"We shoulda had a penalty!" Or, maybe not

Game 38, 2022-23

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.

"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.

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).

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.

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."

Well, re-write the Book of Revelations! 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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

Final score: 2-7 (8 x yellow, 1 x time-penalty)

My new book 'Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please buy a copy direct from Halcyon if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing. Thank you!