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."

When a Dad comes marching towards you after the final whistle...

Games 43-45, 2021-22

Yep, we know.

Here comes Dad. As I walk towards my changing room at the end of a very competitive boys' U13 game, I go for the direct route - avoiding the open gate where the bellicose, over-motivated parents are still gathered, and opting to duck under the fence instead. But Dad is in the midst of a determined and purposeful stride, and unless I break into an undignified trot, he's going to cut me off before I reach the changing room door. I've certainly nothing to run away from, so let's have it, Dad, what's on your tiny little mind?

"Can you give me an explanation why you gave our number 3 a five-minute time penalty?" That sounds like a reasonable request on paper, but the hectoring tone, I already know, means that Dad won't be happy with the explanation, he just wants to Have His Say.

"Sure," I say. I wait a couple of seconds to gather my thoughts, and in this short time Dad demands, "Well then, what is it?" Bear in mind, that Dad's kid's team has already won the game, 2-0. Though maybe he's still peeved that I read the riot act to the whole line of parents by exhorting them to calm down, and pointing out that the game wasn't being staged especially to mirror their genetic genius.