29 players, four coaches, and one 'thank you'

Games 20-21, 2022-23

Whenever I went to a birthday party as a kid, or just round to someone else's house for tea, my mum would drum it in to my head that, at the end of the afternoon, I should always remember to say thank you. When I got home, her first question was, "Did you remember?" Maybe you regard good manners as a bourgeois affectation, and you could be theoretically correct, but I'm nonetheless glad that I was taught the value and necessity of basic courtesy. It costs you nothing more than a few seconds and a little exercise of the tongue.

Please, show some merci

Some parties were better than others, it has to be said. Some kids' mothers were better cooks than other kids' mothers (dads did not prepare meals in the English east Midlands in the 1970s). Either way, they had made the effort to invite you round to host, entertain and feed you. Even if all you got was a sandwich made out of cucumber and stale bread, you still said those two wonderful words. Thank you. Thank you for having me. It generally meant you'd be welcome back next time around, and that your mate's parents didn't think you were an ill-mannered little prick.

On Saturday, I reffed a boys' U19 game, and it was pretty much par for

the course. A quiet first half followed by a rowdy second one, with much fouling, howling, protesting, and apparent contraventions of sporting justice. A short speech to the away team coach about him being a model for good behaviour rather than a tantrum-prone tower of twattery. A very lenient four yellow cards. The next day, I put out a tweet: "Boys' U19 yesterday: out of 29 players and four coaches there was a single, 'Thanks, ref', at game's end (away team's goalie). This is about average. I don't expect eulogies, just a touch more courtesy."

The tweet garnered a positive response, but also drew what another respondent called "a weird tweet"

50 touchline refs, but none with the guts to pick up a whistle

Game 19, 2022-23

When Saturday came, I took a day off to hang out with Mrs Ref. We acted like we were on holiday - got up late, went out for breakfast, took in a gallery and a film, then indulged ourselves at dinner. Football only came into play when we watched the Bundesliga highlights just before midnight. When the game's become a year-round, all-pervasive, seven-day affair, it does no harm to shut it out for a short while (or a long one).

On Sunday afternoon I had a level-8 game 20 miles out of town, in another one of those small towns with one bar, one pharmacy, one team. It rained all morning as I toyed with the transport alternatives of bike or train. According to the online updates, the trains were running late or not at all, and I'm stressed at even the first thought of being stranded on a platform somewhere between A and B, with kick-off approaching and the nearest taxi-rank half an hour away. At 12.15, it's raining hard, but at 12.20 it stops and clears, and so I jump on my bike and head cross-country on the old trading route that's now a cycle and hiking path.

Just under two hours later, spattered with mud, I'm greeted by the club secretary with the usual query when he doesn't believe his own eyes: "You came by bike?" The bike rack's empty, but the car park's full. The reserves are struggling at 3-1 down. There's no official referee, so they've commandeered someone from the home club, who's wearing a track-suit and following the government directives to save as much energy as possible. He gives the home side a penalty, generating an opera's worth of choral disbelief from the visitors.

Can I manage games with fewer cards?

Games 16-18, 2022-23

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.

Put that damned thing away, ref!

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

The untouchable dignity of the referee. Plus, beer and a sausage sandwich

Game 15, 2022-23

It takes me three trains to get to Sunday's game, in a small town way south of the city. I have to leave the flat three hours before kick-off, because the train that would get me there in perfect time has been cancelled. There's a 20-minute walk at the other end, and the only sound is of the rain as it breaks against my protective umbrella. Like all small German towns on the week's only sacred day, it's so peaceful that you wonder how they allow raucous, tonsil-testing football games to take place at all. Though the ground is beyond the town boundaries and any potential noise complaints.

As it's been raining for two days, I envision a sloping cow-field covered in puddles - because we're out in the countryside, right? In reality, it's a lovely little pitch surrounded by hedges and, along one side, three shelves of wooden terracing. There are some weird circles of dirt among the green grass, caused - the groundsman tells me - by underground sprinklers that will no longer water where they're told to. "But, you know, they cost €800 each to replace," he adds with the stoicism that's pre-requisite to being counted among amateur football's sub-nation of unsung volunteers.

