Another weekend of managing mass confrontations

Games 44-46, 2022-23

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.

Post kick-off, pre-brawl (pic N. Lotze)

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.

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.

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.

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 Start acting like twats NOW! 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.

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.

DOGSO? 0.5 seconds to decide... (pic: N. Lotze)

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.

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).

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."

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.

Game 44: 8-0 (no cards)
Game 45: 3-3 (6 x yellow)
Game 46: 1-2 (5 x yellow, 1 x red)

My latest 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.