“Fancy reffing my football match today?”
It was an innocent enough message. My footballing ability might not be much to shout about, but I know the game well enough. Plus, this would be a 2s match – and anyone who’s been involved in the reserves’ divisions knows the standard isn’t exactly elite.
‘Why not?’ I thought to myself. ‘I’ll head up there, run around a bit, and try something new. What’s the worst that can happen?’
So I arrived at the sports ground, where after introducing myself to both sides, I was helpfully given a whistle. It was at this point that I realised something I’d never properly appreciated about the role of the referee: just how lonely it is. There’s something indescribably humiliating about doing half-arsed heel flicks in the middle of the pitch by yourself, whilst 20-plus people perform equally begrudging warm-ups at opposing ends.
With the home team having the luxury of substitutes, two were co-opted to be my linesmen. It didn’t help that one of them didn’t know the offside rule, but it was better than nothing.
It all started off quite smoothly. There were a few teething problems, but the most contentious decision for the first half an hour or so was whether to award a foul throw (I didn’t – this is 2s football).
I gradually got used to keeping up with play, signalling decisions, and even found myself playing an advantage. Was it all really this easy? Maybe I’d missed my calling all along? I got to watch (an admittedly low quality) football game and be involved at the heart of it all, whilst laughing with players about their ability (or lack thereof, as I could sympathise with).
It was that false sense of security, however, that would prove my downfall. In football, things can change in an instant, and so when a player from the away side went down in the penalty area, I suddenly had a decision to make. It felt like time slowed down, with every one of the 22 players turning towards me, waiting for me to either point to the spot, or wave play on.
Now, I’ve not named the teams involved, but those there that day can probably deduce which match this refers to. If they have, they’ll know that of my short lived refereeing career, this was not my finest moment. I could make excuses as to how quickly it happened, and how my view was blocked, but the truth is I should’ve given a penalty. It was a foul, and whilst the attacker went down theatrically (something he didn’t particularly appreciate me telling him immediately afterwards), it didn’t matter.
At that moment, however, I froze. I decided that because I wasn’t absolutely certain it was a penalty, I couldn’t give it, regardless of the incessant calls for me to do so. So, with all of the confidence I could muster, I waved play on. “Not a foul!” I shouted, to the disbelief of the away side (and, more concerningly, some of the home team too).
For the next five minutes, it was all I could think about. I knew I’d messed up and whilst this match hardly had the highest of stakes, I was desperate not to be the reason why one team did or didn’t get a result. So when that same away side scored just before half time I was genuinely relieved. One player ran past and celebrated in front of me. “F*cking disallow that!” he shouted. Ignoring the fact I hadn’t actually disallowed any of their goals, I was nevertheless pleased that my decision was no longer the main story.
The second half is where things turned, with various fouls moving the game into more feisty territory. I did my best to control things (although, without actually having any cards to give out, this was a challenge), but tempers continued to flare.
Those tensions were only exacerbated when, at the very same end I had failed to give a penalty to the away team, I gave one for the home side. In my defence (which, funnily enough, none of the away players seemed to agree with), it was a pretty blatant handball, but upon being told to “learn the f*cking rules,” I don’t think I’d convinced most.
So it was 1-1, I’d given one team a penalty, failed to give a clear one to the other, and every five seconds I was having to blow for a foul to prevent someone’s legs getting broken. It wasn’t ideal.
The away team going ahead again got them off my back (briefly), but an equaliser soon after meant we headed into the final stages level. Frankly – and this is probably not an opinion I should have held as an ‘unbiased’ referee – I was happy with that. It meant neither side would be hugely aggrieved with me, and I could walk away without worrying too much about that penalty decision.
89 minutes had gone, still 2-2. It was getting closer. A few daft tackles slowed the game down even more, and I was not about to add on swathes of injury time. But then the home side found themselves on a counter. As I sprinted up the pitch, I prayed the attacker would miss.
So when the forward slotted it home, I stood motionless. Almost immediately, I had an away player jog past me: “That’s your fault, you f*cking idiot”. ‘Cheers for that,’ I thought.
There was, at this point, no time left. I blew my whistle, and breathed a sigh of relief that it was over. I shook hands with everyone, expecting more criticism. But to my shock, I got none.
In fact, I got praise. “Well done for dealing with that mate.” “Hard work with some of them.” Even the abuser-in-chief, who had just five minutes earlier blamed me for the loss, thanked me for coming down.
I’ve been guilty of it myself – becoming an entirely different person as soon as the game finishes. I even did it as a referee: I’m not sure I’d ever tell a group of people abusing me to “just calm down, lads” in any other walk of life. But for some reason, for 90 minutes, it becomes the norm.
So would I do it again? Probably not.
Would I recommend other people give it a go? Also probably not.
And would I do anything differently? Not really. Probably just learn the f*cking rules.
