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.
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.
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.
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.