Back in my changing room, I confront the familiar pre-match emotion of mild dread that now settles into my gut prior to all men's matches. What level of gamesmanship, dissent, anger and all-round shithousery will be in store for me today? There's a consensus that leagues outside of the city are easier to manage, and that clubs are far more hospitable. In general it's true, but it's not guaranteed. I take note of the laminated A4 sheet on the changing-room's desk. Respect. Tolerance. Fairness. There's a special section for the referee:

Dissent - football's festering verbal disease

Games 11-14, 2022-23

Dissent. Never-ending dissent. I would enjoy refereeing ten times more if players would just shut up and play. If they would only learn that moaning about a decision will not prompt me to change my mind, but it will prompt me to recall Law 12 and its rectangular yellow sanction for theatrical gesticulation and runaway gobs.

Half-time event (see below)

How I love games without dissent. Like the two intense, hard-fought midweek cup ties last week - a U17 and a U19 game - where there was an almost complete absence of moaning. The one player booked for dissent over the two games came and shook my hand after the final whistle, said thank you, and even smiled.

There are teams that take you seriously when you show no mercy for their lack of respect. In Saturday's U19 boys' league game, I lecture to one complaining home team player, "My name is not 'Ref', to you it's Mr. Referee, and you will keep your mouth closed and accept my decisions for the rest of the afternoon." It doesn't even need that stupid little yellow card to come out of my pocket - that's it with the dissent until the fifth and final minute of stoppage time.

The home team's leading 5-4 and are taking the ball to the corner flag. When the ball goes out of play, I indicate a throw-in for the hosts. The away team's left back unleashes a torrent of abuse in my direction. I

The Romance and the Rain (and the home coach is a pain)

Game 10, 2022-23

A men's cup game in the rain under floodlights - that always sounds so romantic. Does this constellation bring out the best in the two teams, though? Is this game the sporting equivalent of a candlelit dinner with a laid-back jazz trio playing smooth grooves in the background? If you've been reading this blog for the past six years, you'll know the answer to that without reading a further word.

Romance in the rain. It's over-rated.

The home team play two levels below the visitors, but clearly relish their role as underdogs. Their bench is loud, as refereeing colleagues had warned me it would be. "The first time their coach yells at you, show him a card," is their advice. "Don't worry, he's used to it." Indeed, by the eighth minute, I've flourished the lightly coloured plastic towards a man whose default setting appears to be: hysterical hobgoblin on the verge of a cardiac arrest. A few minutes later his son - playing in midfield - follows suit for commenting, "You might as well go upstairs and ref the game from there." I'm not sure what that actually means, to be honest (their clubhouse only has one floor), but the tone's enough to again lure the card out of my pocket.

With just 17 minutes gone, the home team's 0-1 down and has four yellow cards for a combination of dissent and extremely robust play. The insane thing is that this goes on to help them win the match. They

It's a corner. It's also half-time. What happens next?

Games 7-9, 2022-23

It's still warm, so after the 30-minute mark a lot of players are asking me how long until half-time. Just before the break, and with no injury time planned, I hold up two fingers and bellow loudly, "Two minutes!" for the benefit of players, coaches and spectators alike. And for me too, so that no one asks again.

A corner. But where is everyone?

The final passage of play takes us 30 seconds over the 45-minute mark, and the ball goes out for a corner to the away team. Acting in accordance with the Laws of the Game, I blow for half-time, and every referee alive will know what happens next - screams of outrage from the away team. "But we've got a corner!"

When you explain the rules to a player who's telling you with bulging eyes that they know better, here's what never happens: they calm down and say, "Oh, I didn't know that. Thanks for putting me right, ref." In reality, they get even angrier. So if you tell them that the only reason to extend a half beyond the allotted time is to take a penalty kick, they will still look at you like you pissed in their kit bag and shout, "But we've got a corner!"

