There’s nothing better than a good, blind referee.
Bobby Heenan
As Argentina’s victorious football team landed home with the World Cup, news locally of the sad passing of a great character from the other end of the beautiful game.
Frank O’Connor was a larger than life presence who coloured in many a grey Sunday morning in the rain and mud as we dreamed of Messi-like feats or simply surviving with all limbs intact to get to the pub.
Fat Frank, so named with great warmth and affection by those of us who suffered his regular outburts, officiated many Sunday morning games I played in, with his own unique brand of humour and threats of gangland violence.
His own personal target was indeed our very own rotund – and star – player, Dayks. They jibed each other incessantly each time Frank had the whistle.
None of us believed Frank had ever 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, barrel-chested, with socks always around his ankles, you could hear him wheezing well before his entrance to announce himself each Sunday morning in the dressings rooms. His entrances were the stuff of legend; no team talk could ever match him.
“F*ck me you still playing ya wee useless f*cking wanker?” Which was his usual good morning address to me and, to be fair, the last bit was not far off.
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 on the team before then trying to lecture us all about indiscipline.
This was not his chosen word as I think he used the phrase “f*cking 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 he was dyslexic, albeit he could always recognise Carling from Carlsberg. And why waste money on stamps?
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 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; oh if we could do it all again one more time?
I bumped into him for what was the last time, only a few years ago. We shared a few laughs as to why, whilst he was never on the Premier League’s fastrack scheme, Sunday mornings with him around were never dull.
If we had had pitchside breath tests, he would never have started a game. His normal Sunday morning address was something like this.
“Right yoo’s lot I’m in charge so dinna give me any shite!” as he sought to establish a line of authority “And I’ll no be ‘avin any swearin’ yoo’s foul mouthed bunch o’ ****s!”
Frank was not known for charging up and down the field, preferring to officiate as if tethered like a bull on a five-yard rope in the middle of the field. Appealing for offside – the bit all Sunday players love because you get a rest – was a 50/50 distribution of decisions.
In truth, you could get away with most things because Frank never let FA form filling get in the way of his Sunday afternoon once his wages had been secured.
One Sunday a young FA Assessor turned up to judge Frank, clipboard in hand, overflowing with officialdom. Frank was particularly hungover that morning and was mortified that his source of Sunday afternoon pub funds was threatened.
We kicked off and had barely played a minute when we heard a howl as Frank went down as if he’d been shot. He was writhing around like a Premier League forward; his hamstring had “gone”…allegedly.
The assessor wandered across, unsure what to do, the FA Coaching Manual bereft of a chapter on how to deal with wily old men.
Reluctantly he called off the assessment as we carried Frank off. As soon as he was out of sight, up shot Frank to grab the whistle and ensure his bounty was secured for another Sunday.
Wonderful days and a wonderful man.
Rest in peace Frank and thanks for all the great memories.
Thank You
This is the last blog of this year so may I take the opportunity to thank all of you who have read my rants and for the many comments too.
Happy Christmas to you all.
Footnote
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