Dark times: shitty behaviour, Part 379

Games 18-22, 2023-24

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.

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."

It's almost routine - a red card for violent conduct in a youth game

Game 32-33, 2019-20

"If the poor, insulted mothers only knew how many fights they were responsible for instigating on the football fields of Germany every weekend..." So began one of my paragraphs in the disciplinary report that followed Sunday's U17 boys game. 

Call someone a 'bastard', and they might get shirty, but they don't scream, "Are you saying my mum and dad weren't married when I was born?" Call someone a wanker and they might be pissed off, but they don't get right in your face and yell, "Are you implying that I indulge in acts of self-gratification? ARE YOU?" Yet call someone a son of a whore, and they immediately think that you are insulting their mother and freak out in her defence. This insult is apparently personal in a way that being a bastard or a wanker is not. I'm not saying any of these terms are acceptable on the football field (they're not), but this last one really seems to set the place on fire...

The Mouthy Pensioner, 'Your Mother' insults, and "It's still 0-0!"

Game 13, 2018-19

There were some regular features in last night's game that anyone who plays or refs in local leagues will instantly recognise. Let's take it from the top:

A coach, yesterday.

* Pre-match - the coach who hasn't got his player passes ready. It's like listening to a scruffy schoolboy explain why he hasn't done his homework. "They're in my car," he says. Well, could he go and fetch them, please? "I'm parked way over on the other side of the ground! There are only ten minutes to kick-off - can't I give them to you at half-time?" No, I want them now, otherwise we don't start the game. "But I'm an old man!" Then send a young substitute with your car key and I'm sure we'll have them in no time. Eventually I get them, and they've not even been chewed by the dog.

* 'Your mother' insults. It's been a while since I've had one of these staples of the amateur game. The away team's number 8 is chasing down the home team's right-back, who successfully shepherds the ball out of play for a goal-kick. Out of nowhere, the number 8 aggressively squares up to him and I go over to separate the two. "He insulted my mother!" whines the number 8...

"Let them know you're pissed off!" A Ref's Guide to Anger Management

Game 14, 2017-18

I'm faced with anger almost every game, and the general idea is that I, as the referee, must remain a steady rock of calm amid a thunderous sea of foaming fury. Yet there are times when it pays to show that you are, at the very least, mildly irritated. Here's my guide to anger management while refereeing:

The bloody huddle: for
 Christ's sake, get on with it.

1. Before the game. Both teams should have signed off on their final line-ups half an hour before kick-off, and the home side must produce a print-out of the teams for me to check against their player passes. This happens maybe once or twice a season. Upon arrival I always introduce myself to both coaches with a smile and a handshake, but I become less genial the closer we are to kick off and the coaches are still faffing around with passes and mobile phones. Less than 15 minutes before kick-off, I become exasperated. And if it turns out I can't check the passes until half-time then I pass into 'stern lecture' mode to let the wayward coach know I've already marked his card as incompetent.

2. Just before kick-off. You know the scene. Hands shaken, coins tossed, we're ready to start, but one of the teams has hunched into a huddle for a doubtless inspiring last-minute speech from the captain...

Yellow leaves, yellow cards, mellow fruits and the smell of weed

Game 20, 2016-17

Yet again it's a gorgeously warm weekend, despite the first yellow notes of autumn. My game's south of the city, across the river and then five miles through the forest. The whole world's out doing normal Sunday afternoon things. Couples cross the foot bridge holding hands, on their way to an art gallery or a museum. Others lie by the water, reading books, unpacking picnics, drinking a beer. In the woods, people are dog-walking, bird-watching, horse-riding.

Where John Keats might suggest spending
 Sunday afternoons (with a fat joint).  

The strong smell of weed hits me before I see two young men finishing off a joint and flipping the tab end away. That's something else I wouldn't mind doing on a day like this. But hang on a minute, I'm already at the ground, and these young men are walking in there too, just ahead of me. One of them stretches out his arms and runs on to the field like an aeroplane. His friend laughs and then they make their way towards the away team's changing room. Well, maybe today's game will be all relaxed and mellow fruitfulness.

Yeah, right. It only takes 13 minutes before the first histrionics...

Fights, fouls and insulting the goalkeeper's mum - must be a friendly

Game 2, 2016-17

We're just about to kick off when I notice that at least half of the home team are not wearing shin-guards. I turn around and look at the away team. Same thing. No, it's not an under-7s game. These are all adult men. Though sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

Everyone's ready to go, it's very hot, and it's only a pre-season friendly. I hadn't bothered checking the players' equipment because, for adult games, everyone usually knows the rules. So I point out the all-round lack of protective leg gear. "Ah, come on," says one player. "We all know each other - it's going to be very laid back." With an uneasy feeling, I start the game.

Be sure your shin will find you out...

Ten minutes later I stop it and order all the players who don't have shin-guards to put them on. The tackles are going in thick and hard. This is about as laid back as Jürgen Klopp barefoot on a hot tin roof. One player has already limped off with an ankle injury. I can picture health insurance companies suing me on behalf of their client and his triple shin fracture, while my refereeing overlords will wonder why on earth I overlooked such a basic law. I will be banished for five years to the pre-adolescent leagues, kicking off on Sundays at 8am...