It is midway through the second half and the teams are level at one goal apiece. The 'stripes' feed the ball through the midfield but then lose possession 20 yards into their opponents' half. The 'blue' defender lobs the ball forward and everyone including the referee turns to follow the direction of the ball and then sets off in pursuit of the 'blue' centre forward, who is now bearing down on the goalkeeper. Everyone that is except the majority of the 'stripes' defence who are standing still with one arm in the air shouting: 'Yes, ref?', 'He's off!', 'Have a look, mate!', 'He's miles offside!', 'You're 'avin a larf, intcha?' However, the match official had already satisfied himself that there was no offside and sprints past the appellants to witness their last line of defence being rounded with consummate ease and the ball nestling in the back of the net. GOAL!!
| 'Have a look, mate!', 'He's miles offside!', 'You're 'avin a larf, intcha?' |
Yours truly-the one with the whistle - signals the goal and jogs backwards to the centre circle. I am expecting all the usual howls of disbelief which I will wave aside authoritatively and re-commence the game. However, in truth I am not that confident. The offside appeals had been long and vehement and I'm not entirely convinced that I was in a good position to be able to see an offence clearly. But I content myself with the thought that if you're going to play an 'iffy' offside trap on Hackney Marshes in a force eight gale with no linesmen then sooner or later you're going to get caught out. I feel no compulsion to explain my decision, ignore the protests and position myself for the kick-off. Suddenly the 'stripes' left winger-a man surely in a worse position than I was to see a clear offside - appears beside me, his face a picture of indignation and rage. 'Ref, you're a fucking tosspot!' he bellows. Oh dear. Calmly I blow my whistle to prevent further play, call the offending player to one side, take his name and send him off.
When I say 'calmly' I mean that to all on-lookers I appear the epitome of unruffled authority. Inside I am a mixture of uncertainty, rising anger at the insult and outright fear at what he will do next. In short... I am crapping myself. However, no one must see below the surface and I play the part to perfection. The challenge is dealt with, the insult ignored and justice meted out.
As a man, I have become adept at hiding and dismissing deeply-felt pain or hurt, and continue to appear 'cool' in the most distressing of situations.
As a referee I am the personification of this. I am encouraged not to get upset when my authority is challenged. I approach each situation with a calm clear mind; find the time to consider my response; evaluate my performance after every game. The most simple of duties have to be performed in a calculating way so as not to give either team the opportunity to even contemplate my bias. I must remain aloof and beyond reproach. Me? I'm a natural!
A close friend once observed that she saw my decision to take up refereeing as a statement about not being part of a team. She saw it as a progression connected with the way I had become more and more isolated as a man. This both intrigued and offended me. I suspect that many men are comfortable with the image of the lone hero - High Plains Drifter, Clint Eastwood, James Bond, The Fugitive - trusting no-one, succeeding without anyone's help and, then disappearing again before people have the chance to personally acknowledge the debt they owe him. And yet in my playing days there were moments of shared agony and intense 'brotherhood'. The joy of beating our closest rivals or reaching a cup-final; the sadness at losing that final or the humiliation of a 12-0 defeat. Mind you, let's keep it in proportion. We are not talking about tears, embraces or sympathetic shoulders but, usually, silence, bravado and piss-taking. Our expressions of emotion were tempered by our status as men, whilst an overriding homophobia precluded any physical expression or outright displays of weakness.
Not being part of a team also implies being an observer. The guide-lines laid down for the referee necessitates complete neutrality which sometimes means I cannot express appreciation for a good shot or goal or save. It is alleged that if players witness the referee applauding or offering commiserations during the 90 minutes he is leaving himself open to accusations of bias and therefore weakening his position of detachment and control. It's a strange paradox: I see the need to break free of the shackles of control in my life as a whole, yet am obliged to exert it to it's maximum effect on the soccer field.
In refereeing terms 'Control' is paramount. I recall attending a training seminar where the assembled rookie-refs were confronted with the question, 'At which point do you take control of a match?' Heads were scratched and one or two answers proffered. 'When you enter the field of play?' someone asked, 'When you arrive at the ground?' said another. Both these suggestions were greeted warmly by the Training Officer but we all knew we hadn't found the right answer yet. Slowly and deliberately, as a nurse would communicate to a patient on a geriatric ward, he let us in on the secret: 'When you get the appointment card!' 'Bloody Hell!' I thought. Sometimes you can receive an appointment three weeks in advance of a game. Our mentor went on to explain that control can be exercised well in advance of the game by initiating contact between the teams, confirming their respective colours and generally giving the impression that you're the boss. This is serious stuff. This isn't just turn up, get changed, give out instructions to both teams and then go out and enjoy yourself. This is attempting to inspire awe in the two sides before they have even clapped eyes on you. Frankly, knowing a lot of the players such a strategy would be completely wasted on them.
