A Year in the Middle – tales from the man in black
Inwardly I sighed, expecting the inevitable. Once again, a wayward shot had flown high, wide and ugly, the ball – the only ball we had – missing the goal by a country mile and, instead of nestling in the top corner of the net, it was now somewhere in the long grass in the next field on the other side of a dry stone wall. No-one made any attempt to go and collect it. The pause lengthened but eventually, inevitably, it was shattered with the cry “Come on ref, sort it out.”
For the first time I began to wonder why I bother. I’d been refereeing for about six months, getting plenty of games and experience in both Open Age (adult) football and youth games. Of course I’d received my fair share of dissent and decisions questioned by those on and off the field, but on the whole I coped well with those incidents and, typically, as I blew the final whistle on a fixture most would be happy with my performance (particularly if they had won!) and I would pat myself on the back, confident that the game had been a better contest because I had been there to officiate. But this game was different, depressingly different. Before kick off I had rejected the proffered match ball as it had a 5cm split along its length, leaving only the spare to play with, and that spare seemed to spend longer in the air, lost in a bush or in a neighbouring field. Neither team could string more than 4 passes together, I doubt one side retained possession for more than 30 seconds at any one time, and the highlight was a moment of mediocrity.
I’d chosen to spend my Saturday afternoon getting moaned at by twenty-two blokes on the pitch and another thirty or so spectators who’s idea of sport was to hurl insults at the lone man in the middle, just because he was wearing different coloured clothing from everyone else. It dawned on me that in any other aspect of life this would be considered bullying, but in this corner of grass roots football it was considered normal. Time to re-evaluate how I spend my leisure time, perhaps.
But the above was an anomaly, the exception that proves the rule. My year in the middle, refereeing football at the lowest levels, has been rewarding, fulfilling and fun.
Mid-life crises manifest themselves in many ways. For me, I decided I wanted to become a football referee, a lot cheaper than buying a sports car or motorcycle and (probably) less humiliating than flirting with work colleagues twenty years my junior. So following two Sundays and a Tuesday evening of instruction I was a fully badged official, licensed to ply my new trade at the bottom rung of the footballing ladder. I arrived early to take charge of my first league game, a warm Saturday in late August, and I carried out my pitch inspection with diligence, discovering several large holes in the field of play. I sought out the home team captain/secretary/kit man/manger (at this level, it is inevitably one and the same person) and voiced my concerns about the ankle breakers I had found. “No worries, ref” he chirped as he trotted off to the boot of his car, emerging with a spade. He went to a corner of the field and began digging furiously, producing a pile of soil and turf which he then used to fill all the holes in the pitch. Football one, rabbits nil, and at 2pm, just as the first drops of rain began to fall, I blew the whistle to begin my refereeing career.
For ninety torrid minutes I did my best to look the part, appear competent and ignore the rain that lashed down for the whole game. I think I got away with it and, with a sense of relief, I signaled the end of the game, gratefully accepting any handshakes from the players before I squelched off back to my car. Recounting the day’s experiences with other debutees from my course it seems I had got off lightly: one fellow new ref had to contend with a fight, a mass confrontation and two red cards, all before half time. He hung up his whistle and retired after that game, deciding that refereeing probably wasn’t for him.
And so my first season as a referee was underway. Faces started to become familiar as I began to meet the same teams on the circuit at grounds that had become home from home. Patterns began to emerge; Under 16s produced the best football, swift and purposeful from lads who still dreamed they might make it, who would train each week, who would pass and play. The adults adopted a hoof it and hope style with Tuesday night training a long forgotten pre-season promise. I became immersed in the world of the men in black, involving myself fully in online discussions about arcane laws and interpretations (and always laws, never rules – mentioning “rules” in refereeing circles is certainly a bookable offence), attending training evenings run by my local FA. (The arrival of a somewhat bemused birdwatcher to a session titled “Foul Recognition” did elicit a smile.) It was when I found myself viewing a five minute YouTube video on how to care for your whistle (soak it denture tablets, apparently) that I realised I was maybe becoming a little too obsessive about my new hobby.
It was with some pride that I blew the final whistle on my season at a cup final, an appointment that was recognition that over the last nine months or so I had developed into a competent man in the middle (and that I was prepared to get up early on a Sunday morning and do the game for a small trinket memento rather than the usual match fee). I enjoyed the season, most of the time, and most of the time most of the people appreciated my involvement. Nobody actually wants perfect refereeing all of the time, as that would mean the players would have to take responsibility for their inability. No, much easier to blame the ref, after all that’s what we’re there for. And when you accept that and see yourself as a provider of a service, a proud lion roaming the vast, and often overgrown, jungle of grass roots football, rising above the petty squabbles of those around you, it really does become rather good fun.
