrWjOa3zXGWt-8UHRDqqm88O7-jIfXdfnoyPw2hsD__JFbPI2envgg7mH57X2fP8d8aTLMTxyT8_ZIGGpchhBkO-e02D5Gv0r7Q_lawFQ39WX3giohoMAuXx-7_72uLKcGeuq0Y2o63S41w3XspHUagq-QKvR2MTgPG_WKEHoM5RccAdZKYhN8q8/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB971IrWjOa3zXGWt-8UHRDqqm88O7-jIfXdfnoyPw2hsD__JFbPI2envgg7mH57X2fP8d8aTLMTxyT8_ZIGGpchhBkO-e02D5Gv0r7Q_lawFQ39WX3giohoMAuXx-7_72uLKcGeuq0Y2o63S41w3XspHUagq-QKvR2MTgPG_WKEHoM5RccAdZKYhN8q8/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB971IrWjOa3zXGWt-8UHRDqqm88O7-jIfXdfnoyPw2hsD__JFbPI2envgg7mH57X2fP8d8aTLMTxyT8_ZIGGpchhBkO-e02D5Gv0r7Q_lawFQ39WX3giohoMAuXx-7_72uLKcGeuq0Y2o63S41w3XspHUagq-QKvR2MTgPG_WKEHoM5RccAdZKYhN8q8/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div><div style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large; font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i>My book '</i><b>Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></div></div></div></blockquote>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-71283589320586386592023-10-19T09:24:00.001+02:002023-10-19T09:25:10.743+02:00Dark times: shitty behaviour, Part 379<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 18-22, 2023-24</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkG4WkfTaJYOONrvx9fYLfLBLQ5hQVpc7qE6-0WSH55Y7qYkPwB-dTagB-hzPRB0K6tCLHzd95UF2vB-4CUdbehdiyvtcrs_gQoDQKXyk89pFsBYF19qmamwmlpG4bF-TQfrHOdeOSfxolgOmJMrhZFsoHrSEVxOI48uhiBdxd9b5qVwG_LEg_ZFI9fg/s611/Dark%20Times.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="611" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirkG4WkfTaJYOONrvx9fYLfLBLQ5hQVpc7qE6-0WSH55Y7qYkPwB-dTagB-hzPRB0K6tCLHzd95UF2vB-4CUdbehdiyvtcrs_gQoDQKXyk89pFsBYF19qmamwmlpG4bF-TQfrHOdeOSfxolgOmJMrhZFsoHrSEVxOI48uhiBdxd9b5qVwG_LEg_ZFI9fg/s320/Dark%20Times.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>My new quiet refereeing life without men's or boys' U19/U17 fixtures started well when I reffed a mainly peaceful girls’ U17 game the weekend before last. It was a warm Sunday afternoon and I had no plans (Mrs. Ref had a friend in town), so I hung around to see how some of the young referees were coping with the kind of game that is mercifully no longer part of my life.<br /><br />I watched the second half of a boys’ U17 game where the teenage ref was yelled at constantly by both coaching teams, and by the players too. The more he got yelled at, the less interested he became in doing a good job, and his body language indicated that he would rather be anywhere else but here today. I know this feeling well. You stop caring, because whatever call you make, someone's going to be upset at you. The players' behaviour deteriorated to the point where I was worried it was going to end up in a mass fight - there were some really shitty tackles going in from both teams. And all I could think was, "Christ, I'm glad it's him out there and not me." After the game, he told me he was quitting (he’s been refereeing for a year). I suppose I should have encouraged him to think again, but I just said, "Don't blame you, mate."<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />On the other field, a boys' U19 game had just finished. I went to the club-house to use the toilet, and was accosted by four friendly blokes who, seeing the emblem on my referees’ jacket, wanted to know the answer to a question - if a player throws the ball back to his own keeper and the keeper handles it, what happens next? They seemed to be in jovial mood and I assumed it was a theoretical discussion. I told them it was an indirect free-kick to the attacking side. They all laughed, and one of them said, “I knew it!” <br /><br />What I didn’t know was that it pertained to an incident that had just happened in the U19 game. So I came out of the toilet two minutes later to find that the jocose mood was over, and that one of the men - who turned out to be the aggrieved coach of the losing team - was giving the young ref from that game a very hard time, because he’d got the above decision wrong. The ref was apologising and admitting to the mistake, but pointed out correctly (and politely) that the game was now over. The coach, a man around 50, said he wasn’t going to pay him (in advanced Germany, we still get paid cash in hand in return for a handwritten chit…), at which point I intervened and said that he should really stop talking to a teenage boy in that fashion and pay him the money due. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrawK18KH6gJP8qSLUDsJSj-IGz9sX-6UCY9Hyq7sXiahfndP1xvjSPKf5KnVuY_AopXUVnvd7F1Mqrw-ZHovoHQlrv3zi3woSMLGdlBjWY1i9tMbnKb5QBDpZ8OcqRKZoEU9uHvvvAqd5HzUBGVXjzHDjiYB3S59uwPGD3Ae4bPa0B2U8ds7aAaM9cGI/s496/short%20corner.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="357" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrawK18KH6gJP8qSLUDsJSj-IGz9sX-6UCY9Hyq7sXiahfndP1xvjSPKf5KnVuY_AopXUVnvd7F1Mqrw-ZHovoHQlrv3zi3woSMLGdlBjWY1i9tMbnKb5QBDpZ8OcqRKZoEU9uHvvvAqd5HzUBGVXjzHDjiYB3S59uwPGD3Ae4bPa0B2U8ds7aAaM9cGI/w230-h320/short%20corner.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Short corner?</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: right;">My opinion was no longer welcome. The coach's anger went from third to fifth gear and he told me very firmly to mind my own damned business. I said that as a referee, this was very much my business, just as it was my business to protect a young colleague being verbally attacked by a man several decades his senior. Every year we lose half of our new referees precisely because of incidents like this. The coach then claimed that he had no money. I said that I didn't believe him, and that I would seriously advise him to pay the young referee and stop upbraiding him (I was getting quite loud too by this point).</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Again he yelled that this was none of my business, then he disappeared, then he came back two minutes later with his wallet and, with bad grace and no apology, paid the visibly shaken young referee. I gave the ref my number and we've since worked on a disciplinary report of the incident. Once the referee had left, the coach tried to explain to me why he'd behaved the way he had. I walked off without a word. No explanation was needed. It's because you're an asshole.</div><br />Look at the list of results below and their disciplinary counts - either women's games, or boys' U12 games/tournaments, where there are no yellow or red cards. Mind you, the level of chat, aggression, fouling and complaining is seeping down to this level too. And in the U12 tournament, there was endless pushing, holding, shoving and tactical fouling. "I just let them play, they're such good players," said one of my refereeing colleagues who was working the tournament with me, reasoning that as these were largely Bundesliga teams from a professional set-up then we should keep our whistles in storage. Not on my field. No wonder they're already turning into such whiney, entitled shits. "Want to ref the game yourself, son?" I tell one pint-sized complainer. "Then do the course and I'll give you my whistle for free." He looks at me like he's going to call social services, but then he plays on and shuts up.<br /><br />Game 22 was a boys' U12 city cup tie, second round. The winner came just before the end of extra-time. The excessive post-game celebrations are probably still going on as I write, two days later. "Number 11 insulted my mother!" one home player tells me at half-time. "Just ignore him," I say. "He's trying to provoke you. Play your game and keep quiet." He manages to do this until the final whistle, but being on the victor's side he now runs up to the number 11 and cries triumphantly in his face, "Want to insult me again now, eh?" Jesus Christ. I'd ask to get moved down to the U9s, but they don't have refs there. They'll probably need them soon, though. "Ref, number 7 called my teddy bear a wanker!"<br /><br /><b>Game 18:</b> 0-2 (1 x yellow)</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 19:</b> 2-1 (no cards)<br /><b>Game 20 - U12 tournament:</b> 3 x 30 minute games without scores (no cards)<br /><b>Game 21:</b> 3-2 (no cards)<br /><b>Game 22:</b> 3-2 (no cards) </span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB971IrWjOa3zXGWt-8UHRDqqm88O7-jIfXdfnoyPw2hsD__JFbPI2envgg7mH57X2fP8d8aTLMTxyT8_ZIGGpchhBkO-e02D5Gv0r7Q_lawFQ39WX3giohoMAuXx-7_72uLKcGeuq0Y2o63S41w3XspHUagq-QKvR2MTgPG_WKEHoM5RccAdZKYhN8q8/s800/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB971IrWjOa3zXGWt-8UHRDqqm88O7-jIfXdfnoyPw2hsD__JFbPI2envgg7mH57X2fP8d8aTLMTxyT8_ZIGGpchhBkO-e02D5Gv0r7Q_lawFQ39WX3giohoMAuXx-7_72uLKcGeuq0Y2o63S41w3XspHUagq-QKvR2MTgPG_WKEHoM5RccAdZKYhN8q8/w200-h200/Reffing%20Hell%20mock%20up.png" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>My book '</i><b>Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></div></i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-87048672953223644632023-10-09T11:57:00.001+02:002023-10-09T11:57:51.471+02:00Calling the cops to ensure a safe passage home<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 15-17, 2023-24<br /></b><br />Let's jump to Game 17. It was already over two weeks ago, but it's taken me that long to feel like writing about it. For the first time ever, the police were called to one of my games. If we want to put a positive spin on it, I suppose that's not bad going after 15 years. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJXQw7mPQFZ6WVM1uU2ltJ3RiP_KkwCzs20fS7fVhBRmv0qFvAMYCWyM-gNVt_CGVRy2CAfrjw5TvUVZNmsJYgeJ3AP6QqkbayhhA-S-59bxciDSDEIv4SISHcZlVSrD9cZ8RegbRyl-h4OvTQQuLtuddSY-7ieCxhk_O7KAdEwzup0rY8bMBS_60TSg/s259/Polizeiruf.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJXQw7mPQFZ6WVM1uU2ltJ3RiP_KkwCzs20fS7fVhBRmv0qFvAMYCWyM-gNVt_CGVRy2CAfrjw5TvUVZNmsJYgeJ3AP6QqkbayhhA-S-59bxciDSDEIv4SISHcZlVSrD9cZ8RegbRyl-h4OvTQQuLtuddSY-7ieCxhk_O7KAdEwzup0rY8bMBS_60TSg/s1600/Polizeiruf.png" width="259" /></a></div>It was a one-sided boys' U19 game of parsimonious quality but the usual lavish amounts of fouling, moaning and mutual disrespect. In the first half, there were nine cautions for 'tick-them-off' stupidities - kicking the ball away, failure to retreat at a free-kick, a square-up involving the away team's number 3 (relevant for what happens later), and several over-the-top fouls, including one by the away team's number 8. Following his yellow card, he gets into a shouting match with several of his opponents and is immediately subbed out by his coach. Thank you.<br /><br />As we walk off the field at half-time, I make a loud appeal for both teams to focus on their football in the second half. I might as well have been asking them to put their their mobile phones in a locked box until they'd read and memorised the Complete Works of Johann Wolfgang Goethe. The tone of the game is no different, and although the home team is dominant, they're also dirty too - two players get sent out for five minutes for reckless fouls. When one of their forwards fouls the previously cautioned number 3 with a quarter of an hour left to play, the victim comments that if he gets fouled again, "I'm going to break someone's foot".<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />I wish I hadn't heard that, but I did, although he doesn't say it aggressively. I don't really think he wants to break someone's foot, it's more a dumb rhetorical observation, but I send him out for a five-minute time-penalty so that he can think about it. His still benched team-mate number 8, though, who obviously didn't hear number 3's comment, is absolutely outraged on his behalf and starts screaming at me, "Are you taking the piss? Are you taking the piss?" <br /><br />I show him the red card, which prompts him to jump from the bench and run on to the pitch, screaming at me as he runs towards me. Team-mates hold him back and return him to his position. I talk to the home coach and tell him that if it happens again, he should immediately call the police.<br /><br />After five minutes, number 3 returns to the field. A couple of minutes later, he commits a clearly intentional, reckless foul just outside his own penalty area. He accepts the red card (third offence after his yellow and time-penalty) and begins to walk off, but his team-mate on the bench, the raging number 8, again undertakes a 30-yard sprint in my direction, once more yelling at the top of his lungs. I blow the whistle to abandon the game, signal to the home coach that he should call the police, and make a hasty retreat to my changing room, where I lock the door and wait.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuTFEXoMk_q9ZjDuljmctYmEWoPCJioqUZfyAKU2rXM2wp_hzbRggamFZcRJLOq7EdSgE68nWNl90ddhHApP0WrtgVbAEnzYolki24e9FHgjFMBemi9fozFlaKFrYCVrny56asz1bvqjC8xx-7aC15wVazX9Y3qtO_da1x6HNQoq81igjUhyphenhyphenFysmd_nzc/s900/broken%20foot.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuTFEXoMk_q9ZjDuljmctYmEWoPCJioqUZfyAKU2rXM2wp_hzbRggamFZcRJLOq7EdSgE68nWNl90ddhHApP0WrtgVbAEnzYolki24e9FHgjFMBemi9fozFlaKFrYCVrny56asz1bvqjC8xx-7aC15wVazX9Y3qtO_da1x6HNQoq81igjUhyphenhyphenFysmd_nzc/s320/broken%20foot.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Two sympathetic police officers show up and interview everyone involved. I can't remember what the number 8 was shouting at me exactly (there was a lot of shouting, as always), so they leave it at a caution. I don't want to prosecute anyway, I just want to get home without being physically attacked by someone 40 years younger than me. When I finally leave the ground, almost everyone's gone, but the away team coach and the number 3 are waiting in the car park to apologise. It turns out that number 3 is a fellow referee. "You know that saying out loud that you plan to break someone's foot is a red-card offence, right?" I ask him. He nods in agreement. <br /><br />It also turns out that the 21-year-old coach is a stand-in for the usual coach. It also turns out that I'd yellow-carded him the previous Tuesday night in Game 14, where several players on his team had told me I should quit refereeing. Of course, I can't be sure that he was on the bench as a coach at the U19 game saying, "He reffed our game on Tuesday and he was shit then too," but let's be honest, it's not hard to imagine.<br /><br />The next day, I'm supposed to be refereeing a Level 8 men's game way out of town. I just can't do it and pull out first thing on Sunday morning, much to the irritation of my refereeing bosses (none of whom ask me, "Are you okay, by the way?"). Then I spend Sunday afternoon writing the disciplinary report, and send it with an email to my referees' association saying that from now on I'm only refereeing women's and girls' games, and boys' games at U15 and below. I also ask to work more as a coach to young referees, because I still actually enjoy that part of the job.<br /><br />The fellow refs in my WhatsApp chat group warn me against over-reacting, but this is no sudden phenomenon. Already last year, <a href="http://refereetales.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-dread-in-my-head.html" target="_blank">I talked about the feeling of dread in my head every time I'm on my way to a game</a>, and the immense relief afterwards when nothing bad has happened. It was like that in Game 15 on Friday night, a very fast, foul-filled and intense men's Level 10 game where I covered 9.5 km because I was set on not missing a single thing. It should have been satisfying, but it wasn't. It was just stressful. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gOcQ9uCn8CEEoEDAcyIZq0nZc1Du31a1qw2w1NuQw556G81VPB7lkaVThmfTk1s6EtnY41oqvKyalT14QCpEUUYxkBd3BneMS9aQLfw9i-79p48dI3zH7caO-KyJ2FAA5xd2G6dMF-f7gE2_ZlrX3N8NQwWOG_nU3QvjvYK2tRh6GxUk4lM7sIi3xa0/s700/smoker.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="700" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gOcQ9uCn8CEEoEDAcyIZq0nZc1Du31a1qw2w1NuQw556G81VPB7lkaVThmfTk1s6EtnY41oqvKyalT14QCpEUUYxkBd3BneMS9aQLfw9i-79p48dI3zH7caO-KyJ2FAA5xd2G6dMF-f7gE2_ZlrX3N8NQwWOG_nU3QvjvYK2tRh6GxUk4lM7sIi3xa0/s320/smoker.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>The bizarre outcome of game 16, a 31-goal home defeat in an utterly pointless U15 match, was overshadowed by what immediately followed in the U19 game on the same pitch. I'd turned up to find the morose home coach smoking a cigarette and looking like he'd rather be in a distant meadow watching cow shit dry. "Our coach left and took all the best players with him," he informs me. He only has ten players, and even though their opponents play down a man after the eighth goal, it makes no difference - some of these players look like they've never kicked a football in their life. A couple of days later, the club withdraws the team from the league. <br /><br />Over the past fortnight, I've moved on. After an initial period of deep sadness and anger that these serial arseholes - and the ineffectual sanctions imposed by the state FA, and the spinelessness of my referees' association - were in effect forcing me to give up something I love, I started to feel the serene liberation of no longer having to be constantly yelled at on my weekends. Although after Game 18 this past weekend, I still found myself by unfortunate chance involved in a heated confrontation with another U19 boys' team coach. More on that next time... <br /><br /><b>Game 15:</b> 3-4 (5 x yellow)<br /><b>Game 16:</b> 0-31 - t-h-i-r-t-y o-n-e (no cards)<br /><b>Game 17:</b> 9-0, match abandoned after 85 minutes (9 x yellow, 3 x time-penalty, 2 x red)<br /></span><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: helvetica;">My book '</i><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i style="font-family: helvetica;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-51711564891259621832023-09-21T13:08:00.000+02:002023-09-21T13:08:33.875+02:00The Adventures of Captain Striker, Episode One!