He's back! Oh Danny boy, I love you so...

Game 22, 2020-21

I get a call at 4pm. Can I referee a men's game at 8? It's raining and cold and it's almost November, and I'd planned to be on the sofa watching Rangers v Lech Poznan in the Europa League. I know, the wild life I lead. But I say yes because I'm useless at saying no. After I hang up, I get the e-mail and I see the teams, and there I see his name. He's listed as a substitute, assistant coach and team manager for the away side. Oh joy, oh joy, it's my lovely Danny boy.

 

Missing this, but later
 sharing the same emotion

I haven't seen Danny since I sent him off in The Game From Hell last year. For that he received a three-month ban. The time before that when I dismissed him, he was fined €150. Also in the line-up tonight are four players from that U19 line-up he was coaching, including the player red-carded for head-butting an opponent in the gut, and the defender who came in to my changing room to put a two-cent coin on my table in lieu of full payment (I've still not been paid for the game). Tonight they are all standing outside the changing room when I arrive and break into exasperated laughter when they see me. Good to know they haven't forgotten that game either.

As I did at the weekend, I speak to both trainers about the need for absolute peace on the field, and that I will call off the game if a single player screams anywhere close to my face. At the toss-up, I check with both captains that the teams have got the message. They have. Off we go.

Those lads who were so bolshie, macho and aggressive in the U19s are remarkably quiet now that they are playing with men, not boys. They are also getting spanked. By half-time they are 4-1 down, troubling the scoreboard only thanks to a clumsy own goal from the home team. So, at half-time, three players are subbed out. Danny's time has come to turn the game around as a striker...

Buffalos, Baby Bulls and Headless Geese - Gegenpressing in the Amateur Game

Games 27-30, 2019-20

As teams warm up for the resumption of competitive league play, there's a rash of men's friendlies as the players try to get back into shape following the winter break. Many coaches seem to have spent their weeks away from the sideline studying the masters, and have decided that the best way to approach the second half of the season is with a spanking new tactical system they ripped off an Internet Chalkboard of Football Wisdom.

Gegenpressing

In practice, this currently means following the vogue for Pressing and Gegenpressing. Game pattern: for the first five minutes, let the opposition pass the ball around the back four. Next 40 minutes, yell "Pressure!" and send the forwards and midfield into hectic spoiler mode. There follow about 600 changes of possession, and almost as many fouls, as decidedly amateur players attempt to implement The Klopp Doctrine. Instead of looking like European champions, though, the teams look like decapitated geese in the farm yard after the puddles have frozen overnight. It's not so much Kick and Rush as Chicken Rush...

Justice, mayhem and two very quiet games

Games 5-6, 2019-20

First, some news: I heard from a fellow referee over the weekend that 'Danny', the coach sent off during The Game From Hell at the end of last season, has been suspended. He didn't know for how long, though my personal hope is that it's a life ban valid across the entire EU. "Every referee in the city knows him," says the young ref, who's registered at Danny's club. It's reassuring to know it wasn't totally personal.

'Friends of Sport' line up
for Saturday's reserve game.

In other events, the reserve team of the club whose name translates as 'Friends of Sport' yesterday played the reserves of the club I belong to. Four of their players were red-carded, as well as the head coach. His assistant then physically attacked the referee. The game was suspended.

I referee the 'Friends of Sport' U15s the day before, and they are absolutely fine, although they're on the right end of a hammering, which always helps. I speak with both teams beforehand in their changing rooms while checking their passes. "If I make a shit decision, and it might happen, still keep your opinions to yourselves, please." Most of them smile at the instruction, they're not yet quite full-on teenage moody-mouths.

I also talk individually with each coach and ask them not to yell at me, rather to save any questions about decisions for the interval, or after the game. "I do get emotional," confesses the home team's coach. "Me too," I reply. "But not when I'm at the football pitch." His emotions remain in check, though, and after the game he thanks me sincerely for a good game, despite the result.

On Sunday it's back to the amateur men's league on another hopelessly hot afternoon. It turns into quite a well-played, well-balanced game. At 1-1 in stoppage time, the away team's forward breaks clear through on goal, but he was already a yard offside when the ball was played. "Never, never was that offside!" cries the hulking centre-back from 30 yards further back. But it was. The score stays 1-1, and this heart-ripping protest plea is the only time anyone objects to a call during the course of the afternoon. 

So, the first two league games, and just one yellow card. In some parts of town, sanity's broken out. A club elder seeks me out to shake my hand and compliment me on a good afternoon's work. I'll repeat what I've said before - such simple gestures of gratitude mean the absolute world to referees. Don't be shy about being decent.

Game 5: 1-8 (no cards)

Game 6: 1-1 (1 x yellow)

Want to read more? Click here to order Reffing Hell: Stuck In The Middle Of A Game Gone Wrong by Ian Plenderleith (Halcyon Publishing), published on August 8, 2022. 

The Game from Hell

Games 31-32, 2018-19

The home team is coached by an old friend of this blog, 'Danny'. I intuit before the game that it's not going to be a quiet afternoon. When Danny's on the touchline, it never is. When we met in March I let him get to me. Today I resolve to remain absolutely calm, no matter how much shit this U19 match-up propels in my direction. By the end of the afternoon, I'm indeed in fecal heaven.

The game kicks off.

The away coach tells me before the game that when the two teams met earlier this season, Danny hounded and intimidated the young referee throughout the game. It's the same story I've heard now from three other coaches in this league. Just to recap, it's over three years since Danny and I sat in front of a disciplinary panel and he was fined €150 and told they didn't want to see his face there again. Yet to no one's surprise he's still here, a malignant cancerous growth on the city's already diseased amateur football scene. 

