17 – THE MAN IN THE MIDDLE
“It was like the ref had a brand new yellow card and wanted to see if
it worked.” Richard Rufus
An old friend is fond of order and procedures, insisting people need rules, that many personal freedoms are overrated and rarely ever properly understood. Sport cannot function without rules and enforcers of those rules; the referee, the umpire, the match official.
Even the Great Milk Crate Test Matches, whilst being unable to secure the services of Dickie Bird to umpire or even the far cheaper Harry Medley, relied on honesty, mutual respect and rules. The game must go on whatever perceived injustices.
Lawless
I played several seasons for Barclays in the bizarrely named Leeds Law League, which was a generally lawless five-a-side soccer tournament run during the winter months. Games were played largely at South Leeds Sports Stadium, an outdoor arena with a number of AstroTurf courts.
There were no brick walls lining the courts, just mesh fences which you could reliably expect to be smashed against several times during a game. several games were simply a mini version of the US film Rollerball minus the referee because, believe it or not, the league ran without referees.
On the basis that it was a competition for the professional community, then self-regulation should be no problem. In reality, the pent-up frustrations of the professional classes were far more dangerous than playing any inner-city pub team.
Colin from Compliance, let out for a run around from behind his desk before going home, would generally run around like a threshing machine. Eyes in the back of your head were useful.
If Only
What we needed was a referee of the charisma and presence of Fat Frank, who officiated many Sunday morning games I played in, with his own unique brand of humour and threats of gangland violence.
Frank had clearly never taken a refereeing course nor had he any understanding of political correctness, but somehow he had blagged his way onto the referees’ list. Ruddy faced, portly, socks always around the ankles, you could hear him wheezing well before his entrance to announce himself each Sunday morning in the dressings rooms.
“Fuck me you still playing ya wee useless fucking wanker?”
Yes Frank always had that feel good factor following him around and was a proper ray of Sunday morning sunshine. Fortunately not many people could really understand him as he tried to insult everybody in the team before then trying to lecture us all about indiscipline.
This was not his chosen word as I think he used the phrase “fucking aboot” before threatening anybody who stepped out of line with physical violence.
Frank preferred his own form of justice rather than issuing a booking or sending off and having to ruin his afternoon in the pub filling out caution forms; in defence he claimed was dyslexic, albeit he could always recognise Carling from Carlsberg.
Even if the weather was bad, if Frank was refereeing you always expected to play simply because no game meant no beer money for Frank; so even if a river had burst its banks or the Polar Ice Flows had taken residence, we would still be lining up. Guys like Frank made Sunday mornings so much better.
Booked!
Generally I had a good relationship with referees as I hope with cricket umpires too. It is always a good idea to welcome them to the ground, pat them on the back and wish them well.
Of course, they get it wrong as often as we players do, but without them you do not have game. The growing trend of abuse towards officials is threatening sport.
At the professional level, football is a joke. The issuing of a yellow card is often pointless, having no like for like impact on the game relative to the offence. Why not adopt the sin bin approach of rugby where sides go a man down as punishment for cynical abuses of the game? A ten minute sin bin would be far more effective.
In thirty years I only ever collected one booking playing football although I realise that, in Porkas’s view, this qualifies me as a girl. I remember it well from those dark days of the White Bear FC.
That particular morning the referee had announced himself in our dressing rooms with an almost unending series of demands-a list of do’s and don’ts; you could tell he was on some power kick.
“Come ‘Ere Son!”
The game was awful and he was forever blowing up stopping any chance of it getting better. He awarded a free kick to the opposition just inside their half. Colin had just been on another rampaging and uncontrolled run and so was lost, temporarily making the return journey to his right-back berth, wheezing and puffing. I found the ball at my feet and was making no great effort to kick it back till we saw Colin somewhere on the horizon.
I flicked it up – as the Brazilians do – and then it was thigh, thigh, knee and then boom! Horrified, I watched as my intended ten yard chip back to their waiting defender flew over his head and off somewhere in the direction of Colin still some fifty yards in the distance.
“Come ‘ere son” bellowed the referee. “You’re in the book”
“What for ref?” I pleaded quickly realising that negotiating with Robert Mugabe may be easier than a humourless, power-crazed, half-wit.
“Time wasting…kicking the ball away…saw it with my own eyes” he muttered.
“That wasn’t time wasting ref I’m just shit!”
“Yellow card!”he boomed
The miserable sod duly submitted the caution for which I received a £6 fine and a scar on my record for life.
The Umpire
Generally, cricket umpires get far more respect although, as I mentioned, standards are slipping and leagues seem slow to back the man in the white coat.
Decisions are often a matter of an instant judgement, we have all been victims of some howlers.
As a junior coach I umpire games and you really start to understand how hard the job is. At the top level the guys umpiring test matches under the microscope of numerous cameras must have nerves of steel.
Sometimes though, a decision is so bad you just have to smile and get on with it.
Gob Lane CC
Of all those I have seen, this was one of the best. My teammate Bodger Lee was batting against our old rivals, Jer “Gob” Lane CC. There was little love lost between the teams back in the eighties after various spats.
Even I suspended my conviction that, if you nicked it, you should do the honourable thing in the spirit of the game and “walk” when playing against Gob Lane.
There was no question this day that Bodger had indeed nicked it as the ball flew off a thick edge to second slip. He began to walk to the pavilion until he noticed the umpire had not moved and looked as if he was asleep.
Suddenly, Bodger converted his march to the changing rooms into an arcing circle, walking back past several incredulous fielders, ready to face the next ball – not out – and a lot of flak.
Of course the purist would say that this was blatant cheating but where are the standard bearers at the very top level of sport? When was the last time you saw a batsman “walk” at cricket?
Some even stay awaiting a referral despite the DRS video evidence that will prove in a matter of seconds that they have indeed “nicked” it and are stood there clearly cheating.
As for football, personally, I no longer watch it, devoid as it is of any honesty or morality, merely an ugly spectacle drowning in a sea of television money. If we are bringing kids up to understand the real ethos of sport then rules are where we must start.
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