<div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxR_bkcCaGQLOyuD-ykC01gtHOqoLZGG7KL08W82_pjpvWZYXlGln66LdxECmoMq0prAho_v9X6JIZYf29KQCFufxeN8MgS6F5WnTqHjEdS6Gv9iirFx3VKi76RzyS_oP8GSLqH8I6KE2k-7OuNQe79OVWOGsS2ZMDy-6ZL9KS5WNU_DqOtL8ioicym_c/s640/10.%20He's%20lost%20control.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="640" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxR_bkcCaGQLOyuD-ykC01gtHOqoLZGG7KL08W82_pjpvWZYXlGln66LdxECmoMq0prAho_v9X6JIZYf29KQCFufxeN8MgS6F5WnTqHjEdS6Gv9iirFx3VKi76RzyS_oP8GSLqH8I6KE2k-7OuNQe79OVWOGsS2ZMDy-6ZL9KS5WNU_DqOtL8ioicym_c/w400-h188/10.%20He's%20lost%20control.png" width="400" /></a></div></span><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Games 12-14, 2023-24</b></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />Captain Striker is a fucking hero. He must be, because he's both the captain <i>and</i> the striker. The bossman goal-notcher. The big cheese leading the front line, also adorned with a special armband with a CAPITAL C (for... Captain, of course!). He's shouldering so many responsibilities - to lead his team, to set an example, and to score the goals too. That Captain Striker is only playing at level nine must be some kind of terrible mistake. It's likely the football establishment has been plotting against him, but Captain Striker knows adversity and will not abjure the struggle.<br /><br />I'm just about to blow the whistle to start the game when Captain Striker, standing right in front of me, asks for an extra few seconds to say "my prayer". I'm tempted to tell him he's had several hours already to say his prayer, but of course this is not about the prayer. Captain Striker is testing the waters to see if the referee harbours the necessary respect for him and his footballing superpowers. He closes his eyes and murmurs. I really have no choice but to wait for him to finish before we can all start the game.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IBNG8ZBxhE8DtxrxclI5lm37drNTAXmJsMpC8d-nreE1BEJpeVVw87eZJKjqxJaFD05pnKKnGexZwHG6i7k92mu54Gpt5g3AME_dOWqMrmS0hgNTks2NOtdgKTA86l6w9JmNRFOckQKJF-bqgIwk777GCnVN0YEB7aSG6_OS2GiVX9CjLAVn7F5V-lM/s768/prayer.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="703" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IBNG8ZBxhE8DtxrxclI5lm37drNTAXmJsMpC8d-nreE1BEJpeVVw87eZJKjqxJaFD05pnKKnGexZwHG6i7k92mu54Gpt5g3AME_dOWqMrmS0hgNTks2NOtdgKTA86l6w9JmNRFOckQKJF-bqgIwk777GCnVN0YEB7aSG6_OS2GiVX9CjLAVn7F5V-lM/w183-h200/prayer.jpeg" width="183" /></a></div>Later, I wonder what his prayer was. If he was appealing to his Gods to finally make this the game when he didn't behave like an irritating, temperamental, belly-aching pain in the passage, then the prayer went unheard. If he was praying to be suddenly blessed with clinical finishing skills that would permit him to score an unanswered double hat-trick, then sadly that plea was also ignored. However, if his prayer went something along the lines of, "Dear invisible and unknown entity, please once again make me the biggest fucking twat on the field of play by a colossal margin", then there is indeed a power somewhere above with the magical ability to turn requests into reality.<br /><br />Captain Striker's chief asset is his loud and rowdy gob. At first, it's aimed at his fallible team-mates, who<span><a name='more'></a></span> must truly be inspired by their leader's repeated fury that they are failing to set him up for the goals his talented feet so deserve. But after multiple muttered commentaries about my decisions (he claims the home goalkeeper has wasted enough time to warrant "six or seven" added minutes at the end of the first half), he inevitably diverts his wrath towards me instead. The home team has scored its fourth goal of the afternoon, and Captain Striker vociferously declares it was offside by at least "five metres". Add incredible eyesight to his range of super-skills. He runs, he pleads, he screams. Maybe he even prays. The goal stands. "Talk to your number 8, he played him on," I say. He doesn't talk to number 8. That's absurd. It was the referee who caused the goal, not the number 8. <br /><br />And wouldn't you know it, but just two minutes later the referee <i>does</i> blow for offside - only, it's against Captain Striker. By this time, he has bungled a number of prime opportunities to score. Now he accepts a nod-on from a team-mate, right in front of goal but way behind the second to last man. He roars in rage, and I can only laugh. "Look where I'm standing!" I tell him. The play came from a free-kick, so for once I'm in the perfect position. He continues to surf his wave of futile rage, getting himself a yellow card, prompting him to rage some more, so out he goes for ten minutes solo in the sin-bin. There follows a brief interlude of relative peace and harmony.<br /><br />When he comes back on, Captain Striker scores a penalty to make it 5-1. Not exactly the heroics we'd been expecting, especially as he misses a second one five minutes later, and lies on the floor with his head in his hands. One final setback for the super-hero before he nets five goals in five minutes to turn the game around? Sadly not. At the final whistle, a home team player goes to apologise to him for some incident or other, and reportedly (I don't hear it), Captain Striker tells him to piss off. There follows a big row with the usual chest-shoves amid indignant cacophony, and then Captain Striker goes into the crowd and embraces his son, who looks about five years old. I wonder if I should give the kid card a red card now to save me the bother in ten years time.<br /><br /><b>Game 13:</b> No cards, no bother. No men, except me and the away team's coach.<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 14:</b> Same league as Game 12. It's just before half-time and the away team is 1-0 ahead. It's an awful game, with both sides playing serial long, high balls on a shortish pitch. Yet another hoof from the back sails towards the away team's number 7, but he's a yard offside. When I blow, there's a huge uproar from the player, who runs over to tell me that, in fact, he timed his run perfectly. "Sorry, you were a second too quick off the mark," I tell him, because he was. <br /><br />A minute later, the home team takes a direct free-kick from just outside the penalty area, spilled by the keeper. The striker running in for the rebound is clearly fouled by a defender before he can get to the ball. I point to the spot, and this time the outrage runs through the whole away team. Number 7 gets the card he's been craving. The penalty's converted, and on my way to the dressing room for the break, a WHIRRing sound (Whining at the Heinous Injustice of the Rubbish Referee) fills the surrounding park. <br /><br />It's a lovely night - there's a soothing orange quarter moon over this ten-cent game. The air is finally cooling, but not the heads. The away team spend the entire second half complaining, convinced that I am 'against' them. There are four yellows and a time-penalty when the number 12, already booked for persistent ankle-tapping, complains loudly that the home team took a throw-in from the wrong spot. He's right, but I'd let it pass because one of number 12's team-mates had kicked the ball away to prevent a quick throw when it went out of play, and it went straight to an opponent ten yards up the line who said thank you very much and took a quick one after all. Improvised rules, street justice.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizc1dplHDCxqXyQ9T7WDvklFT8iSfgkxMiayWhBmtSE8hEljmcp-UkkPsGaDvlCD9rk3VS36yu72uLvqTcPNQexgnGgD-9Upek20vp6pM2vLa0iVTuXVYQrvR0aOPhllElJYWTo7sISMicHi5v2eYJLfnkXozuSAETfP-h5DKuQyifv1Y-YJuDNcPChqs/s310/fussball.de.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizc1dplHDCxqXyQ9T7WDvklFT8iSfgkxMiayWhBmtSE8hEljmcp-UkkPsGaDvlCD9rk3VS36yu72uLvqTcPNQexgnGgD-9Upek20vp6pM2vLa0iVTuXVYQrvR0aOPhllElJYWTo7sISMicHi5v2eYJLfnkXozuSAETfP-h5DKuQyifv1Y-YJuDNcPChqs/s1600/fussball.de.jpeg" width="310" /></a></div>The away team is running a live ticker on the official German FA website. According to this version of the game, their team is being held back not by its inability to pass the ball, but because of the referee's shocking incompetence. The first comment on the penalty admits that it was "hard to see" if there'd been a foul or not (perhaps because the author was 50 yards away, and typing into their mobile phone?), but by half-time this has become a "dubious" call. There are numerous other snide asides about my decisions, plus ongoing outrage at that one first-half offside call. We are not allowed to know the outcomes of disciplinary proceedings against the wankers who yell at us every week, but this public commentary on a level 9 piss-kick with an amateur ref judging offside calls with no linesmen is freedom of expression. Hurrah for that. Maybe these people need an outlet, just like I do on here.<br /><br />At the final whistle, it's still 1-1. "Next time, we'd be better off playing without a ref," two away players tell me, adding their sulky votes of no confidence to the player on Sunday who advised me to quit (a striking partner of Captain Striker's - his apprentice arsehole). I'd actually pay good money to come and watch these teams face off without a ref. I start to envision a <i>Netflix</i> series where this league plays an entire season without referees. TV execs - have your people contact mine.<br /><br />"Your reffing's shit," an away spectator informs me as I walk to my changing room. "You have a nice evening too," I reply. Though I don't add what I'm thinking: "You worthless piece of shit."<br /><br /><b><i>Game 12:</i></b> 5-2 (8 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Game 13: </i></b>10-0 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 14:</i></b> 1-1 (4 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">My book '</i><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large; font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-58312157515080595512023-09-11T13:23:00.000+02:002023-09-11T13:23:27.372+02:00The Playmaker who can't play, won't play<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 9-11, 2023-24</b><br /><br /><i><b>Game 9 </b>(Friday night)</i>. 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. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQ6kWCXWOzXrJositrTQbxh1rgMqAGn4JETsif99nRcGZcElCiUDo8V-ohyuBB5YeMp8FVxw38ZrMMCu6ZwO7XnT5TSXD2T-1zqvblFwnPrX5COJf__fjwChVjGqiaE1TXgtYnBKsNGSbEKgkif6JV5UzEvETu3CyKxcfEpHUS5jgda3gHa5dXhZ1ZAI/s640/frauenstein2.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQ6kWCXWOzXrJositrTQbxh1rgMqAGn4JETsif99nRcGZcElCiUDo8V-ohyuBB5YeMp8FVxw38ZrMMCu6ZwO7XnT5TSXD2T-1zqvblFwnPrX5COJf__fjwChVjGqiaE1TXgtYnBKsNGSbEKgkif6JV5UzEvETu3CyKxcfEpHUS5jgda3gHa5dXhZ1ZAI/s320/frauenstein2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Yellow-card scoreboard...</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>You can try talking to players like this, but you're wasting your breath. When you tell them to be quiet they think you're inviting them to a dialogue about this or that decision, which obviously I fucked up on. Every time. And the Non-Playmaker has a glassy expression when you try to look him in the eye and reach what might pass for his brain or his soul, or even a small, concealed part of his personality that's not shitty to the core. He's not interested, and looks past you, while continuing to whine about the unconscionable wrongness of your officiating.<br /><br />"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.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />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:<br /><br /><b>Me (holding out the whistle)</b>: Here, have a go yourself. Feel free to ref the game, because I'm ready to fuck off home.<br /><b>Number 10:</b> Me too!<br /><b>Me:</b> Then go! I'm certainly not going to stop you. Go on, clear off!<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><i><b>Game 10</b> (Saturday morning)<b>.</b></i> 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.<br /><br /><i><b>Game xx </b>(Saturday afternoon)</i>. 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! <br /><br /><i><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-yWeNmCnPWHGJjRTR9qIzNJzGudYgIPTxZUPBpyc6zLkK_18kkhKmEUVkrXZzD7fVWO1O4u9V4_DQaecsk7Dl6pMyaYsEPJHRlVJ65gxvZZKhNcJKzTg7hIkAAp9uf5CxkVvzinAuqP4cZBQ45FmZsIJ5AjS2vCoIwHSwYkItgclbFs_csrrK8SeQz4/s640/frauenstein1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="640" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-yWeNmCnPWHGJjRTR9qIzNJzGudYgIPTxZUPBpyc6zLkK_18kkhKmEUVkrXZzD7fVWO1O4u9V4_DQaecsk7Dl6pMyaYsEPJHRlVJ65gxvZZKhNcJKzTg7hIkAAp9uf5CxkVvzinAuqP4cZBQ45FmZsIJ5AjS2vCoIwHSwYkItgclbFs_csrrK8SeQz4/s320/frauenstein1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Game 11: </b>(Sunday afternoon)</i>. 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 <i>(see left)</i>. 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.<br /><br />One other thing - the home team had a scoreboard with an actual working digital clock <i>(see pic at top of page)</i>. 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.<br /><br /><b><i>Game 9:</i></b> 2-2 (10 x yellow, 3 x time-punishment)<br /><i><b>Game 10:</b></i> 3-0 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 11:</i></b> 0-4 (3 x yellow)</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>My book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-1325232506628732292023-09-05T13:13:00.002+02:002023-09-05T13:13:23.841+02:00Abandoning a 'friendly' match due to the threat of violence. But who cares?<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 8, 2023-24</b><br /><br />It's only three months since a young man was <a href="https://www.fr.de/frankfurt/anklage-nach-gewalttat-ein-schlag-hinterruecks-gegen-den-kopf-92313604.html" target="_blank">killed on a football field just a couple of kilometres away from today's U19 friendly</a>. The 15-year-old player took a punch to the back of the neck during a tournament at the end of last season, fell instantly into a coma, and died a few days later in hospital. The local football community expressed its collective shock and dismay, but for those of us refereeing on the morally rotten front line of the amateur game, the tragic outcome was the logical consequence of football's utter failure to address the issue of embedded verbal and physical violence.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7e0wo4V6xB9KxztJ4hpB_xXfQomIRBuO1OjsmufBY8ArIcQry4cR9Tixhp0IPepSXcJL0yyQK7ZOP4Kksubcie572XaDPyXM5xit3moToi3VgcOkzeGNa8b2De62kFudUPay1uBGGcBfSPOYyjcWsTR9CkX3M_G55evnh9EUno0K0yyx3zlEZWqaVh4/s850/shankly%20quote.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="850" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7e0wo4V6xB9KxztJ4hpB_xXfQomIRBuO1OjsmufBY8ArIcQry4cR9Tixhp0IPepSXcJL0yyQK7ZOP4Kksubcie572XaDPyXM5xit3moToi3VgcOkzeGNa8b2De62kFudUPay1uBGGcBfSPOYyjcWsTR9CkX3M_G55evnh9EUno0K0yyx3zlEZWqaVh4/s320/shankly%20quote.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Time to finally shelve The Shankly Quote</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>Did this mean that clubs have started the new season with a different attitude? A perhaps more reasoned, respectful approach to their opponents and officials, and one less influenced by foul tactics, dangerous tackles and instinctive confrontation? Did it fuck. And that's why I abandoned the game after 75 minutes following a mass confrontation on the pitch. I wasn't prepared to watch the threat of impending violence translate into another death.<span><a name='more'></a></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">If that sounds like an over-reaction, then I make no apologies. Better that we play short by a quarter hour than someone ends up in hospital or in the morgue. The problem is that we've come to accept anger, frustration, "emotions" and borderline psychotic behaviour as the norm. And when you view this serially malevolent conduct as the norm, you fail to take measures to prevent extreme outcomes. But you can't then act surprised when they happen.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Let's re-visit the game. The first 70 minutes have been largely peaceful, bar one brief display of dissent (dealt with by a short lecture), and one very minor tussle between two players (a second short lecture, and an enforced handshake). I'm enjoying it fine, because it's a beautiful Saturday evening and everything's under control. Yet, it only takes five minutes to turn really nasty. A couple of over-the-top fouls from the away team end in two five-minute time penalties, and suddenly the atmosphere is really pissy - the home team's outraged by the fouls, the away team by the sanctions. The second offender screams in my face about the injustice of him having to leave the field of play, prompting verbal disputes and little shoving duets to break out all over the field. My whistles are ignored, so I turn to the coaches - I want to bring them together to tell them they need to talk to their teams before we can finish the game.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5AAcNOufccNQOe0vb1HZ3jxLnD7oyemHDkFzXO0nudEUG5m6riexUJCyjQVmU-eXisIbeJ2PzBnX4se0SEFPo0GeTJ8srsc-Y0unZZwxov-zOkraZHq5oPHZuv0vCV6IfszP1rrhlaodJHJoBkp1TKGtbIiHuL_FcgnsdHSIjCD4yBrJPL7pVlAQ8jl4/s1000/whore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="779" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5AAcNOufccNQOe0vb1HZ3jxLnD7oyemHDkFzXO0nudEUG5m6riexUJCyjQVmU-eXisIbeJ2PzBnX4se0SEFPo0GeTJ8srsc-Y0unZZwxov-zOkraZHq5oPHZuv0vCV6IfszP1rrhlaodJHJoBkp1TKGtbIiHuL_FcgnsdHSIjCD4yBrJPL7pVlAQ8jl4/s320/whore.