referential #1/debut

I’ve always enjoy antagonising people, seeing how they work, seeing where their breaking point might be. It’s not made me many friends. But then, friends are over-rated: some of them go and die.

Recently, I’ve become a football referee. That way, I don’t need to antagonise anyone, the game looks after that.

Football is the most antagonistic of sports: all those moving parts, mistakes and decisions. All that subjectivity. Every weekend, I get a front-row seat to watch it, this study of human behaviour, to watch these players unfurl. 

I’m 51. I shouldn’t be doing this but I am fascinated by football. 

I love its tumult, its artistry, its culture. I love how it tests everything to breaking point – rules and people alike. I love how it unveils and unpeels all who play. On a football pitch, you can see people. There is nothing more naked than a 35-year-old man playing Sunday League football.

Before I started refereeing, I was told to do 5-10 youth games first to get up to speed. The games are shorter and the players are easier to control. 

Great advice. 

My first game as a referee? Nottinghamshire Sunday League: Men’s Division One. Sod it.

I arrived and met two wizened old stalwarts wearing the uniform of Sunday League administrators: padded Sonido coats with zips in varying states of disrepair. If they could, the coats would whisper: ‘you could take me out to launderette every now and then…’

I see these men. I see them looking me up and down. Working out whether I can do the job. The answer is probably ‘no’. I have my first decision to make: do I tell them this is my first game? The answer is definitely ‘no’.

The decision to keep my anonymity isn’t helped by the slightly better-dressed man (zip still working) insisting that I’ve reffed for his team before.

The weird thing is, by the end of it, he has me questioning whether I have, as he adds more and more accurate personal details to his claim: ‘You’re from the North East, aren’t you?’ ‘Live in West Bridgford?’ ‘Got a couple of kids?’ ‘You’ve only just qualified…’

Thankfully, the other Elder interrupts to proudly present The Referee’s Dressing Room. Shit. A real referee’s dressing room. The Imposter Syndrome I’m feeling is nauseating. This is feeling serious. I don’t want serious. I don’t want a dressing room. I want this to be amateurish, beneath me. I want this to be an easy introduction. 

Thankfully, as I walk to inspect the pitch, a man is smoking a spliff and drinking Stella. That’s better. Oh crap, he’s the linesman.

I brief the players: “Good morning, my name’s Paul and I’m your referee today. Two things: First, cover up any jewellery so you don’t take your or your opponent’s eyes out. Second, I’m not bothered about swearing, swear as much as you like. But, if you see kids come over, turn it off.’

I realised later, that the second part of this was a mistake. I was slackening my standards too early. I was trying to tell them that I was the same as them but I’d learn that that’s not true. I’m not Player #23. I’m Referee #1. 

I would find that swearing and aggression are two parts of a ratchet. Aggressive begets swearing. Swearing begets aggression. That’s sounds Biblical. The swearing often was. Stop the swearing and the aggression is, at least, contained.  

Two incidents stood out. 

First.

I lecture at university. I’ve been doing it for the best part of a decade. Recently, while doing an online lecture, I had a panic attack, my first. It felt like the early knockings of a heart attack. I had to go to A&E, it was very, very scary. Never happened before. I don’t lecture anymore.

About ten minutes into the game, I could feel the symptoms returning: shortness of breath, dizzying confusion, the impulse to just run away, away from all this. No, no… not now… I managed to recover enough to referee a competitive and mildly aggressive game that never really got out of hand. I did admit to a mistake or two and some players liked that, some used it against me.

Players are different in how they react to a mistake: some recognise and empathise with it, some see it as a weakness to be exploited. It often depends on whether they’re winning or losing.

The second incident involved the home linesman, continually complaining that I was getting decisions wrong, that I somehow didn’t want his team to win. I stopped the game and went over to him.

Me: “Look mate, all I can hear is your voice criticising everything I do. It’s making my job really, really difficult and it’s already very tough.”

Player: “You’re a cheat, Ref.”

I know now that I should have just sent him off. Red card and goodbye. But, hey, I’m a lover, not a fighter (unless pushed a bit too far in which case I love a scrap).

Me: “I’m not a cheat mate, I’m just shit at refereeing.”

That placated the player and a smirk appeared across his face, but only for a second before he started again about some decision that had gone against his team 20 minutes earlier. I’d had enough.

Me: “Right, I’ve had enough, be quiet or I’ll give you a red card and it’ll cost you a fair few quid. In fact, I dare you to say one more word to me, go on. Please do it so I can send you off.”

He didn’t. I didn’t want to fine him. I just used a tool that I thought would work and got lucky.

Just as luck plays a part in sport and life, it turns out it plays a part in refereeing. Let’s hope I’m a lucky ref.

One game down.