On the morning of the game - I predominantly referee on Sunday mornings - I am faced with 22 men kicking a ball around, most of whom want to win at any cost (which includes cheating, physical intimidation and even, sometimes, excessive amounts of skill). Part of my task is to protect those who want to play from those who want to kick lumps out of their betters. I am expected to make instant decisions, placate angry participants, display a superior knowledge of the laws of the game and, where necessary caution or send-off. (It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it).
| before I had sprinted a few yards the two players were up and trading punches |
For most men a Sunday League provides a great way to let off steam. They can run around, shout, swear, argue, get angry, laugh, joke and even display great elation at scoring and not feel they've compromised their masculine images. After the game they will shower together, swap banter with their opponents and then troop off to the local for a well-earned pint. Ninety-nine percent of the time I will be included in none of this. If I display any emotion I am seen as a weak referee. On two occasions last season I got so angry at constantly having my decisions challenged that I resorted to that old tried and trusted method, 'Fuck off and get on with the game'. I had blown it. Immediately I was pounced upon by outraged players demanding apologies and threatening to report me. This despite the fact that week in, week out I am insulted, abused and treated with contempt in ways I didn't even imagine were possible. The principle is, however, don't drop your guard. Whatever's happening below the surface, the visible must remain assured and confident.
One game last season I had 'lost my rag' with a couple of players and was suffering a lot of derision from the few spectators present. Things weren't going too well and I was struggling to keep control. Suddenly a defender lunged at an opponent who had skipped past his first challenge, and the latter was unceremoniously felled as both his legs were kicked from under him. 'Oh shit!' I thought, 'Here we go'. Straight away it was clear that the defender would have to go, but before I had sprinted a few yards the two players were up and trading punches. Players from both sides intervened to stop the fighting and then assailed me with a barrage of advice. What I actually wanted to do at this point was throw down my whistle, tear off my shirt and run away to the safety of the dressing rooms rather than have to deal with two angry and aggressive men who may well turn their aggression on me. What I actually did was took a deep breath and then took each player to one side in turn to conduct the dismissals. This done I allowed the game to continue and slowly became aware of how quiet the spectators had become. I had got away with it! I'd made crucial decisions promptly and correctly, I'd displayed my control and regained everyone's respect. Yet, I still felt wretched. Betrayal is too strong a word I think, but I just felt that I hadn't been true to myself. To this day I console myself with the thought that a match official, umpire or scorer is no good to anyone if she or he is going to run away at the first sign of trouble.
So what's the trade-off? What is it that I get that encourages me to continue in this (self?) abusive situation? A passion for the game is never enough to meekly accept such an unhealthy appetite of isolation and neutrality. The answer is POWER.
| we referees are a strange breed; very serious about the task and almost 'Masonic' in our exclusivity |
I am the most powerful individual on the pitch. At any point - and if I so desired - I could pick up the ball and walk away. Match abandoned. I can stop people leaving the pitch or coming back on. I can order men to remove their wedding rings or other jewellery if I consider them dangerous. I can even deny someone the right to participate in the match because I think he is not properly attired. In short, I say what goes. It is my kingdom and I am all powerful. Of course I don't always exercise my might because I am a benevolent dictator, and I'd like to keep all my teeth! Generally I effect a suitable compromise, but that doesn't disguise the fact that I do still have extraordinary power and can wield it at any time. Thus when a player runs half the length of the pitch to deliver a stinging verbal assault upon me I can take his name and send him off in the knowledge that such an ill-considered action - probably born out of frustration and a sense of injustice - will result in a ban and a hefty fine from the County FA. I imagine it's a bit like being a policeman (the George Dixon of Wanstead Flats), and I do sometimes wonder if there is any coincidence that the game's rules are called 'The Laws'. What strikes me most of all is: where could someone like me assume such authority in my everyday life? If a stranger approaches me in the street and calls me a 'wanker', of all the options open to me not one of them would include taking my assailant's name and sending it to a higher authority for a slapped wrist.
It would, I think, be very interesting to conduct a poll amongst football referees to try and find out why they do it My guess is that most would cite such reasons as the physical exercise or some kind of quest for fair play. If they were really honest the mercenary might claim that they do it for the money - believe me it's not a lot! Many might claim that they genuinely love the game and relish being in the middle of the action, making split-second decisions and helping to aid the flow of the game. All such reasons are genuine and laudable, and I for one can relate to many of them. But, we referees are a strange breed; very serious about the task and almost 'Masonic' in our exclusivity. And yet, in my experience, we are more detached from each other than the people we referee. I find that strange even sad. One would have expected referees to form close bonds in order to immunise themselves from the ridicule and abuse they all face week after week. One referee I know was officiating when a young man collapsed and died from a massive heart attack. A week later myself and a few others shared the same changing room as him. The death was the chief topic of conversation. Nobody asked him how he felt. Nobody suggested that such an incident was potentially traumatic and that they were surprised that he was back refereeing so soon. What appeared most crucial was the procedure that he went through to abandon the game and who had to be informed of his decision!
Maybe referees are more isolated than even I can imagine.
Copyright © Achilles Heel Collective
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