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>But the away coach (a man in his late 50s) is in the midst of a very intense shouting match with the home team's number 7 (a teenage boy), and I can't bring him back down. "Did you hear that? He called me a whore!" the coach yells at me. Okay, this situation is hopeless. I blow the whistle three times and walk towards my changing room. Players continue to argue, but then they slowly stop. The game's over, after all. The <i>friendly </i>game, it's worth reiterating. Now it seems that everyone has realised there's nothing here worth getting worked up about after all. Who'd have thought?<br /><br />In the changing room, I file my game report (with the promise of the disciplinary report to come - it ends up taking two and a half hours out of my Sunday morning after a sleepless night), then go to the club bar to receive my payment (€20) without a word in return. No one tries to stop me or even bother talking to me. Because this incident represents the norm, perhaps. We all got a little bit het up, the fussy ref blew up early, now let's all go and enjoy our Saturday night. When I unlock my bike, several home team players are standing next to me, already drinking. It's not that they ignore me, as such. They don't appear to be aware that I even exist. (Well, they say the best refs are the ones you don't notice.)<br /><br />Our state FA has introduced a 'three-stage' model to de-escalate the threat of violence, but only when it applies to spectators shouting foul insults (interestingly, "Your refereeing's shit!" doesn't qualify, you have to be called a motherfucker or the son of a whore). First, stop the game for five minutes. At the second insult, for ten minutes. At the third insult, call the game off. But this is useless for situations like the above. As ever, the necessary sweeping initiatives to tackle an institutional problem - our entire fucked-up approach to football - are nowhere to be seen. Not even after a player has been killed.<br /><br />I don't care about the personal consequences for my future as a referee. From now on, whenever I feel that there is the threat of violence on or off the field, and that there is no one besides myself there to prevent it, then I will blow three times and walk away. I know from experience that, without any help from the coaches, the last 15 minutes of this game would have seen an escalation of poor and potentially violent behaviour. Due to a failure of leadership at all levels of the game, that's already lead to one teenage boy being mourned by his family, while another sits in a prison cell on a charge of causing death by grievous bodily harm. If that's not enough to prompt radical change in the way we run the game, then exactly what is?<br /><br /><b><i>Final score:</i></b> match abandoned after 75 minutes (2 x yellow, 2 x time-penalty)</span><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: helvetica;">My book '</i><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i style="font-family: helvetica;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span></div></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-54084899503041487182023-08-07T07:03:00.002+02:002023-08-07T21:09:58.007+02:00Upset about nothing<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 5-7, 2023-24</b><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBUVBo1PGVoy5sqgwP9CLqbKdbD7o_htlu7dUvpwwvFb-lkvwVuh-vkUY5URYTn9siTu7ZoCmj9qL4SG2dQnaqT9lB5tf3FO6RfGMQXgZ-b00AY2ECASY-CbGaxGOeW-uMYonvjA8d6dEjZh5lFVTetVJ65vKAaasF8EDw8C5q7hNUzA2t8hykglwzu8/s2560/rage.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBUVBo1PGVoy5sqgwP9CLqbKdbD7o_htlu7dUvpwwvFb-lkvwVuh-vkUY5URYTn9siTu7ZoCmj9qL4SG2dQnaqT9lB5tf3FO6RfGMQXgZ-b00AY2ECASY-CbGaxGOeW-uMYonvjA8d6dEjZh5lFVTetVJ65vKAaasF8EDw8C5q7hNUzA2t8hykglwzu8/s320/rage.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Game of Rage</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>In <b>Game 5</b>, I upset the home team's captain. Fifteen minutes earlier, I was shaking his hand and agreeing that we wanted a nice, calm game, because it's a friendly. Both sides are near-neighbours and will be having a barbecue afterwards. Unleash the doves of peace! And yet here he is, yelling in my face. What have I done to upset him? I blew my whistle and gave a penalty to the other team, just because he up-ended an away team forward who was shaping up to shoot. I'm five yards away. Only the captain complains, loudly and in my face.<br /><br />And yet, if I hadn't called the penalty, the other team would have been upset. It's so hard to keep everyone happy.<span><a name='more'></a></span> <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />In <b>Game 7</b>, 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. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTYMZeUCyO5mmyyi6ZbHSYxsyBdaw0gEvu90f9QV8H8x8ciHuPUHb6R58mpXki8hXiAG-GVB32eCpHzGRWtlWjsA1Xwped-8xJCTwDQ5FoY-JKD-WZNAL6xZ4QqRSYm_7BhKhoXZ86bSvJNhP9xijR6hXXpZukIwsHsknlfFt_7zCdhtRMpU5LlHgDDI/s186/PE%20cartoon.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="186" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTYMZeUCyO5mmyyi6ZbHSYxsyBdaw0gEvu90f9QV8H8x8ciHuPUHb6R58mpXki8hXiAG-GVB32eCpHzGRWtlWjsA1Xwped-8xJCTwDQ5FoY-JKD-WZNAL6xZ4QqRSYm_7BhKhoXZ86bSvJNhP9xijR6hXXpZukIwsHsknlfFt_7zCdhtRMpU5LlHgDDI/w320-h275/PE%20cartoon.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>In the second half of an increasingly sour game, two opposing players take a dislike to each other. There's pushing and mewling and mutual accusations. I take them to one side and remind them that it's only a fucking friendly, and that if they want to stay on the pitch for the last 15 minutes then they should just quit the stupidity and play football. This dunderheaded duo reward my leniency by starting up again the second I've turned my back, so I send them out for 10 minutes, which turns out to be 15 minutes because I refuse to let them back in. The away team coach protests that it was all "harmless", which gives you an idea of his player-management skills, and of the vacuum between his left and his right ear too. <br /><br />By this time, both <i>teams</i> 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?<br /><br />Yet I enjoyed <b>Game 6 </b>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><b><i>Game 5:</i></b> 1-6 (5 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)<br /><i><b>Game 6:</b></i> 3-0 (no cards)<br /><b><i>Game 7:</i></b> 2-1 (3 x yellow, 2 x time-penalty)</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>My book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-56465752138780997622023-07-24T16:51:00.001+02:002023-07-24T16:52:42.879+02:00Pre-season friendlies usher in the first storm clouds of dissent<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 1-4, 2023-24</b><br /><br /><b>Game 1:</b> We've played seven minutes of my first game of the new season before I reach into my left pocket for a yellow card. The away team's number 7 has been called up for a clear handball. He protests loudly, then kicks the ball away. Time to set an early signal...<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_gNhi4BnUPHuKeyz7OsZ5ZphlmvBdCeahLGayOPEi8Hs9Mfw7jBwN1SKJmU8oMM8KfoS0iCqJpo8_d1tjOMaTcWeULWY20w9gbJTtJy366hB_o--thJTLjpT0EdbHuv7SHUvJsnmN8Fy5kIkiSyHg845fMVP9cuOgmU9TU1R78cNduYh_BeG-ZlkGr4/s284/yellowcard.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="284" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_gNhi4BnUPHuKeyz7OsZ5ZphlmvBdCeahLGayOPEi8Hs9Mfw7jBwN1SKJmU8oMM8KfoS0iCqJpo8_d1tjOMaTcWeULWY20w9gbJTtJy366hB_o--thJTLjpT0EdbHuv7SHUvJsnmN8Fy5kIkiSyHg845fMVP9cuOgmU9TU1R78cNduYh_BeG-ZlkGr4/s1600/yellowcard.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Forgotten something, old man?</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>Hang on, where are my cards? At this second, I realise that I've left both of them in the changing room. Good start to the season, ref. No early signal after all, except to signal that my mind's going, one day before my 58th. birthday. What should I do? Should I just hope that there are no cardable offences for the next 40 minutes? It's a boys' U17 game, so that's very unlikely, as I've just seen.<br /><br />I let play continue with the free-kick. Five minutes later, there's the first goal of the game. I run off the field, and fortunately the groundsman with the key to my changing room is sitting right there. He lets me in, I grab my cards, then run back out and blow for the re-start as though nothing unusual's happened, even though everyone's staring at me and wondering what the hell I'm doing. Three minutes later, the number 7 commits another foul, and quite a nasty one at that. This time he gets the yellow card he deserved five minutes ago.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />There are no more cards until the 67th. minute, when a newly subbed-in away defender is sent off for denying a clear goal-scoring opportunity. His team-mates know it's a red, but they plead with me. "It's a friendly! Now he'll be banned for a league game!" Indeed. There are no rules about rules not counting for friendlies. If they'd played like it was a friendly, instead of fouling by rote (this applies to both teams), then perhaps I'd have been more lenient.<br /><br />Once the player's left the field (no protests), the free-kick comes straight back to the taker from the wall, he dribbles into the area and, five yards in front of me, is hauled to the ground with a full body throw. I point to the spot, and the away players are this time incredulous. As though giving a penalty so soon after dismissing one of their players is just plain unfair. First card of the season for dissent. Here we go again.<br /><i><b>Final score:</b></i> 3-4 (2 x yellow, 1 x red)<br /><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8Tny8iW2qQMHlorRhbCei2fp7NtNqIfxD49bSMnVzY-CeCZzGgzP2iyS4CAifujyKleqI9gLOVvGgeqETFk9q1WG6ySy2XUpZFXpcvybeo_jeT_hpuV_7b57Gqilwr-XlAzabLC8lT7p0kwvjghm4YXik5ObvR-bu0gt3bnYu36o0GG33wFEShCKYDo/s638/clouds%20of%20dissent%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="638" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8Tny8iW2qQMHlorRhbCei2fp7NtNqIfxD49bSMnVzY-CeCZzGgzP2iyS4CAifujyKleqI9gLOVvGgeqETFk9q1WG6ySy2XUpZFXpcvybeo_jeT_hpuV_7b57Gqilwr-XlAzabLC8lT7p0kwvjghm4YXik5ObvR-bu0gt3bnYu36o0GG33wFEShCKYDo/s320/clouds%20of%20dissent%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Game 2: </b>Life's a loop, right enough. There's a coach dancing up and down on the touchline, screaming at me that I'm spoiling the game. I ignore him, letting him freak out for the modest crowd while upping his Twat Factor. Eventually, his embarrassed assistant comes and pulls him away. I've just time-punished (10 minutes) his second player during this nasty, ankle-biting men's 'friendly'. It's like they've agreed that the team with the most fouls will win something. <i>The Shithead Shield. The Cup of Cunts. </i><br /><br />A pre-match storm sets the tone. There are five punishments for dissent in all. On the home team, I caution the exact two same players I cautioned for dissent last time I was here nearly two years ago. Because life's a loop. The away team's captain, meanwhile, stands directly in front of a free-kick in midfield, ignores my instruction to move away, then sticks out his foot when the free-kick's taken and can't believe he gets a yellow card, which he then argues into a 10-minute time penalty because he thinks the free-kick taker should have got a yellow "for kicking the ball at me". It's this sanction that inspires his coach to launch into the Lunatic Quickstep.<br /><br />After the game, the captain approaches me to discuss the matter further. I explain the law on standing your distance at a free-kick (a law I'd explained at length to a young man in <b>Game 1</b> who kept standing in front of the ball at free-kicks, in random spots all over the field, and shouting "Wall!"), but I can tell he thinks I don't know what I'm talking about. He also denies having been disrespectful, but it's a matter of interpretation. One man's disrespect is another man's way of conducting a discussion in a perfectly normal loud and aggressive manner until he gets his own way.<br /><br />The first player to get a straight 10-minute time punishment (for a crass foul, borderline red) complains too - not because he's denying the foul, but because he says the ball had crossed the sideline a few seconds before. "The club linesman didn't raise his flag, so I couldn't call it because the ball looked like it was still in to me," I say. He's more reasonable than his captain and we shake hands. I don't mind a discussion after the game, as long as both sides are listening.<br /><b><i>Final score:</i></b> 2-1 (9 x yellow, 2 x time-penalty)<br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzWGaN8D7gic8t-EnbTwX9vo3iv0J2nXCxybEHK223zeOfojO6NgbQlsc9gCIXtu9l0MYhxhjt3ZJa7zooBkmNJm631Glq9oGI9NCUGVP9dUzGszPvaoGTqAO5nu1yC7su65yiLfMv_HHxYM0ggEhv5gITENDn51bT2k_L6c70itwomy8Uq1mRC7Eox4/s640/clouds%20of%20dissent%202.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzWGaN8D7gic8t-EnbTwX9vo3iv0J2nXCxybEHK223zeOfojO6NgbQlsc9gCIXtu9l0MYhxhjt3ZJa7zooBkmNJm631Glq9oGI9NCUGVP9dUzGszPvaoGTqAO5nu1yC7su65yiLfMv_HHxYM0ggEhv5gITENDn51bT2k_L6c70itwomy8Uq1mRC7Eox4/s320/clouds%20of%20dissent%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Game 3: </b>Twelve hours between games, and it's a boys' U19 friendly - two good teams above my normal pay grade, but for friendlies I'm apparently capable of refereeing them - only, without the linesmen they get in league play. Yet these games, if you're fit enough, are much easier to ref. The players are well-coached and disciplined. They tend not to stray offside, or to play passes to team-mates who are already in an offside position. They win the ball fairly far more often than they foul (in contrast to last night's Game 2). You can telegraph the direction of the play because teams keep possession for longer, and play fewer long balls.<br /><br />Really enjoyed this one. Speedy, intense, skilful, but almost no unpleasantness aside from one incident of dissent (there always has to be one, it seems).<br /><i><b>Final score:</b></i> 4-0 (4 x yellow)<br /><br /><b>Game 4:</b> Third game in three days. I show up to find the ground is a building site. Turns out I was told the wrong venue, and am just checking Google Maps to see how I get to the team's other ground when a car pulls up. "Are you the ref?" Indeed I am. "We noticed they put the wrong address in, so I'd thought I'd come and check if you're here." I get a lift, and all he gets in return is a lecture about the sorrows of refereeing. <br /><br />Again, the teams are good - level 7 vs level 8. There's a single early yellow for... you've guessed it, a player yelling at me. There are a couple of caution-worthy fouls, but they don't feel like they need carding today. Players are quick to apologise and help their opponents back up. Although standing right in front of the ball at free-kicks seems to be the dominant pre-season denotation of dumbness.<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i><b>Me (to player standing right in front of the ball):</b></i> Stand back!<br /><b><i>Player standing in front of ball:</i></b> How far?<br /><b><i>Me:</i></b> Nine meters and 15 centimetres, like it says in the rule book.<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />The player looks unamused at my sarcasm. Just like the home defender who just before the end gets stroppy about a corner kick he says was a goal kick. The corner kick is easily dealt with by his keeper. After the game a few minutes later, I smile at the defender and say, "So, you survived the corner-kick then." He's not amused on any level and continues to grumble about it. "No place for humour in football, eh?" I say. I forgot, it's a very serious game. Mardy bum. <br /><br />Four games, eight cautions for dissent, which would have been nine if I'd had the right card in my pocket. Only one 'difficult' match, though, and even that one I quite enjoyed. If I didn't, I could just step out of the loop... <br /><b><i>Final score:</i></b> 2-2 (1 x yellow)</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>My book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-9926751170773507592023-05-29T15:44:00.001+02:002023-05-29T15:44:58.530+02:00“Ref, WHY WON'T YOU TALK TO ME?”<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 48, 2022-23<br /></b><br />Boys’ U19. A messy game. Tons of yellows for all the usual shite (fouling, howling, hacking), three time-penalties, and two reds. So much to process, so let’s just look at the two dismissals.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbww8-_d7vgULz3yOfRZ1R0JoL7EA5swyz1iB6VX-p4g9cu5NAkJ_UHBhF9Au4Dl5AAHPgOZ6poriOE4NFsO2yCQXL2AJckT7csIG_dhvQjdRx9lcRwPtBVDDwVyhVIEcc7498Bqev0-QJy1aag6_9HpZlmQc9ElgrGBffRHkVyERnZoMs81di08u/s800/redcard3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbww8-_d7vgULz3yOfRZ1R0JoL7EA5swyz1iB6VX-p4g9cu5NAkJ_UHBhF9Au4Dl5AAHPgOZ6poriOE4NFsO2yCQXL2AJckT7csIG_dhvQjdRx9lcRwPtBVDDwVyhVIEcc7498Bqev0-QJy1aag6_9HpZlmQc9ElgrGBffRHkVyERnZoMs81di08u/s320/redcard3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I check the two teams’ recent form and disciplinary record. The game’s a dead rubber, but that doesn’t mean it will be a quiet night. The away team won last week 8-0, but had a player sent off close to the end of the game when they were already eight goals to the good. “How did that happen?” I ask their coach before I start my warm-up routine.<br /><br />“Ah, yes, that’s our number 10. I subbed him out and he said something to the referee, but I’m not sure what.” I say that at least he won’t be playing today, because a straight red card means a suspension. “Actually, he <i>is</i> playing today. The referee never filed a disciplinary report.” (Cheers for that, dear colleague.) Well, I respond, please make sure to let him know that I won’t be tolerating any such antics. The coach assures me that the player will be on his best behaviour, though who knows how good that best behaviour is.