I gather all four coaches in the centre circle to remind them of the punishment process for irresponsible behaviour. First warning, then the second and final warning, followed by dismissal. They all nod, except for Danny. "Did you get that, Danny?" He gives a token gesture of the head, but I can't read his expression - he's wearing reflective sun-glasses to go with his hipster beard, giving off the usual air of 'I don't give a fuck'.

Neither do the teams, who go at each other right from the off. There are obviously numerous scores waiting to be settled from the first game...

Anger, dissent and a mass brawl - another night out with the Reserves

Game 18, 2018-19

Nice smooth surface on a beautiful
spring night - we'll soon fuck that shit up.

Good news for pedlars of anger - supplies are still running high. There is absolutely no shortage.  In fact, anger levels seem to be going through the shattered glass skylight. As I wrote in my game report, "For the away team, I recommend an immediate and urgent course of fury control therapy." I'm absolutely sure they will take my advice.

A relegation battle in the League of ragged Reserves, football's abandoned grave-pit where you will find only the cluttered, dehydrated bones of the game's sporting values. Too old? Play in the Reserves. No discipline? We'll drop you down to the stiffs. No fucking use at all? We'll call you when we're short, on a Thursday night at the butt-end of another failed season... 

Like Groundhog Day without the punchlines

Game 17, 2018-19

It's been a year or two since I last encountered 'Danny', the city's loudest youth coach, and when I saw his name on the team-sheet of the away team for a U19 game last weekend I wasn't exactly leaping through the air and pumping my fists at the thought of an emotional reunion. Still, everyone has the opportunity to change. Although in the times we'd met since I was a witness three years ago to him receiving a fat fine and a heavy warning from the disciplinary panel for unacceptable behaviour on the touchline, he hadn't changed one bit. 

"Hey, Danny - great to see you again!"

Sure enough, Danny has coached a team in his model image. Right from the start they foul their opponents, and then complain loudly when I whistle. They are backed up by Danny on the touchline, who screams, "Referee!" every single time. It's an obvious ploy to intimidate both their opponents and the ref. By half-time they have three yellow cards - one for foul play and two for dissent. I've spoken to Danny twice and given him his first two warnings of the afternoon. Does he listen and shut up? Does he fuck. 

Danny, the new darling of discipline!

Games 18-19, 2017-18

In Saturday's U15 game, I swear I didn't make a single mistake, although the conditions were perfect - bright sunlight on an artificial field in a league of above average quality. Even the coaches on the team that lost 8-0 said, "Well reffed," although when games are this one-sided the intensity takes a dive. You're relieved at the hassle-free game, but you also think, "Well, I'm not going to remember this one in a week's time."

The fat, the thin and the knackered - back in
the reserves (Pic: Westfälische Nachrichten)

On Sunday it's back to the familiar proving grounds of the city's reserves leagues. The men who only play for fun, but never seem to be having any. The average, the bad and the hopeless. The unsightly, the unfit and the sporadically unhinged. Speaking of whom, there on the bench as substitute and assistant coach of the home team is my old friend Danny, whose antics on the touchline at a youth team game early last year earned him an ordering off from me, and a fine of €150 from a disciplinary hearing. Along with a stern verdict from the jury that they didn't want to see his sorry, scrawny ass ever again.

"New club, Danny?" I ask as he hands me the player passes. "What happened - did your old team finally kick you out?"

The creeping melancholy of the mid-winter break

Game 29, 2016-17

It's just before midday and 45 minutes before kick-off. I'm waiting outside the locked changing rooms with players from both teams, and nobody seems to know who's got the key. "We had our Christmas party last night," a bleary-looking player from the home team tells me apologetically. "It went on until 5.30." A couple of his team-mates manage a tired, knowing smile. They're almost bottom of the table, with 14 points. The visitors are top, with 46. No one's expecting any shocks today.

Almost clean sheet - players too
hungover to argue? 

The home team represents Sunday football in all its glory - hopelessly disorganized and severely affected by last night's alcohol. Late arrivals dribble in looking pale and fragile, then once out on the pitch chug around like dysfunctional steam trains clanking between randomly programmed lower gears. The ball seems to be permanently just out of their control, as though it's being manipulated remotely by a snickering deity with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than taunt hangover-prone amateur sportsmen. Somehow they hold out for 20 minutes until the league leaders finally go one-nil up.

The hosts do have one good player, though - a grey-haired but slim number 10 who controls their game...

"Oh shut up Danny, you twat"

Game 1, 2016-17

I recognise the away team's striker. Let's call him Danny. We last saw each other three months back at a disciplinary panel hearing. A few weeks before that, I'd sent him off while he was coaching a youth team because he wouldn't shut his mouth. 

The tales start here...

You're supposed to give a coach two verbal warnings for "irresponsible behaviour" (that is, "being a twat"), and then the third time you order him off. I'd given Danny four clear warnings because I genuinely don't like sending anyone off, player or coach, but he didn't take any notice - he still kept yelling at me for every perceived injustice against his team. The disciplinary panel landed him with a three-figure fine. It wasn't his first offence, and they said that if they saw him again he'd receive a lengthy ban.

And yet now, Danny and I greet each other like old friends. We shake hands. "How's it going, how was your summer?" Back in April, outside the disciplinary panel hearing as we'd waited for the verdict - and just a few minutes after he'd basically accused me of being a liar - we chatted about football like we were old mates down at the pub. Now, just before a pre-season friendly, we're all smiles and small-talk...