I sometimes wonder if I'm too quick to show yellow cards. There's a fine balance between setting the tone in a potentially difficult game, and coming across as an over-officious twat who loves to dip into their pocket and display what they've got. On Saturday afternoon, I observe a referee who's in charge of a U19 game on the field where I'm about to referee U15s. Instead of dishing out punishments, he deals with every conflict by delivering a few calm and well-chosen words. It's never too late to learn, and for 20 minutes I'm captivated by this young man's ability to manage potentially tense situations.
Of my three games this weekend, I knew that two were unlikely to cause many problems - the above-mentioned U15 game (it's only at the next age group - U17 - that the hormonal shithousery starts to take off, and finally dwindles about 30-40 years later), and a girls' U17 game on early Sunday evening. Inbetween, on Sunday lunchtime, there's boys' U19 at city level, a league with perpetual firework possibilities. Could I somehow get through this game by imitating the style of my colleague the day before?
My interaction starts with the away team, who have just four players, still in civvies, standing outside their changing-room with ten minutes until kick-off. They know what I'm gong to say, so they start to reassure me that everyone's on their way. By some miracle, we only start five minutes late, though they have no coach, who's
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| Put that damned thing away, ref! |
My interaction starts with the away team, who have just four players, still in civvies, standing outside their changing-room with ten minutes until kick-off. They know what I'm gong to say, so they start to reassure me that everyone's on their way. By some miracle, we only start five minutes late, though they have no coach, who's