<br /><br />At half-time of an already dirty spectacle (five cautions in the first 45 minutes, four of them to the away team), the number 10 is subbed in. He’s inconspicuous until the 70th. minute, when he’s fouled and tripped while dribbling the ball in his own half. He’s ignited, so stands straight back up and shoves his<span><a name='more'></a></span> opponent to the ground. Borderline red, but I give him the five-minute time penalty. He’s outraged at the punishment and tells me so. I tell him just to be quiet and leave the field. When he does, he immediately gets into a blazing row with his coach.<br /><br />Three minutes later and the number 10 is back, walking defiantly across the pitch on his way to the changing rooms, presumably to get back at his coach and to deliberately sabotage his own team’s chances – they’re defending a narrow lead. I blow the whistle to stop play and show him the red card (next bookable offence after the time-penalty is an automatic red, regardless of the infringement). He stops in his tracks and starts yelling at me. “Go on, write me up in a report, why don’t you?” He yells this several times as one of his team-mates tries to get him to leave the field. “Piss off!” another one of his players shouts at him. Strictly speaking, that’s a red card too, but I’m too much in sympathy with the sentiments to punish him.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSGZQBsyVVgEL4vnvS23OyE7YsTX6BsLnRpVqwrn9PAouVFvZ4me0L8FZyNRt9WS44mCLdE5i8wXHEFqjzpS9ppOeokBclGSOnRqgKbBuVHTo1Uufr2kwqi0K2bg7-Rcq-BaoAU5_MCS35KF6ssm8zcRzpaxJUqWYVhAKRPNyUhuxNW75AnijJwdQ/s671/puppy%20pooping.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="671" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSGZQBsyVVgEL4vnvS23OyE7YsTX6BsLnRpVqwrn9PAouVFvZ4me0L8FZyNRt9WS44mCLdE5i8wXHEFqjzpS9ppOeokBclGSOnRqgKbBuVHTo1Uufr2kwqi0K2bg7-Rcq-BaoAU5_MCS35KF6ssm8zcRzpaxJUqWYVhAKRPNyUhuxNW75AnijJwdQ/w320-h195/puppy%20pooping.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Meanwhile, the home team’s right back has been fouling like a debutant puppy on a bowling green, and in the 82nd. minute he gets a long overdue yellow card for his detrimental play. Deep into injury time, with his team 2-1 down, he fouls an opponent shielding the ball in the corner of the field by the corner flag. When I blow for a free-kick, he lets me know loud and long what he thinks of that particular decision. But I’m about to blow for full-time, so I don’t bother sending him out for the time-penalty.<br /><br />When I blow the final whistle, he’s the first to come up to me, shake my hand, and say, “Thanks, but badly reffed.” Again, I let it go, it’s been a long evening. His coach then shakes my hand and says (sincerely), “Thanks. Well reffed.” His defender turns around and says, “No, it wasn’t, he was terrible. He should quit refereeing.” Ah well, I tried to be lenient, but that was obviously a mistake. Here, have a red card as a going home present.<br /><br />The red card prompts the defender to offload even more opinions in my direction. Then he waits for me outside the changing room and starts shouting at me as I go past. “Referee, why did you show me a red card? Referee, WHY WON’T YOU TALK TO ME?” <br /><br />Oh, I wonder. Maybe it’ll be a little clearer once you’ve read the disciplinary report.<br /><br /><i><b>Final score: </b></i>1-2 (10 x yellow, 3 x time-penalties, 2 x red)</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: helvetica;">My book '</i><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i style="font-family: helvetica;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-70157122408360764872023-05-15T12:30:00.003+02:002023-05-29T15:42:53.298+02:00Referee's Bingo - a game within a game <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 47, 2022-23</b><br /><br />In my head, I've been playing Referee's Bingo for years. During the course of 90 minutes, certain aspects of a game are destined for repetition, week after week. The stands may be empty, but there's almost always a Full House. Sunday's match proved to be another one that scored high. Let me share with you my Bingo Card.<br /><br /><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzNyg0YMaZQltJ7TZIp9MVRytYvEdROCygVi1NB7exa6YFFvzShoTLJeYJLaX9AHei6vMuFsSpyt_CO5Nb4R2qY-voL0ebJa19nESbLgn7HN8wTwpEFbE1uQO8JTviY-Bhu84-SNSV-ff8Cfv2Oir8hM5mw_L7pfs_puXUfBHzGhuomMjAlh4cq-A/s640/wackernheim%201.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="640" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzNyg0YMaZQltJ7TZIp9MVRytYvEdROCygVi1NB7exa6YFFvzShoTLJeYJLaX9AHei6vMuFsSpyt_CO5Nb4R2qY-voL0ebJa19nESbLgn7HN8wTwpEFbE1uQO8JTviY-Bhu84-SNSV-ff8Cfv2Oir8hM5mw_L7pfs_puXUfBHzGhuomMjAlh4cq-A/s320/wackernheim%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Time to play...</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>* Passing the ball around at the back for the first two minutes.</b> Do we have to? Every week? Yes, I know, the players are getting a feel for the ball, and that the two teams are sizing each other up. But why can't we just skip this bit and cut straight to the first long ball in the third minute? You wonder if the coaches discuss this beforehand - a mutual deal to make themselves look like Pep. A poor man's, 9th. Level tiki-taka. Please let it be over. Oh, good, the big number 6 has got bored as me and welted it down the pitch. <b>BINGO!</b><br /><br /><b>* A perfectly good goal, followed by an outraged defender appealing for offside.</b> In the 16th. minute the away team's number 10 runs on to a through-ball, dribbles round the keeper and scores. The home team's number 8 is incensed. Not at his own poor positional sense and lack of speed, but at the referee. He screams from somewhere deep inside of his soul: "Referee! Fucking hell, that was offside!"<span><a name='more'></a></span> No one else appeals. His sorrows are compounded by a small yellow card, held high by the referee, now disappointing him for the second time in 30 seconds. <b>BINGO!</b><br /><b><a href="http://refereetales.blogspot.com/2018/01/saluting-harry-amateur-leagues-mental.html" target="_blank"><br />* Harry, the Monster of Mentality</a></b>. He's still around, and always will be. The barking biggie at the heart of all defence - whether it's physical or verbal. Harry never, ever fouls - he may be rock hard, but he's totally fair. Slow, grim, unburdened by a sense of humour, and dirtier than a porn mag in a puddle, he's a passionate advocate of justice, in complete contrast to the milquetoast dandy referee, who has no fucking idea what a foul looks like in a man's game. "Never! Never!" he will say, shaking his head and running away from his bruised and crumpled opponents, already preparing for the free kick he will return to orbit via boot, forehead or with a thigh as thick as a cedar tree. So much heartfelt conviction wasted on a mere game - this man should be on the streets and outside the courts chanting and ranting against the shamefully wrongful rulings of the establishment. <b>BINGO!</b><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsWzz1Ah43xCeQ86y346aji35_LaAK1JA-Ik4VnDct4wwVLduVRogaOJ-cRZk5RSotht4OarQYwbjP2LVmD4eSOjwi62WHwLsPG9nAJ3RVxPxXjocTIbXuw6Ku2xBg2VXwCpLLUL_MVkLVgT5D-3BU3HhmV3zmLRx6a3InW5KzVZKe8lttiTZT8sL/s640/Wackernheim%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsWzz1Ah43xCeQ86y346aji35_LaAK1JA-Ik4VnDct4wwVLduVRogaOJ-cRZk5RSotht4OarQYwbjP2LVmD4eSOjwi62WHwLsPG9nAJ3RVxPxXjocTIbXuw6Ku2xBg2VXwCpLLUL_MVkLVgT5D-3BU3HhmV3zmLRx6a3InW5KzVZKe8lttiTZT8sL/s320/Wackernheim%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>* The multi-mooded coach. </b>Before the game, he's friendly. We chat in a mild and convivial fashion, one human to another. During the game, something changes. "Why are you yellow-carding every time one of my players fouls?!?" is one of a series of screams. Fizz, howl, rage, splutter, yellow card! And the answer: every time one of your players fouls an opponent in a reckless manner, he earns a yellow card. Get 10 and I'll give you one for free. Some advice: don't yell at me, but try coaching your players not to commit reckless fouls. After the game, he's back to being human. He shakes my hand and says well reffed, and that he's sorry for losing his rag. <b>BINGO!</b><br /><br /><b>* "I played the ball!"</b> Every week, over and again. And patient as the patron saint of enlightenment that I am, I explain, "Yes, but you also played the man," sometimes adding, when appropriate, "Plus, you went in with a leading straight leg." Harry's one of few who doesn't claim to have played the ball, mainly because he never gets near it. BINGO!<br /><br /><b>* "Ref, penalty!"</b> For once, it is. For once, no one complains. A trip in the box, and a caution for the defender who executed it. A brief nod of acknowledgment as I hold up the card. No Bingo. No Full House this week. But we still had time for:<br /><br /><b>* Shove Me Do.</b> Player A fouls Player B by holding him around the waist. Despite my whistle, Player B is aggrieved at being fouled. He shoves Player A. Player A shoves him back and Player B falls over. Oh look, now everyone's running to The Shove Match! Whole Lotta Shovin'! Harry demands a red card, which makes me immediately decide to blow the final whistle, as we're already in the 96th. minute. "What? No red card?" Big, angry, crimson-eyed Harry. Absolutely fucking incredulous Harry. Harry, dude, bollocks to your fantasy punishment. It was just another minor shove. All go and have a fucking pint in the bar together, will you? Indeed, within seconds, everyone's calmed down and we're all shaking hands. Except righteous Harry, who's disgusted at such an outbreak of sportsmanship. <b>BINGO!</b><br /><br /><b><i>Final score:</i></b> 2-2 (9 x yellow)</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: helvetica;">My book '</i><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i style="font-family: helvetica;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-81663789575026639042023-05-09T10:57:00.002+02:002023-05-09T10:58:10.337+02:00Another weekend of managing mass confrontations <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 44-46, 2022-23</b><br /><br />One of our refereeing overlords last month mused out loud to a room full of over-worked and underpaid amateur referees that he and his colleagues had come up with a theory why player behaviour in one of our neighbouring cities was better than in ours. They'd determined it was because the referees there were stricter about enforcing the proper dress code for players. Correctly coloured under-garments, for example.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfa54nrLq1d6kcxcXdocopI0ZDk-hsMgjULSVRuN2SDd9t9sjY4OBXc4VUtup-I8F2KeOyxCdF6wmmg4vSbxOf7Vn02grZBmwzcZRPgkKJ81JBTn6uQ1oQDzlfYtaX0gCENV5kwwU3VyP35yNXDpAlr63iKWCRni5CkW7KFs1uRPZOQMF281syOJM/s6000/IMG_3730.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfa54nrLq1d6kcxcXdocopI0ZDk-hsMgjULSVRuN2SDd9t9sjY4OBXc4VUtup-I8F2KeOyxCdF6wmmg4vSbxOf7Vn02grZBmwzcZRPgkKJ81JBTn6uQ1oQDzlfYtaX0gCENV5kwwU3VyP35yNXDpAlr63iKWCRni5CkW7KFs1uRPZOQMF281syOJM/s320/IMG_3730.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Post kick-off, pre-brawl (pic N. Lotze)</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>He was serious. "We need to stop moaning about how bad things are and concentrate more on the smaller details," he said, in the context of yet more threats and physical attacks in our youth and amateur leagues. The thinking (if you can call it that) was that if you show you're in charge right from the start, the players will have more respect for you. Rather than getting the impression, say, that you're a pernickety twat with delusions of Bundesliga.<br /><br />As it happens, I almost always insist on the correct dress code (yes, I can be a pernickety twat), although it's not an issue that comes up often. Sometimes, on a very cold day in a bottom-feeder league, I'll be lenient. Either way, it makes absolutely no difference to the low levels of respect accorded to me and my colleagues, in this city or the next one, or any of the other many one-pub towns and villages in between.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />There was some pushback from the reffing crowd at our instructor's brave new plan for better conduct, but he insisted that this was the correct way forward, re-stressing his point that we needed to stop moaning. Yet if this is the kind of flimsy and ill-considered initiative that's coming from above to counter all the disgraceful shit and disrespect we experience week in, week out, then our only respite is to belly-ache. Read on.<br /><br />At the weekend, I had two games that went well for the first hour or so, and which then imploded as though someone had raised a placard on the sideline that said <b><i>Start acting like twats NOW!</i></b> In both matches, there was a mass confrontation. In a boys' U19 game on Saturday evening - following a whiney bout of rowdiness that reminded me of a dozen nap-deprived four-year-olds disputing ownership of the last Jelly Baby in the bag - I brought the coaches on to the field to explain to their players that, if there was one more hint of bother then the match would be abandoned. Then I'd fuck off home and happily write the kind of disciplinary report that would see their teams banned for the rest of the season. <br /><br />After that, things stayed calm. I didn't book a single player after the stramash, and I didn't even mention the incident in my game report. Why bother wasting my time? I've written dozens of them, and they make no difference. The thought that someone might come back and ask, "Are you sure the players all had under-garments that matched the hem of their shorts?" likely helped me not to bother. It's like when your computer's down and the IT guy asks if you've tried switching it off and back on again. <br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvLkbqnc0UUajxS0t1UJxixK_qiT-IDYgCmK05rUR4B2OI2dQM910SgA19AlWMT3S0c5Z6E25haFo4kZX28kuWm9Lw1e5_cPjmb1_5mipva76cony5moBhzvGkOslCbX9Fa9OxXUQ11nwj3_KJs-3D7ZHqBWbYZqqmFwUU3Z0yyOqvIocJcVLa-uu/s6000/IMG_3769.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvLkbqnc0UUajxS0t1UJxixK_qiT-IDYgCmK05rUR4B2OI2dQM910SgA19AlWMT3S0c5Z6E25haFo4kZX28kuWm9Lw1e5_cPjmb1_5mipva76cony5moBhzvGkOslCbX9Fa9OxXUQ11nwj3_KJs-3D7ZHqBWbYZqqmFwUU3Z0yyOqvIocJcVLa-uu/w320-h213/IMG_3769.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>DOGSO? 0.5 seconds to decide... (pic: N. Lotze)</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>So, I dealt with the hormone-driven drama in my own way. The next day, the same thing happened, men's Level 9. Just like the night before, I don't even know what kicked it off - a shove behind my back, an insult I didn't hear, or a niggly foul that I missed. This time, I just stood and watched them. One common characteristic of mass confrontations on the football field is that they almost never lead to actual violence beyond shoving, shouting, and playground-inspired hysteria. After half a minute it degrades itself to a series of tell-tale grievances directed at me, about who allegedly said or did what and who deserves what punishment. <br /><br />Again, I showed no cards. I gave the impression of being completely detached, even though I was feeling highly stressed from keeping the lid on a tight, super-intense game. Which was being watched by a bellicose, beer-toting crowd of around 100 on a hot summer's afternoon, all offering their obstreperous takes on my every decision (weirdly, several of them came up to me at the end of the game and said, "Well reffed" - given that their team lost, a rare ray of sportsmanlike positivity). <br /><br />So, a standard, absolutely fucking exhausting weekend. A few yellows for outbreaks of crass and unnecessary dissent, and a few for kicking the ball away to waste time. A straight red card for a DOGSO. None of those yellows will stop players dissenting or kicking the ball away in the future. No one gives an airborne fuck about getting a yellow card. The players get to yell at the ref or act in a shitty, unsporting manner, the clubs pay the fines, the state FA rakes in the cash, and one of my reffing bosses insists, "Stop moaning, and start making sure the players' sleeves match their shirts."<br /><br />Dude, as long as your leadership sucks like a blood-starved leech, I'll moan to my dying whistle. And meanwhile, I'll find my own ways of regulating the endemic crappy conduct that none of our football institutions has the will or the imagination to even begin tackling. <br /><br /><b><i>Game 44:</i></b> 8-0 (no cards)<br /><i><b>Game 45:</b></i> 3-3 (6 x yellow)<br /><b><i>Game 46:</i></b> 1-2 (5 x yellow, 1 x red)</span><br /><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>My latest book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-45044428535170527922023-04-24T11:44:00.003+02:002023-04-24T14:11:00.747+02:00Did I make the right call? Yes. No. Maybe<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 42-43, 2022-23</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvz-pqjaMUlysuQWc_KRozgd57MtYyk7e04bQkeoinHnlwm26FZii-jY7D0d0zIXZozyvJOmj97fDtrHiCiCRz5jQMIoojtDh97uKqFV8Hf9zPXeMJ-9VIT0NQYkb6-oq7y5oJKjVkhbL35wHZMRDFhL0ZY5lcodahMW5KTsIa1f5_iF37uummzwpH/s640/altenmittlau3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="433" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvz-pqjaMUlysuQWc_KRozgd57MtYyk7e04bQkeoinHnlwm26FZii-jY7D0d0zIXZozyvJOmj97fDtrHiCiCRz5jQMIoojtDh97uKqFV8Hf9zPXeMJ-9VIT0NQYkb6-oq7y5oJKjVkhbL35wHZMRDFhL0ZY5lcodahMW5KTsIa1f5_iF37uummzwpH/s320/altenmittlau3.