Games go well when coaches know discipline

Games 5-6, 2022-23

It's still hot, so we're having a drinks break, 23 minutes in. The score's 0-0 in the first Level 9 league game of the season. I walk over to a bucket of water by the touchline to cool myself off. Three elderly gentlemen are sitting on a bench behind the barrier.

"Just thought you should know," one of them says. "But our number 7 wasn't offside."

"Thanks for the tip."

"You're welcome."

(Holding up the whistle) "Do you fancy a go with this? Then I can come and sit in the shade for the rest of the afternoon?"

They know the rules (photo: imb)

We will never know for sure whether the number 7 was offside or not, but the player's opinion of my decision will be always marked in the record books by a yellow card for dissent. It's an early one (15 minutes on the clock), and no one on his team yells at me after that. The guests have their own moaner, the number 14 midfielder, and he gets an entry in my note-book just before half-time. If all the first half energy from players sounding off at their team-mates was converted into football skill, we'd be witnessing a classic. As it is, we go into the break goalless, having heard and seen nothing but vented fury and wayward balls.

Drinks break, second half. The home team is by now 2-0 up. I walk over to the same bucket and ask the three wise men if they've seen any more refereeing errors. 

A night of serial errors - all from me

Game 4, 2022-23

Right after the final whistle I walk straight to my changing room and lock the door. Almost immediately, there's a knock. "Referee?" I tell them to wait, and that I need ten minutes. I need to think something over. I need to think about the mistake I made five minutes before the end of the game, and what I'm going to do about it.

It's the last of the pre-season warm-ups, between good teams from levels 9 and 8. It's getting a bit chippy towards the end, but nothing out of the ordinary. I don't show a yellow card until the 78th. minute, when the away team's number 2 goes in too hard on an opponent and then throws him over. It's not his first foul of the evening. Apart from that, just some standard moaning about decisions as the sun goes down and visibility worsens - we're playing on the grass field, and there are no floodlights.

Another mistake...

Then, with five minutes to go, the same number 2 gets into a tangle with the home team's number 13 and they have a minor set-to. I break them up and tell them to stay sane as we've only five minutes to play. I make them shake hands, which they only manage with a demonstrative reluctance. I should show them both yellow, but that would mean a dismissal (second yellow) for number 2. It's not been that kind of game, though, so I trust to their common sense.

That's my first mistake. Just 30 seconds later they go for a ball with the same result - an unpleasant wrestling match that I run over to break up again with my whistle. Next mistake - I react emotionally (the very thing I'm always criticising players for), and am so pissed off that they've ignored my previous lecture that I show them both the red card. This prompts instant outrage from both everyone on the field and on the touchline (though, funnily enough, not from the players themselves).

Attempting the art of early de-escalation

Games 1-3, 2022-23

Cycling towards my first friendly of the season, heavy black clouds pollute the north-east horizon somewhere close to where I'll soon be refereeing. Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the river, a woman is screaming at me, but I can't understand what she's saying. Maybe she's some sort of soothsayer calling out, "Don't embark on another season of madness! Turn your bike around and quit now! Heed the storm ahead and lay down your whistle!" Or maybe she's just calling out, "You're shit, ref! I already know that wasn't offside and we haven't even kicked off yet!"

I keep pedalling, because it won't go down too well if I tell my assignor that I didn't show up because a mad woman on the banks of the Nidda was hollering portents of grief. Maybe I should have paid her more attention, though, because just 12 minutes into the game, I'm showing the first caution of the season when the home team's number 10 flies in and takes out an opponent with the kind of challenge which, if you cut it open down the middle, would reveal the words PRETTY FUCKING UGLY engrained from top to bottom. The player betrays a flicker of exasperation when he sees the yellow in my hand, but thankfully refrains from claiming immunity on the grounds that it was "my first foul, ref!"