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>On Wednesday morning I get off a long-distance overnight flight, go home for a nap, then head out to the countryside to referee a level 8 men's game, all in the name of conquering jet-lag in a single day. I've been switched off refereeing for the best part of three weeks, so I figure that dropping myself in at the deep end without a life-jacket will be the best way to re-acclimatise to the norms of European amateur football. <br /><br />A chill wind beneath a deceptively bright evening sun host an encounter between a team struggling against relegation, and the unbeaten league leaders, fought out on a bumpy grass field that I measure, by foot, as a few metres longer than the regulation 110. Should I cite the rule book and order the home team to shorten the pitch by a few yards before kick-off? I'm sure that would go down well with the 150 or so spectators who have showed up. Much better to pretend that I never measured it in the first place.<br /><br />There's no time to ease myself back into reffing, as the two teams get stuck right in - to each other. There are almost no chances, but numerous fouls. <a href="http://refereetales.blogspot.com/2022/11/loud-arsehole-dad-captain-argument-and.html" target="_blank">The last time I reffed here it was 0-0</a>, and I wonder if I'm ever going to see a goal at this ground. Then in first-half injury time the home goalkeeper calls for and comes for a cross from a free-kick, but an away forward is there first with his head. The ball loops into the unguarded net, and the league leaders take an undeserved lead into the dressing room.<span><a name='more'></a></span> <br /><br />By this point, we've had just two cautions, an extremely lenient sanctions catalogue on my part. As well as all the free-kicks, I've also played advantage several times and ignored all complaints until I finally show a yellow for dissent just before the goal. It's intense and exhausting for everyone, and I'm half-hoping the away team extend its lead to take the punch out of the game. Instead, the hosts equalise just before the hour.<br /><br />The away team is running a live ticker of the game online. After announcing the conceded goal, the ticker states "CLEARLY OFFSIDE". Of course. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXGndWNLKZSTX6f7oN7pYoXQa32TdNAnord5ogZALMQm3eL1xJCXY1cpgAMP7hIOHvwC8ovKIaKRcUftkU0RA0bK44WJfohrHyRsM9VKeVqHZTN8Ie3EcCraZTYpXdfKRPzcyyY5LHe77NSwkTmZSFljBnIxnSgE_U-BjkDyB4qs1n2B7nkVMolyU/s640/altenmittlau4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="551" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXGndWNLKZSTX6f7oN7pYoXQa32TdNAnord5ogZALMQm3eL1xJCXY1cpgAMP7hIOHvwC8ovKIaKRcUftkU0RA0bK44WJfohrHyRsM9VKeVqHZTN8Ie3EcCraZTYpXdfKRPzcyyY5LHe77NSwkTmZSFljBnIxnSgE_U-BjkDyB4qs1n2B7nkVMolyU/s320/altenmittlau4.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>The game remains a foul-fest, and the yellow cards accumulate like bird shit on a clamped car. The staples: a yellow each for the two opposing players who square up and grab and growl like rival rogue raccoons flaunting themselves before a hot sow. The home team official who, when kindly asked to calm down, yells at me, "Then make the right calls!" Here's a right call - a yellow card for being a twat. As ever, the constant shouting and drama both on and off the field lays waste to the myth that males constitute the sole rational gender.<br /><br />The league leaders regain the lead on 85 minutes after another crass defensive error. The home team throws everything into attack, and I chug backwards and forwards as their opponents counter but fail to close the game. In the fifth minute of injury time, the home team's number 21 heads just wide from a free-kick, but he also connects with the head of the away team's captain. There's a loud appeal for a penalty. The away team player is on the ground and there's blood everywhere. After five minutes of treatment, he's carried off, an ambulance is called, and then I blow for full-time as soon as the goal-kick's taken.<br /><br />Even as he's lying on the ground, receiving treatment and crying in pain, a couple of home players are still badgering me about the imaginary penalty. They're shouted down by the away players pointing at their team-mate, and eventually humanity prevails. I see it as an unfortunate clash of heads. Though maybe I'm wrong. And maybe that home goal was offside. And maybe it doesn't matter, because all that's really important here is that the defender receives treatment and make a full recovery.<br /><br />Aside from all the dissent, fouls and histrionics, it's been a cracking game to ref, and I feel like I did okay overall - got the main calls right, and kept the game under control while running 5.7 miles on that massive pitch. I've borrowed a car to get to this one (it was impossible to make it home this late by bike and/or public transport), and so on the way back I listen to Bayern Munich against Manchester City. There's controversy over two handball decisions in the penalty area. The second time, VAR's involved. <br /><br />Did Europe's best referees make the right calls? Yes. No. Maybe.<br /><br /><b><i>Game 42</i></b>: 1-2 (11 x yellow)<br /><b><i>Game 43</i></b>: 2-5 (no cards)</span><br /><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>You can hear me talking about refereeing and my new book '</i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-style: italic;"><b>Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1650001/12250581" target="_blank">here</a>. It </span><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. Thank you!</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-82333887102164111102023-03-28T19:26:00.001+02:002023-04-24T10:17:45.587+02:00Another ref's struggle against the wind and the rage of 22 men<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 41, 2022-23</b><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I have a half-hour walk back to the train station after Sunday's game. It's finally stopped raining, but it's still blowing a shitter. I pass a grass football field that had been empty and quiet on my walk in a few hours earlier, but which is now hosting a bellicose men's game. The first thing I see is is the referee showing a red card to the home team's number 4. Mayhem immediately ensues.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtcAX3MoFiJlTkCYK-SEPI23leQaH9s_EzGhjYntu5V_9D8TgtkZXWSi3EflF1nDPwpacr6-z0rpXBLA4SP9ammEiooO7oFC7-NmGLz_r-20PAqEm59JEuRkajStWq0_DvYKOOeg-1sUVyvODvwSXT1be3VjKxkzYA9_CYeTDN15UTzW9UIt6q4BV/s610/mu%CC%88nster.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="610" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtcAX3MoFiJlTkCYK-SEPI23leQaH9s_EzGhjYntu5V_9D8TgtkZXWSi3EflF1nDPwpacr6-z0rpXBLA4SP9ammEiooO7oFC7-NmGLz_r-20PAqEm59JEuRkajStWq0_DvYKOOeg-1sUVyvODvwSXT1be3VjKxkzYA9_CYeTDN15UTzW9UIt6q4BV/s320/mu%CC%88nster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Needless to say, I stop to watch the drama. The referee is surrounded by the entire home team and their coaches, presumably pleading that he has made a dreadful error. The away team gets involved too, and there's a whole load of shouting and shoving. Then there's the usual slow infusion of reason and calm. It just takes a few minutes. The referee takes the number 4 to one side, and they have a long talk. The player stays on the field. The game resumes, and after clocking the dreadful quality, I continue my journey home.<br /><br />Of course, the referee caught in the middle of this turbulent stramash has my sympathies. At the same time, I'm reassured - as always when I witness such scenes - that it's not just me. That I am not the sole and personal cause of all the hot and bothered emotions at the games I officiate. That there really is a general malaise infecting our rotten sporting culture all the way down to the bottom of the game.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />And the game I briefly stopped to watch really was the dregs - Level 12 (Kreisliga D), which until I looked it up online I didn't even know existed. The game record shows that there was no red card. A 1-1 draw. One man in a yellow shirt against a fearsome wind on an open field, with 22 flawed human beings loudly and uselessly contesting possession of a single spherical object. As a species, we're probably still in the very early stages of evolution. <br /><br />My own game (Level 9) was okay, starting with the home club greeting me at the gate, seeing me to my changing room, explaining to me the mechanics of the day, providing me with a bottle of water, and offering me a post-game meal. Isn't it always like that, someone asked me when I tweeted my gratitude that same night? It should be, but it rarely is, even though it really doesn't require a huge amount of effort.<br /><br />There's a yellow for dissent after five minutes (the away team's number 5 somehow outraged that I've spotted his team-mate's filthy tackle), which keeps things fairly quiet for the rest of the first half. The visitors fall further behind in the second period, though, and this leads to the customary carping. "He's reffing against us," whines one player. Yeah, mate, I always choose a preferred team. Or is your defending just shit? The away fans and bench bellow at me time and again, but I let the high winds carry their wrath up and away into the universe and beyond. Somewhere in another galaxy in a billion years time, creatures on a distant planet will be baffled by faint cries of, "Referee! Offside! Two metres!" In German.<br /><br />At the final whistle, the player I'd cautioned for dissent is the only one on the away team to shake my hand. He even smiles. As I'm walking back towards the changing room, one of the vociferous away fans accidentally drops a €2 coin. He's too old to pick it up, so I bend down and do him the favour. He smiles too, and thanks me. See, there we go. The game's over, and we're all nice and human again.<br /><br /><b><i>Final score:</i></b> 5-2 (3 x yellow)<br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: helvetica;">You can hear me talking about refereeing and my new book '</i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-style: italic;"><b>Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1650001/12250581" target="_blank">here</a>. It </span><i style="font-family: helvetica;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. Thank you!</i></span></div><div><br /></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-40032634974247247712023-03-21T09:50:00.003+01:002023-03-21T09:53:22.446+01:00Book review and author interview: Ashley Hickson-Lovence<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Last week I had the pleasure of talking to the excellent up-and-coming novelist </span><b style="font-size: large;">Ashley Hickson-Lovence </b><span style="font-size: medium;">(pic. below), now published as a podcast at </span><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Halcyon Publishing</span></b></i><span style="font-size: medium;">'s website. You can listen to us </span><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/blogs/the-halcyon-podcast/reffing-hell-special" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">here</span></b></a><span style="font-size: medium;"> talking about our dual roles as writers and referees. </span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpX1TzF6GVASVR2z9HBJVwDC_k9B5Z2cbPM7KWRTXyAbSR9KF7mc_JKKiyXK7tI-nFTjAaE1eo0wzyBXi2XPglv5aWQTjthB-PePbhozoB3nwurNosyupwrJcUrZNIdmmeG-33nbKK48QZYtvS9absFySO3YIitRiGlUvWWGcOCKV229d6EqQvBt2C/s233/AHL.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="216" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpX1TzF6GVASVR2z9HBJVwDC_k9B5Z2cbPM7KWRTXyAbSR9KF7mc_JKKiyXK7tI-nFTjAaE1eo0wzyBXi2XPglv5aWQTjthB-PePbhozoB3nwurNosyupwrJcUrZNIdmmeG-33nbKK48QZYtvS9absFySO3YIitRiGlUvWWGcOCKV229d6EqQvBt2C/s1600/AHL.jpeg" width="216" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">His superb novel </span><b style="font-size: large;">Your Show</b><span style="font-size: medium;">, narrated through the eyes of the English Premier League's first (and so far only) black referee, </span><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Uriah Rennie</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;">, has just come out in paperback. Last year, I reviewed the book for </span><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Soccer America</span></i><span style="font-size: medium;"> and interviewed Ashley by e-mail. The results are re-printed below (with the kind permission of </span><i><a href="http://socceramerica.com" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: medium;">Soccer America</span></a><span style="font-size: medium;">)</span></i><span style="font-size: medium;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Your-Show-Ashley-Hickson-Lovence/dp/0571366805/ref=sr_1_1?crid=VWBGVKM6ILBM&keywords=your+show+ashley+hickson&qid=1679387337&sprefix=your+show+%2Caps%2C103&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><u>Your Show</u> </a></b><i style="font-weight: bold;">by Ashley Hickson-Lovence </i>(Faber & Faber)</span><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">How many autobiographies written by professional referees have you read? How many can you even name? I've read books by the English refs <b>Mark Halsey</b> and <b>Paul Durkin</b>, but they were self-serving and threw sparse light on the game of soccer or the art of officiating. There was a decent effort by German ref <b>Patrick Ittrich</b> a couple of years ago, but I honestly can't recall much about it. When it comes to producing readable literature, referees tend to fall into the same trap as players - settling scores no one else cares about, and offering points of view that come nowhere close to touching on the revolutionary overhaul that the game or its laws really require.<br /><br />The young British novelist <b>Ashley Hickson-Lovence</b> (himself a former referee) has taken a different approach to writing about the life of <b>Uriah 'Uri' Rennie</b>, the first and so far only black referee in the Premier League. With Rennie's co-operation (see Q&A below), he's narrated the referee's life from the 'you' perspective. He picks up on all the pressures and tension of top-flight officiating, and nails the contradictions that come with being a lone neutral in between two sets of motivated professional athletes poised to exploit the slightest perception of weakness. The book's title comes from a stadium announcer at Preston North End who, at the start of the second half of a game Rennie was refereeing, told the crowd with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Welcome back to the Uriah Rennie show!"<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />Here's a typical passage: on the point of taking charge of Newcastle v Manchester United in 1996, the narrator questions himself. "Power hungry? Maybe, subconsciously. But you just like doing what's right, being a force for good and keeping people and positions in check." What really comes across is the personality of the referee, but only as it pertains to his career in soccer - focused, fit and borderline obsessive. There are telling childhood passages focusing on Rennie's arrival in rainy Sheffield from sun-kissed Jamaica, but as an adult there are only passing mentions of his family, his job, his faith and outside interests. One of the book's strengths is its relentless spotlight not just on refereeing, but also on one black man's fight for recognition in a heavily white field.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_SlEYkT6nBgktl9s50iqXnTx4jUBmypAubvEPLlTPkDK6dX8vvtnzT8D7Y17g8ebGYFWtxgQ4g2wOrpd0yY7wwA_b95EBkJ8Oe1L2SzQCa2AimkoKaH8xG-qf83dlQQ1TJoGHuJKKmmOypYq0hXEjbcGi9Er5ps8Rmhf4PZILtlPY4OwXPe7OhRH/s2622/Your%20Show%20cover.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2622" data-original-width="1627" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_SlEYkT6nBgktl9s50iqXnTx4jUBmypAubvEPLlTPkDK6dX8vvtnzT8D7Y17g8ebGYFWtxgQ4g2wOrpd0yY7wwA_b95EBkJ8Oe1L2SzQCa2AimkoKaH8xG-qf83dlQQ1TJoGHuJKKmmOypYq0hXEjbcGi9Er5ps8Rmhf4PZILtlPY4OwXPe7OhRH/s320/Your%20Show%20cover.jpeg" width="199" /></a></div>Those refereeing contradictions come up time and again. You want to stay unnoticed, but you also crave praise. You want to know that you did a good job, and that both teams were happy with you. But when both teams are happy with you, no one's paying you much notice. You did your job. When you send off <b>Alan Shearer</b> or <b>Alex Ferguson</b>, though, you'll certainly attract the attention, and none of it's good. And all you did was your job, as the narrator tells us over again: "You say what you saw and laws are laws." Newcastle fans never forgot that Rennie once red-carded Shearer. They claimed for years that the referee was biased against their team, although the subsequent results and the penalties awarded in Newcastle's favour do not in any way bear this out.<br /><br />"You're a big black history-maker from Jamaica telling some of the best footballers in the world to behave themselves," the narrator tells us during his first season in the Premier League. "Communication has been key. Not just what you say, but the 'non-verbals' too. The words unsaid, the loaded silences and such. The spaces in between. A stone-faced stare, a tilt of the head, a raised eyebrow, a strong hand. The Premiership moves too fast to stop and chat to every player every other minute." Welcome to the inside of a referee's head, conveying what it's actually like to be in the middle of the game.<br /><br />Rennie is demoted from the EPL after two seasons, and it's not really clear why. Is it because he's showing too many cards? Or is there another reason? Is he just too good a referee for the English FA to handle? Or is there another reason? "You apply the laws as you see them." Has he ruffled too many feathers by sending off a player like Alan Shearer, by being fearless in the face of Manchester United's snarling, hectoring captain <b>Roy Keane</b>, or the known referee-baiter Alex Ferguson? Years later, the pundits on social media laud him as one of the best. Yet he was never given an FA Cup final, the peak game he wanted so badly to crown his career.<br /><br />"They say the best referee is one you don't really see, but everyone notices you, Uri, you're hard to miss. To many still, you are a black referee, when all you want to be is a referee who happens to be black." In 2001, he's re-promoted as one of the EPL's 21 new professional referees. One of his gifts is in not always sticking to the laws - he physically holds back Keane from hitting <b>Jason McAteer</b> during a Sunderland v Manchester United game because he knows there's bad history between the two. Keane later elbows McAteer deliberately and is sent off anyway. Rennie takes criticism but also praise for having tried to prevent the combustible player's inevitable violence.<br /><br />"I never talk about Uriah Rennie," former Newcastle coach <b>Kevin Keegan</b> is quoted as saying, "except to say I don't like him as a referee - never have, never will, end of story." That's some exception. Our narrator tells us: "Referees do not come ready-made or pre-programmed. If only more people understood that shattering a referee's confidence is no good for anyone."<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPo2xOPVSZb4rnZePIZEmjN8SHERurLuhXocT2cEdi6Sb1OIFYbOwmE8_jM_bG9RbATao0d6WHnSovFA8kVqXv27qbEWY-FrKlnGAGDhW0ogjh4ACLWObCB8p5MAGeEAqnxfePdIdXNIZTPfiVgwklo6d8Rb9uWpCmCg1FrLOA5cQjvzRHkbGErJdV/s500/damned%20united.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="318" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPo2xOPVSZb4rnZePIZEmjN8SHERurLuhXocT2cEdi6Sb1OIFYbOwmE8_jM_bG9RbATao0d6WHnSovFA8kVqXv27qbEWY-FrKlnGAGDhW0ogjh4ACLWObCB8p5MAGeEAqnxfePdIdXNIZTPfiVgwklo6d8Rb9uWpCmCg1FrLOA5cQjvzRHkbGErJdV/s320/damned%20united.jpeg" width="204" /></a></div>If you love football, you will love this book. If you loved <b>David Peace</b>'s <i>The Damned United</i>, you will love this book, which takes its cue from the latter's style-sheet: "You travel the miles, run your diagonals, brandish the cards. You reel through the pre-match instructions, eat up the yards, eat up your post-match meal, then drive home after another job well done." This rhythmic repetition fits right into the routines of a referee - the way they move, and the way their thoughts flood and flow before, during and after a game.<br /><br />"Are you shit, or are you just doing your job?" the narrator asks. "Are you a cheat, or are you just doing your job? Are you a blind bastard, or are you just a human being doing your job?" These are the questions we referees often ask ourselves, and we don't always settle on a positive. That's the paradox of a profession which - like every other profession - can never be perfectly executed, but where there will always be far too many people eager to offer their ill-informed and superfluous critiques. In terms of portraying the life, times and thoughts of one very important and unique referee, however, this novel really has done a fantastic job.<br /><br /><b><u>Q&A with Your Show author Ashley Hickson-Lovence</u></b><br /><br /><i><b>IP</b>: In </i>Your Show<i>, you as a fictional narrator take on the voice of a living person, Uriah Rennie. What challenges did that present you with, both in terms of writing and research?</i><br /><br /><b>AHL:</b> There were a few challenges but challenges that were ultimately quite fun to try to overcome. I wanted to do Uriah’s story justice for those aware of him already and offer an engaging and illuminating depiction of a Black man from Jamaica wanting to be the best for those who didn’t. It was important to get the voice right of course and that’s why I chose to write in second person (“You”) because I felt quite uncomfortable with the idea of people thinking that this was an autobiography if I used the first person “I”. I like the intensity of the “You” too, the pressure it puts the reader under in certain parts in the book, just like a top-flight referee with a big decision to make.<br /><br />That said, this needed to be a novel that appeals to both football fans and those not so enamoured by the beautiful game, so I had to get the balance right: not too literary, stuffy and inaccessible, not too much discombobulating football action. Even though I think I achieved this for most part, hopefully, I also know this won’t be a book for everyone because everybody’s tastes are different; I think it’s important to accept that early doors as an author... it’s a bit like being a referee, you can’t please everybody.<br /><br /><i><b>IP:</b> This book is so much more than your standard referee’s memoir/biography/autobiography. How did Uriah Rennie react to your suggestion of presenting his life story this way, and what did he make of the results?<br /></i><br /><b>AHL:</b> Agree, this is a novel. When Uriah ‘Uri’ and I first met in late 2018, I think he probably needed a little convincing at first but once I explained my wider aims for <i>Your Show</i> and that ultimately it was part of my PhD in Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia, he agreed to allow me to interview him properly, which I did three or four different times up in Sheffield. I reiterated that I wasn’t a journalist wanting to write an expose but a novelist with an original novel idea. Ultimately, and this was an aim agreed between us, I hope <i>Your Show</i> inspires football fans of colour and/or from marginalised backgrounds to take up the whistle using Uriah’s unfinished story as inspiration to make it to the very top. Based on our regular-ish correspondence on the phone and via WhatsApp, I think he has said enough to suggest he likes what I have come up with which is a mighty relief in all honesty.<br /><br /><i><b>IP:</b> There’s a contradiction at the heart of the book - as referees, we want to go about our work unnoticed. At the same time, we crave praise and recognition for the job we do. The narrator comes across as someone who is dedicated, professional, ambitious and focused, but also quite stubborn (“You saw what you saw…”). Given how little personal detail we’re given about the narrator’s adult life outside of refereeing, was the idea to present only the hardened public persona of a referee who’s had to fight against the odds to get where he did?</i><br /><br /><b>AHL: </b>I deliberately wanted to depict the complex dichotomy of being a football referee. As the figure in the middle, you don’t want to be centre of attention, but when you have a big, potentially game-changing decision to make – a red card, or a penalty or twenty-two-man mass brawl, it’s hard to get out of the way. In all honesty, in my opinion, to be a good referee, you have to have a little something about you, a little cocksure, a touch egotistical, let’s face it, most of the players certainly are. The version of Uriah I have fashioned in <i>Your Show</i> is a very complex character which is a good thing I think. Adds a sense of three-dimensionality to his character that makes him an absorbing protagonist which is good because he’s one of only two characters really in the book (the other being Alan Shearer).<br /><br /><i><b>IP:</b> Reading between the lines, Uriah Rennie was denied an FA Cup final because of his skin colour. Do you agree?</i><br /><br /><b>AHL: </b>In my research, I certainly think he was as good as, if not better, than many of the referees, his white colleagues, who were appointed to the once-in-a-career showpiece final. I don’t think the colour of his skin was the only factor at play, but was certainly a significant marker, I’m in no doubt about it. Things are changing though, I really believe that, and I’m sure it won’t be long before we see another Black referee in the middle in the Premier League, and then hopefully, refereeing the FA Cup Final.<br /><br /><i><b>IP:</b> You thank the author David Peace in the acknowledgments, and I noticed a certain rhythm to your prose that reminded me of Peace’s </i>The Damned United<i> (a great book) and </i>Red or Dead <i>(which I put down after 40 pages). I thought your repetitious, semi-poetic prose style greatly suited the routines and mental thought processes of a referee. How much of an influence did Peace have on this book?</i><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOopSZuVaDkOylifPqfPTqapu4XFaKH7Zs-arLsCx-aZv3E3HMpAyhUW7Ul9N4ale7ijw0LLIAnfSuBVvTMmIZkmFXigtAASzQnJkf6XZocZudWJRvKJh_V0-fDJeO9IvS4gPLrKSHSpW6GHatGU8IbtweO5Xy7T54vVKuxHVjRw8Upjj_bU-zd1zd/s600/rennie%20and%20shearer.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOopSZuVaDkOylifPqfPTqapu4XFaKH7Zs-arLsCx-aZv3E3HMpAyhUW7Ul9N4ale7ijw0LLIAnfSuBVvTMmIZkmFXigtAASzQnJkf6XZocZudWJRvKJh_V0-fDJeO9IvS4gPLrKSHSpW6GHatGU8IbtweO5Xy7T54vVKuxHVjRw8Upjj_bU-zd1zd/s320/rennie%20and%20shearer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>AHL:</b> Pretty massive to be honest. I think <i>The Damned United</i> is the best football novel I’ve ever read. It’s emotive, sensory, poetic, mesmerising, everything I wanted Your Show to be. I wanted to stick more closely to the truth with <i>Your Show</i>, because Uri and many of his referee colleagues and players he refereed are still alive, I felt I had an ethical responsibility to not stray too far away from the facts. That sounds restrictive but it really wasn’t, it was a relief. It meant that I could have more fun with the technical stuff, the poetry of the words, how the lines sound aloud, all the bits of storytelling I love as a novelist who loves writing and performing poetry. In writing prose, I am obsessed by the melodies, the pace, the cadence, the music, the rhythms and riffs of novel-writing.<br /><br /><i><b>IP:</b> I loved the narrator's ongoing encounters with Alan Shearer. Did you try and hit him up for a cover quote?<br /></i><br /><b>AHL:</b> I would really love to send him a copy of <i>Your Show</i>, in a very playful and creative way (and inspired by the fractious portrayal of <b>Brian Clough</b> and <b>Don Revie</b> in <i>The Damned United</i>), I wanted to dispel any idea of any kind of feud between them or vendetta or anything like that. I think, and hope, Mr Shearer might quite like Your Show. Do you have his address?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Your-Show-Ashley-Hickson-Lovence/dp/0571366805/ref=sr_1_1?crid=VWBGVKM6ILBM&keywords=your+show+ashley+hickson&qid=1679387337&sprefix=your+show+%2Caps%2C103&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><b><i>Buy </i>Your Show<i> by Ashley Hickson-Lovence here</i></b></a>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" target="_blank"><b><i>Buy </i>Reffing Hell<i> by Ian Plenderleith here.</i></b></a></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-43721971148384273462023-03-14T05:57:00.001+01:002023-03-14T05:57:25.383+01:00Have I had a bad game? Or was I just made to feel that way?<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 40, 2022-23</b><br /><br />It's one of those days for the home team. With five minutes to go, they're six goals in arrears. Following a scramble from a corner kick, they have a looping shot headed off the line by an away team defender. They appeal loudly for the goal, but without technology or an assistant on the touchline, there is absolutely no way to tell if the ball was fully over the line or not. I wave play on. The away team launch a smart counter-attack and, 20 seconds later, it's 0-7 instead of 1-6.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_kBOg-11EmswXeVS5d5EaP2vOu2Gz4y1rDROIhiVSfhDIDKoxhjDSzqmbrU8L1vKye_Tq3o3jMuu8BdshXv3ZQN3dwRlg96XY4VWytPEBKRgVbQpwB0xhnhhsUIXOU66c6p7YbLHHkcnRsTpovV5Jg0TjeotswhZkvMkMvBHbwQqjK_48ku-jeja/s644/ball%20over%20line.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="644" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_kBOg-11EmswXeVS5d5EaP2vOu2Gz4y1rDROIhiVSfhDIDKoxhjDSzqmbrU8L1vKye_Tq3o3jMuu8BdshXv3ZQN3dwRlg96XY4VWytPEBKRgVbQpwB0xhnhhsUIXOU66c6p7YbLHHkcnRsTpovV5Jg0TjeotswhZkvMkMvBHbwQqjK_48ku-jeja/s320/ball%20over%20line.png" width="320" /></a></div>It's safe to say that the home team is no fan of me as a referee. In the first half, they complain bitterly that the visitors' second goal should be cancelled out due to an offside in the build-up. "Two meters!" they claim, like this exact measurement backs up their case. It's always that massive two meters, to emphasis my total wrongness. They would never say it was offside "by at least a centimetre". Absolute conviction must batter all doubt when addressing the clueless ref. <br /><br />The home team's coach is also having trouble with my calls. When his defender lunges into a straight-legged tackle right in front of the home bench, I whistle for a free-kick, despite the defender having won the ball while nailing the man. The coach is predictably incensed and raves away until I appeal for him to calm down. "CALM? WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?" he barks. That means you get to see this plastic yellow rectangle held up before your eyes. It's clinically proven to induce calm.<span><a name='more'></a></span> <br /><br />There are two more yellows for dissent - one on each team - during a fractious first half. The players can't believe they are not allowed to bellow their lengthy opinions in my face. One of them has a go at me after he's fouled, and I play advantage. The advantage doesn't accrue, and so I call play back for the foul. A matter of one second, at most. Even when I explain this to the fouled player, he won't let off moaning, despite having got the damned free-kick. Here, have one of my calming cards of caution. <br /><br />At half-time, the home coach still wants to talk about why his defender did not commit a foul when he went into a tackle with a straight leg and his studs to the fore. I explain it again. It doesn't help. "Well, maybe today you just got a shit ref," I say. "I didn't say you were a shit ref," he replies. "I know you didn't. But I'm saying, maybe today you got one." I'm sounding impatient and vaguely unhinged (which I can be - it's not just the players), and this works in warning him off.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmseEJxqkgeHxx-RRn8nFS2kqRwqpiQXn73RWzmHivBNsDusFuF5bsddvaLCoO26I8OVHJ8iTufr_fAh64vT2LBGnuZvzsD9v5waWeqm_b-UFykOA71IbpMLR_mpONA9zzfWEsEx9vKmd7RXWnc6IcunBuAJomRX8b05ceGwkOvxUybEg6qW7DH3q/s1600/diving.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1091" data-original-width="1600" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmseEJxqkgeHxx-RRn8nFS2kqRwqpiQXn73RWzmHivBNsDusFuF5bsddvaLCoO26I8OVHJ8iTufr_fAh64vT2LBGnuZvzsD9v5waWeqm_b-UFykOA71IbpMLR_mpONA9zzfWEsEx9vKmd7RXWnc6IcunBuAJomRX8b05ceGwkOvxUybEg6qW7DH3q/s320/diving.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>In the second-half, at 0-4, a home team forward rounds the keeper and then goes down with a defender challenging. No contact, and there's only a loud appeal from the home players, but nothing at all from the by now possibly embarrassed home crowd - they are all standing about 10 meters above field height, so have a good view of the game. Afterwards, someone in the bar stops me to ask, "Shouldn't that have been a yellow and an indirect free-kick for the dive?" No doubt, I say, but with the scoreline as it was, I just let play continue to avoid any more grief from the home team. I call it: aggro management.<br /><br />I walk away from the ground feeling that I've had a miserable game, simply because that's the way the home team has made me feel. At the train station, which is a 20-minute walk from the ground, a spectator recognises me and we start to talk. He's the father of one of the players on the away team, and comes to support his son every weekend, no matter where the team's playing. They're pushing for promotion to the seventh level (today's win takes them second), and he tells me that the club's more than ready to take the next step.<br /><br />Which player was your son, I ask? The number 22, he says. You cautioned him! Ah, he was unlucky, I say - it was his first foul. But there had been a whole series of fouls beforehand from various team-mates, so I told him he was taking one for the team. Persistent foul play. Absolutely in order, says my new friend. When I tell him I feel that I had a bad game, he counters that I managed it really well, and was absolutely correct on all the major decisions, including the 'offside' goal and the ball that didn't cross the line. One or two minor errors, he adds with a shrug, but that's standard in a game without assistants. (This is good news. I mean, who wants to be perfect?)<br /><br />It does me good to talk to someone sane. He also tells me that he used to play level-3 football around 30 years ago, and we talk about what's changed in the game to make the disrespect so toxic and universal. "It's everywhere," he says, "not just in football." He works in the legal field, and has seen several cases brought against individuals for assaulting referees. <br /><br />By the time we part ways, we've talked for almost an hour, and my mood has completely changed from 'ready to pack it in yet again' to 'seems I had an okay game after all'. If only there was post-match therapy every week with a level-headed observer. <br /><br /><b><i>Final score:</i></b> 0-7 (6 x yellow)<br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>You can hear me talking about refereeing and my new book '</i><span style="font-style: italic;"><b>Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><a href="https://www.buzzsprout.com/1650001/12250581" target="_blank">here</a>. It </span><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. Thank you!</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-5859371995772303652023-03-06T15:02:00.001+01:002023-03-06T15:02:30.319+01:00When referees don't help their own cause<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 39, 2022-23</b><br /><br />Before we get to Game 39, let's wind back a day to the girls' U14 team that I coach, playing in a 7-a-side league. It's almost always very sporting and low stress, which is what I love about it. The referee is about my age, very chatty and friendly. The girls take an instant liking to his approach. He notes their first names down on his game card, so that he can address any issues with them on an informal basis. They've taken off all their jewelry - ear-rings, necklaces and bracelets - and placed them in the valuables bag with their smartphones. One of the girls on the other team has her ear-rings taped over, which is specifically mentioned in the rules as not being permitted, but no one here needs an arsehole to point this out, and frankly I don't give a shit.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QE4LROPfvgROmkKuEywCRKQDjTGYttSsWwzGIPTNSX2NYX_Bdc1pwSyuKVA6CJxDeAl7SVInkL-BpZOs8QGFv2aO6DYcWPI2koYca5SoBTZU8W_aKMJhFX_hXZ--HIKY8QunbFtS19KcTIXybEowokxj1113cv04CYK1myFjcVK7efEjVMqeic0K/s251/barcelet2.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QE4LROPfvgROmkKuEywCRKQDjTGYttSsWwzGIPTNSX2NYX_Bdc1pwSyuKVA6CJxDeAl7SVInkL-BpZOs8QGFv2aO6DYcWPI2koYca5SoBTZU8W_aKMJhFX_hXZ--HIKY8QunbFtS19KcTIXybEowokxj1113cv04CYK1myFjcVK7efEjVMqeic0K/w160-h200/barcelet2.jpeg" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Dangerous jewelry...</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>At the end of the half-time interval we are all chatting cosily with the ref (despite us being 5-0 down) when he notices that one of my players hasn't removed a wafer-thin string bracelet that had been concealed by her long-sleeved under-armour - she'd simply overlooked it. No problem, she removes it straightaway, even though it's impossible that such an item would have caused an injury. And then, our super-friendly ref does something that we take a second to register. He takes out his yellow card and brandishes it with a stiffened arm right in front of the 14-year-old sinner. Ha ha, very funny! This ref's a hoot! Except he's one hundred per cent serious, and - exhibiting a strange transformation in his hitherto genial personality - tells us in no uncertain terms why he "has to" give this card, because it says so in the rules, and then he gets all shirty when I try to gently disagree. Eventually, I turn my back on him to stop myself from raising my voice into pompous 'I'm a referee too!' territory.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />And of course it doesn't say so in the rules, and our referee doesn't "have to" issue a caution. It should only be a yellow card if a player "refuses to comply or wears the item again". Indeed, I notice later that the ref omits the card from his game report, perhaps realising that his reaction had been way over-the-top, and completely out of place in a league like this. But sometimes, it's really no wonder so many members of the public think that referees are twats. We don't always help our own cause. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sKNdANziGnC_vWLvhHtTb4miUPHFEZjp4oDOg5MsvEK_AwfKH_7M8bDWb_dvSrglV1Cf_EsjN8R0Mf4DDycK24F9cx4xNtUWWrtMb6ZREt5R3RmKEUJlrthdX3IsJiNxvRccjPTSpMBRdtGj4OKPTfhpDCSLFsEniiR27jVZbNJT20hzYW8NcaEl/s284/LOTG.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sKNdANziGnC_vWLvhHtTb4miUPHFEZjp4oDOg5MsvEK_AwfKH_7M8bDWb_dvSrglV1Cf_EsjN8R0Mf4DDycK24F9cx4xNtUWWrtMb6ZREt5R3RmKEUJlrthdX3IsJiNxvRccjPTSpMBRdtGj4OKPTfhpDCSLFsEniiR27jVZbNJT20hzYW8NcaEl/s1600/LOTG.jpeg" width="284" /></a></div>Oh, and though he rescinds the card in the game report, he adds a note saying that I need to take a test on football's rules. Dude... I think about emailing the league director so he can inform my colleague that of the 18 tests I've taken since the start of last season, my average score is 98.6%. But the refs in my chat group talk me down and tell me to get over it, which is sound advice, especially now that I've spewed the story out on here instead. (But there's a little bit of a twat in all of us, I'm sure - it's somehow important to me that you know the above statistic regarding my knowledge of the Laws of the Game.)<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Anyway, on to Sunday's game. I get a call a few days before - the game will be taking place under the auspices of the state FA. The away team has been involved in more than a few violent incidents, leading to heavy fines and multiple player bans. The home team also does not consist entirely of white-robed entities with wings descending from the heavens and harmonising on their harps. Each team has hung its national flag on a pole (home) and on their bench (away). In case they were in any danger of forgetting where they come from.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5Dcw1qat6pewRfIigUXiA2ygpQaPR3LSs2GSLNpGEtO6Syce2-6X2RPxE5jF983-jpYTP79MhH1k0UgDV3WW5oVWZ6YZqV7UtmeRaz8HOuvHWR9npYlNdm4MqJzjNPfZVfd7hv4Ck5RHEZFK8fATPalRK9WeeB67WfFnOQw3mXjh2cVG5s8MO88u/s300/angels.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5Dcw1qat6pewRfIigUXiA2ygpQaPR3LSs2GSLNpGEtO6Syce2-6X2RPxE5jF983-jpYTP79MhH1k0UgDV3WW5oVWZ6YZqV7UtmeRaz8HOuvHWR9npYlNdm4MqJzjNPfZVfd7hv4Ck5RHEZFK8fATPalRK9WeeB67WfFnOQw3mXjh2cVG5s8MO88u/s1600/angels.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The home team lines up...</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>What follows, though, is a standard level-9 game full of the usual noise about offside, fouls followed by instant drama (there are <i>so</i> many near-death experiences in just 90 minutes), and players wanting to know if they can please ask me a question. Please, no, I'd rather you didn't. At half-time, as we wait for the away team to come back out, it's the home team's number 7. "First, I have a question for you," I say. "Why are you always offside?" His team-mates all laugh - in fact, I'd heard them complaining among themselves about this as they left the field at the end of the first half. The number 7 takes it well. But his question was rather about a penalty call that never came when he claims that he was tripped in the box.<br /><br />"I didn't see a foul," I say. "Plus, you went down with a lot of drama. On the other hand, I might have made a mistake. If I did, then sorry." This diffuses any lingering bad feeling about the call, as always, and in the second half the home team barely moan at all after getting two cautions for dissent in the first. It helps that they are way in front, but there are a couple of nice moments of sportsmanship when they admit having touched the ball, giving their opponents a throw-in and a corner kick respectively.<br /><br />The away team, meanwhile, are doing their utmost to constrain what have presumably become habitually explosive tempers. When one player starts to yell, a team-mate quickly intervenes, and there are collective calls for 'Calm, calm!' every time there's a threatened escalation. Late in the second half, one of them even begs me to give his wittering team-mate a yellow (the usual fierce debate about a throw-in), but it's 6-0 by then and there's not long to play, so I laugh it off and let it go. That is an absolute first, though. Maybe if I'd been the ref from my girls' game, I'd have given the first player a yellow for asking for the yellow. "It's in the rules!"<br /><br />"What did you think?" the FA rep asks me at the final whistle. <br />"There were some difficulties from both teams in accepting my decisions," I say, "especially in the first half." We look at each other for a short second and both start laughing. He'd told me earlier that he's a referee himself, with 34 years of experience.<br />"So, an absolutely normal game?" We both agree. Does 'normal' make the high levels of fouling, noise and general exaggerated drama okay? The question seems almost moot by now. In men's football, there are simply no quiet games any more. None at all. The rule of thumb seems to be that as long as no one got thumped, then the game went well.<br /><br /><b><i>Final score</i></b>: 6-0 (6 x yellow)</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>My new book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. Thank you!</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-41842599888356466252023-02-27T09:51:00.001+01:002023-02-27T09:52:21.622+01:00"We shoulda had a penalty!" Or, maybe not<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 38, 2022-23</b><br /><br />The home side is 2-0 up and dominating this level 8 men's relegation fight when, a few minutes before half-time, the away team launches a long ball forward. Their striker is running on to the ball as it bounces into the home team's penalty area, but a defender is running beside him. The two go shoulder-to-shoulder as they challenge for the ball. The forward goes down, and the defender clears his lines.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRSr7rIz5uYwhFypkw2M5iWJlCIvM7xRPHLAapzQJMDAXebxlV1YX2nRJnqzmTo3CEgNdMjC3-CFUOcCUa4HpMJZ0BNIO8GfPrTZAuiIzwqEiwLwDGdy3NvQjOprJJi43-su7ndKeLLnd2bpFEOwQyQX-GDaYuKCVKZMZXRTMkROIlERS_ySlnnveT/s602/shoulder.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="602" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRSr7rIz5uYwhFypkw2M5iWJlCIvM7xRPHLAapzQJMDAXebxlV1YX2nRJnqzmTo3CEgNdMjC3-CFUOcCUa4HpMJZ0BNIO8GfPrTZAuiIzwqEiwLwDGdy3NvQjOprJJi43-su7ndKeLLnd2bpFEOwQyQX-GDaYuKCVKZMZXRTMkROIlERS_ySlnnveT/s320/shoulder.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>"Penalty!" chorus the away team, and their bench, and their supporters too. I wave play on and shut out the noise around me. Both of these teams are big on the drama, throwing themselves to ground with cries for attention like lachrymose weans aching for motherly love. There's already been a Major Incident when a (possibly) accidental hand to an opponent's face was treated like an attempted murder by the away team, even as the perpetrator apologised at length. The victim kept his face covered for the longest time until it was clear that there was going to be no red card, just a caution. When he took his hands away from his face to expose the brutality of the apparent attack, he was unscarred, unscathed, and very much alive and able to continue the game.<br /><br />Back to that non-penalty. At half-time I have to pass the small gaggle of away supporters. "Shoulda been a penalty!" says someone in very loud and pointed tones as I make my way to the dressing-room, acting the deaf man (not hard for me, given my hearing impairment).<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />It's an odd game. The away team finally pull a goal back with just over 20 minutes to go, and then can't stop scoring. The home team's suddenly knackered and completely out of contention, aside from half-heartedly appealing for offside on a couple of the goals. Two of their players keep begging me to whistle for full-time. I decline, but tell them they're quite welcome to leave early if they want to.<br /><br />One of the away fans comes on to the field at the final whistle to shake my hand. "Pretty well reffed," he say. Er, thanks, I guess. "You know, we all gave you a hard time about that incident in the first half in the penalty area." Hmmm. "But then our striker told us at half-time that you made the right call, that it definitely wasn't a penalty."<br /><br />Well, re-write the <b>Book of Revelations!</b> You mean, despite all your caterwauling, it turns out that the referee with 15 years of experience made the right decision? Who would have thought that a qualified official, fit enough to be well-positioned and with a perfect sight-line of the incident, might actually make a neutral, correct call that some partisan bampots on the touchline had seen through the hurt-tinted spectacles of a 2-0 deficit?<br /><br />Still, I'm grateful for the apology. He didn't have to seek me out. Unlike the away team's coach, who - while his side are in arrears - suffers several conduct breakdowns that I ignore until I'm right in front of the away bench in the 53rd minute. A throw-in. I give it one way, he sees it differently, prompting a Nagelsmann-style tantrum. "You need to keep calm over here," I say. "Then referee the game properly!" he yells. No problem, mate. Here's a yellow card for dissent. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-b0Lo-Z_ju2klnPbDH27zU9_hRMmrIieG7aboz80CkIVr5ER8AP9dHmMfPxlU2SBpfZBQSz3JxnWlSj4C2baTJlYcEi8ESoip4VaU0T-oTsSnWpFe9AE1y5F8cf8PeJs5DW6hBmfy8g2OQNV99kTL4VGj-Xv_3Lmh5pnzvwpsB9EZNf7R65EjrhpY/s976/nagelsmann.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="976" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-b0Lo-Z_ju2klnPbDH27zU9_hRMmrIieG7aboz80CkIVr5ER8AP9dHmMfPxlU2SBpfZBQSz3JxnWlSj4C2baTJlYcEi8ESoip4VaU0T-oTsSnWpFe9AE1y5F8cf8PeJs5DW6hBmfy8g2OQNV99kTL4VGj-Xv_3Lmh5pnzvwpsB9EZNf7R65EjrhpY/s320/nagelsmann.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>That was his seventh yellow of the season, on top of a straight-red dismissal. A few minutes later, he takes his little gloves off and throws them down on to the plastic pitch (they make no sound) while launching a mood missile about some other sporting micro-incident. There's no need for further punishment, though, given that he's already humiliating himself in full public view.<br /><br />Then, as his team starts to pile in the goals, his manners return. It's a remarkable transformation. "Referee, we need to make a substitution, please." How about you substitute your personality with someone who's not a chronic arsehole harbouring severe emotional control issues about throw-ins during football matches?<br /><br />Despite the bone-chilling wind, the gaggle of flapping drama chickens and their obstreperous hysteria, plus the almost compulsive fouling, I manage to enjoy the game. The bloke who pays me can no more explain the home team's sudden collapse than I can. They're second bottom now and several points from safety. Do I want something to eat and drink? There's a nice looking stew on the go, but nearly everyone's fucked off home already thanks to both the weather and the result. I thank him for the offer, which is genuinely appreciated, and which is always made by this particular team (unlike many others). But I need to cycle home and meditate under a hot shower. <br /><br /><b><i>Final score</i></b>: 2-7 (8 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)<br /></span><div><br /></div><div><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">My new book '</i><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large; font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. Thank you!</i></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-38223274498744952472023-02-20T10:38:00.002+01:002023-02-20T10:42:17.555+01:00We are all doomed to Level 11. Get used to it<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 35-37, 2022-23<br /></b><br />A busy weekend with three games in three days, and plenty going on. Two good, enjoyable matches (both men's league games), and one absolute shit-show (boys' U19 friendly). Some new situations, and lots of the same old crap, mainly moaning about offside decisions. <br /><br /><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_2RmBlTxyCKbM7KVOBDJDfXL6x8adyaCLmoflTqROdcqe6Zd3Svr7scZlNw6gJ71KBNRLncQK8B8-_jsbkfi6xoVk9ZdVq55CvqU1Pg-m-nba3wb0Yw3xmrtgFTt99SUbDrgzfkiXW0KiFUB4PIyoodLRQd6v8C-TO5OrixbpdLLmz5iAI-cvFXq/s743/Posavina%20II%20v%20Ethio%20Addis.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="743" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_2RmBlTxyCKbM7KVOBDJDfXL6x8adyaCLmoflTqROdcqe6Zd3Svr7scZlNw6gJ71KBNRLncQK8B8-_jsbkfi6xoVk9ZdVq55CvqU1Pg-m-nba3wb0Yw3xmrtgFTt99SUbDrgzfkiXW0KiFUB4PIyoodLRQd6v8C-TO5OrixbpdLLmz5iAI-cvFXq/s320/Posavina%20II%20v%20Ethio%20Addis.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Friday night lights (pic: Helmut Güsten)</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>FRIDAY:<br />Players not knowing the rules, Part 1</b><br />During the first half of this Level 10 game, a home team defender comes up with the standard passive-aggressive, "Referee, I have a question." I ignore him, but he complains anyway. When the guests just re-started the game from the centre spot after conceding a goal, they played the ball forwards! At half-time I seek him out and mention his complaint. "You have to watch out for that," he tells me. Why, I said? Since when has it been against the rules to play the ball forward from a kick-off? Oh, he replies, his indignant and confrontational attitude now replaced with mild surprise. Is it allowed?<br /><br /><b>Offside, Part 1</b><br />As we're coming out for the second half the home team players mention in refreshingly friendly tones that the goal they conceded in the first half should have been annulled for offside because an opponent was directly in front of the keeper, blocking his view. In retrospect, I tell them that I think they have a point, although the keeper would never have saved the ball even if he'd had a full view of it. "That one's on me," I say, and they laugh. It helps that they're 3-1 up, but the courtesy and the absence of any malice is a big plus.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br /><b>Players not knowing the rules, Part 2</b><br />Same team. I play advantage for their opponents, but there's a strong wind that carries the next through-pass out of play. I call play back for the free-kick and the left back is incensed. "How many seconds are you playing advantage?" he demands. "A few," I reply. It couldn't have been more than five. And anyway, it's at my discretion, not the outraged full-back's.<br /><br /><b>SATURDAY:</b></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>"We love you, ref!"</b><br />I've just coached my girl's team at our home ground and am about to leave when I'm stopped by an official of the men's team set to play a level 11 game on the same field. The ref hasn't turned up, can I do the game? I'm a bit knackered from the night before (due to a public transport strike I'd walked there and back, four miles each way), but agree to do it anyway. But I don't have any kit or equipment. I borrow a weird little tin whistle from a fellow coach, a spare yellow from the ref who's just done my girls' game, and use my supermarket loyalty card as a red. I show it to the captains - "If you see this, you're not getting bonus points from REWE, it means you're getting sent off." We laugh, because at the start of the game at least they all love this ref for having helped them out at the last second.<br /><br /><b>Offside, Part 2</b><br />The massive centre back on the away team has another tantrum about a non-offside call. I go up to him and attempt an alternative to showing a yellow card.<br /><b><i>Me:</i></b> Have you ever played in a league with linesmen?<br /><b><i>Colossal centre half: </i></b>Yes.<br /><b><i>Me:</i></b> So have I. It was great. They saw everything and got all the decisions right. But now we're all doomed to <i>Kreisliga C</i> [Level 11], so get used to it.<br />Later, he yells at me again because he thinks he was fouled at a corner kick. This time he gets the yellow, but not the supermarket card, which stays in my pocket until I pick up some potatoes, broccoli and eggs on the way home. <br /><br /><b>Comparing leagues and levels</b><br />This is a standard moan when you whistle someone for a foul - that this is a man's game, not an afternoon with toddlers on the Bouncy Castle. "This isn't the U15s!" screams the away team's angry number 8 when I pull him up for a very clear trip. Too right, mate. In the U15s they don't whine like little babies when you blow for a free-kick. Have a yellow. <br /><br /><b>Early cramps, belated gratitude</b><br />An away team forward goes down with calf cramp after just 37 minutes, even though that includes a spell when he was subbed out. "Cramp, already?" I ask. His team-mate, who's stretching the player's leg as he lies on the ground, says, "It's because he spends most of his life on holiday." His team-mate is not as amused as we are.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> At the final whistle, four players - two from each team - walk directly past me on their way off the field. "You're welcome," I say. Two of them, from the home team, turn around in surprise and thank me and shake my hand - they look aghast at having ignored me. Ah, that's okay. No handshake from the colossal centre half. <br /><br /><b>SUNDAY<br />Self-doubt on a Sunday</b><br />It's Carnival Weekend. I'm cycling through the wind and the rain at midday, as usual wondering, "Why?" Three games in three days at my age. And I know that the club I'm going to is one of the city's worst. Who's the fool today? <br /><br /><b>The customary cauldron of ugliness</b><br />Sure enough, it's the usual 90-minute nightmare of fouling, yelling, moaning and complete disrespect.<br /><br /><b>Players not knowing the rules, Part 3</b><br />In the second half, with the score at 2-2, a defender clamps his arms around a forward in a crowded penalty area and stops him running on to the high ball just crossed from a free-kick. It's not the first time I've seen him doing it. He's so outraged at the penalty call, he pushes me (lightly) on the shoulder. A team-mate pulls him back, I send him out for five minutes (lenient - a straight red would have been justified). After the game, the player approaches me as I'm waiting outside my locked changing room door.<br /><b><i>Arsehole: </i></b>Why did you give that penalty?<br /><b><i>Me: </i></b>Because you had your arms wrapped around an opponent. And you're lucky you didn't get a red for pushing me.<br /><b><i>Arsehole:</i></b> That was never a penalty. Why did you give a penalty?<br />Two parents and his coach then lead him away even as he continues bellyaching. No one else from the club speaks to me - no apology, no thanks (as if!), but it's better that way. I file the game report in my changing room, slip out to my bike and disappear without any more drama. On the way home, I see numerous groups of people in carnival costume having a good time. I need some advice on that front.<br /><br />The one good thing is that I'm so used to games like this by now, I no longer let them ruin my weekend. <br /><br /><b><i>Game 35:</i></b> 6-2 (4 x yellow)<br /><b><i>Game 36:</i></b> 2-3 (2 x yellow)<br /><b><i>Game 37:</i></b> 2-3 (6 x yellow, 4 x time-penalty)<br /></span><br /><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">My new book '</i><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large; font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. Thank you!</i><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-7719021441146189042023-02-06T22:05:00.001+01:002023-02-06T22:05:31.240+01:00"You should quit refereeing"<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 33-34, 2022-23</b><br /><br />"You should quit refereeing." The advice comes from a 17-year-old central defender at the end of a game where his team has lost by eight goals. He'd also been dismissed for his third bookable offence, having picked up a yellow card for dissent, a five-minute time penalty for a serious foul, and then a yellow-red card for upending an opponent in the penalty area just three minutes after returning to the field. So you can see why he'd want me to hang up my whistle. His football career would surely be advancing much quicker if referees would only wave play on every time he yells at them or kicks an opponent.<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYoYdlEv8qGQ24dPnOPTTuSQmPtxw4EDQSj7Utyd4b70zFOpuELrydQQ4vOraqYuo6L78CvGZq66mJ19qcn7Pp7tuKsy4-G8PR9rTSyONhZpcmGCn5MqCq4KeKO6pgQnwPWVsTi8_m2ugK2Pf4CG1jVWONtf_eVuoxYOVpGc-yrf8bYwOhxmDvNpws/s6000/IMG_3831.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYoYdlEv8qGQ24dPnOPTTuSQmPtxw4EDQSj7Utyd4b70zFOpuELrydQQ4vOraqYuo6L78CvGZq66mJ19qcn7Pp7tuKsy4-G8PR9rTSyONhZpcmGCn5MqCq4KeKO6pgQnwPWVsTi8_m2ugK2Pf4CG1jVWONtf_eVuoxYOVpGc-yrf8bYwOhxmDvNpws/s320/IMG_3831.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Ref, if I could just give you some advice..."</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table>That was the U19 game on a Saturday evening. The next morning, under a cold and depressing rain, I'm back out refereeing an U17 match. There are three yellow cards in the first six minutes:<br /><br />1' The home team's number 8 takes out an opponent with the game's very first tackle. Me (loudly): "Are you off your head? That's not how we're playing the game here today."<br /><br />4' The away team's number 17 in central defence fouls the same forward twice in two minutes after he's been out-dribbled. "Two fouls already," I call out as I brandish the card. He doesn't foul again.<br /><br />6' The away team's number 9 is tripped, but when the home player apologises and offers him a hand up, the number 9 squares up to him instead. Time for another short lecture, and a yellow for unsportsmanlike conduct. He can't believe it, of course. <b><i>He</i></b> was the one who was fouled.<span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br />After that, there's only a single, second-half caution for dissent, a short rant in my direction after a disputed corner kick/goal kick, which ends with the German equivalent of 'dude' ('Diggah'). Dude, I'm not your diggah. Now, your team's 3-0 down, why don't you focus on doing something about that instead? <br /><br />This game's marginally more enjoyable, because the two teams mostly try to play football after the early yellows, and there are no more baby-macho face-offs. I also play a classic advantage on the home team's first goal, but despite my 'assist' I don't join in the celebrations. Maybe I should have, because no player turns around to say, "Great advantage there, diggah!" <br /><br />There's still a surfeit of moaning from both teams, mainly about offside decisions. In the second half, the home team scores and the away team for once doesn't even appeal for offside - but there's only one defender in front of the last attacker, and it's not the keeper, who's far out of his goal and on the floor. There's predictable outrage from the home team when I whistle, and even a quick explanation makes no difference (why do I waste my breath?). One minute later, they score a legitimate goal and my shockingly correct application of the laws is already forgotten.<br /><br />How do I react to the defender's suggestion the previous evening about hanging up the whistle? I pat him on the back and suggest that perhaps his own performance today was not exactly world class. "Yeah, yeah," he says, and that's the end of the conversation. Although at least he doesn't call me 'diggah'. (A refereeing colleague suggested I should just have responded with the word '12' - the number of goals his team conceded.)<br /><br />"That was an unpleasant game," points out the home team's assistant coach as he pays me, despite his team having been the clear winners. I agree that it was absolutely no fun at all - not just one-sided, but nasty and temperamental on the part of their opponents, although much of their anger was confined to yelling at each other. Their entire team spirit was sealed inside a disinfectant capsule at the bottom of the First Aid kit.<br /><br />So, we're back to competing for points at the bottom end of the city's youth leagues, and that continues to be a loud, stressful and pleasure-free zone for most concerned. Remind me again why we play sport? Oh yes, so we can blame the referee when we lose. <br /><br /><b><i>Game 33:</i></b> 12-4 (6 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty, 1 x red)<br /><b><i>Game 32:</i></b> 8-1 (4 x yellow)</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>My new book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-4501190195397345082023-01-30T15:28:00.000+01:002023-01-30T15:28:07.418+01:00Two good games trigger the same old optimism...<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Games 31-32, 2022-23</b><br /><br />Taking a long break from work is usually a good thing, and that applies to refereeing as well. <a href="http://refereetales.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-dread-in-my-head.html" target="_blank"><b>The Dread</b></a> from six weeks ago is gone, and I can't explain really where it came from and how it's disappeared again. It's still as cold as it was back in December, and the skies are just as discouraging, but now there's a feeling that soon it will be February, and then we can say, "Next month, it's spring..." It helped that I had two almost perfect games to start off the second half of the season.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQtoztAcZd-wWCH-k833FNtBUnUxLs_CHDD11YUYLZXzAqyk-C-siUBh8BHgkxGAnWLR2xMfSfqlhgCQqvLt-2kLgPJn8sNN8U0aw5Ue93SPrcP0e9j8t1n_PTx7z168eB0LemP8jwmzIcp3XLAXLoZYZYJKBR_lD8Sbj29bTjW1TwDO-aGGg42lw/s227/Camus.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="170" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQtoztAcZd-wWCH-k833FNtBUnUxLs_CHDD11YUYLZXzAqyk-C-siUBh8BHgkxGAnWLR2xMfSfqlhgCQqvLt-2kLgPJn8sNN8U0aw5Ue93SPrcP0e9j8t1n_PTx7z168eB0LemP8jwmzIcp3XLAXLoZYZYJKBR_lD8Sbj29bTjW1TwDO-aGGg42lw/s1600/Camus.jpeg" width="170" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>"Everything I learnt about the <br />morality and obligations of man..."</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Here's how an amateur football game should play out. It should be hard, fast and intense, and the players should be serious enough about winning. There are fouls and a couple of flash-points, but the referee is on top of things to keep everyone calm, even those whose tempers flicker or flare. Offside decisions, and their inherent fallibility, are broadly accepted. At the end of the game, everyone shakes hands, and the coaches and players from both teams thank you for coming out on such a cold afternoon.<br /><br />That's how these two matches played out. True, they were friendlies, but the archive of this blog alone proves that the 'friendly' label is like a sticker saying 'refreshing and child-safe' on a bottle of absinthe. But both encounters were immensely enjoyable to ref. Which means that there's not much to write about here besides standard stuff like the odd moan or two, a minor scrap, and a couple of nasty fouls. And for that I'm really grateful. <br /><br />There is nothing I'd love more than to mothball this blog and sign off on it as a historical document reflecting a past age when sportsmanship was in the bin. A time when barely a week passed without me either doubting myself as a competent match official, or questioning the purpose of football as a mass recreational weekend pastime aimed at promoting health and generating pleasure. <br /><br />It will take more than two successive quiet afternoons to confine my keyboard to the attic, I fear. Again, previous blog entries testify to my occasional bouts of naive optimism following a few games that were mainly incident-free. And they often come at the start of a season or just after the winter break, when teams possibly re-set and resolve to take a new approach to the game. A more sporting, more focused approach. Just like many of us start the New Year swearing off alcohol and rummaging in the drawer for our gym membership card. <br /><br />And yet, without that optimism, there would be no point in showing up at all. "Why does man, sensing the absurdity of existence, simply not commit suicide?" was the existentialist question that drove the writings of <b>Albert Camus</b>. You could say that this blog asks the question, "Why do players (and referees), sensing the absurdity of sporting endeavour, simply not quit the game and spend their weekends reading Albert Camus instead?"<br /><br />Because then I wouldn't have experienced a coach whose team had just lost 4-0 coming up to thank me and saying that I had an excellent game. Just seconds after I was needlessly thinking, "Oh, fuck, the coach whose team has just lost 4-0 is walking right towards me." Try not to forget that traumatic days will be balanced out by rewarding games. Cling on to the faith, or stay at home.<br /><br /><b><i>Game 31:</i></b> 1-4 (1 x yellow)<br /><b><i>Game 32:</i></b> 4-0 (4 x yellow)</span><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>My new book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9039548307416034143.post-52458065453425241012023-01-09T13:05:00.004+01:002023-01-09T14:28:22.389+01:00The dread in my head<span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Game 30, 2022-23</b><br /><br />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.<br /><br />It shouldn’t be what you feel when you’re on your way to referee a game of amateur football. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALIJXxMFS09jStBHyDVTmIbfHfDsckJjvwT9tNeeg5oBoORW-HX1ScP2Yc1OX9_MS-dHvmyq-E8j4RE_eoKPz8FJHx7eKLD9l46xpzV_MxAMJa8Pz7YV9LP4s0Y2fQ5GdIXbl8RFXJoSjCL2QmLRbMM9I0PnqRweoykyUWwhmP-tKEKXxMV0BzZaL/s300/dread.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="300" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALIJXxMFS09jStBHyDVTmIbfHfDsckJjvwT9tNeeg5oBoORW-HX1ScP2Yc1OX9_MS-dHvmyq-E8j4RE_eoKPz8FJHx7eKLD9l46xpzV_MxAMJa8Pz7YV9LP4s0Y2fQ5GdIXbl8RFXJoSjCL2QmLRbMM9I0PnqRweoykyUWwhmP-tKEKXxMV0BzZaL/s1600/dread.webp" width="300" /></a></div>There’s nothing special about this game. It does not involve difficult clubs that I’ve had a bad experience with in the past. There’s nothing in the Fair Play table to suggest that this game will be any more or less fraught than any other game I’ve ever taken at Level 8. There’s been no warning from a colleague about an especially explosive coach or a gobby captain. There is no rational foundation to my dread. Nonetheless, it’s there. All morning.<br /><br />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. <span><a name='more'></a></span><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzdYYZ_fi020fDGzvh2VbXKeTkYF6dthhoXXx9lxM3DqeOBsXF5Zx1XAf26TDEh0T48Z671YZF6Qoj22MeRkDismRyJdYtafCBwXQZ45GzLa5r7ovKciYx5w2182Qknr0M6d0AH3xX4_bM7wx39OZ-dhAhHfLBmQhMftCtuJ2Eq9oz4RK32aA3Cnc/s1200/dissent%20yellow.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzdYYZ_fi020fDGzvh2VbXKeTkYF6dthhoXXx9lxM3DqeOBsXF5Zx1XAf26TDEh0T48Z671YZF6Qoj22MeRkDismRyJdYtafCBwXQZ45GzLa5r7ovKciYx5w2182Qknr0M6d0AH3xX4_bM7wx39OZ-dhAhHfLBmQhMftCtuJ2Eq9oz4RK32aA3Cnc/s320/dissent%20yellow.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“No, it wasn’t,” I reply. But I doubt that cogent perspective will have persuaded him to change his view. <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><b>Final score:</b> 2-1 (4 x yellow)<br /><br /><i>My new book '</i><b style="font-style: italic;">Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' </b><i>documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please </i><a href="https://halcyonpublishing.co.uk/collections/frontpage/products/reffing-hell-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-game-gone-wrong"><i>buy a copy direct from </i><b>Halcyon</b></a><i> if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.</i></span><div><br /></div></div>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0