Do players respect referees? You’re having a laugh! I’m a Berkshire Amateur Association, qualified referee, of 29 years, and regretfully inform you, players today don’t respect referees. 

Last Sunday was a typical example of how good referees, like me, are given no respect whatsoever. The game was dramatic, not because of the great football, but for recklessly disrespectful behaviour of players, coaches and even spectators. The match was the cup semi-final between two teams at the bottom of the league. To avoid any - deserved - offence I’ll call them Crap FC & Awful FC, although you’ll see similarities with the over-paid, irresponsible players we see on TV nowadays. Like all cup matches, there was a lot of pride to play for, but still no excuse for their behaviour.   

I turn up a good hour before the game starts to relax in the car, drink some tea and listen to my favourite radio station, Dunce FM. I’m about to get my bag and get out the car, when one of the players pulled up in his flashy convertible, and was seemingly unaware of my presence, he blurts, “That picky little, fat bugger's reffing this one.”

One of the passengers in the car chipped in, “He thinks the game’s all about him, going on about rules.”

They mocked me somewhat, so as I got out of the car I made sure they noticed me by whistling to a Motown classic. The driver seemed to go a shade of read, “Hi ref.” 

By the way, I’m not picky. I keep to the rules, which in case some idiot tells you otherwise, are there for a reason; preventing the game turning into a complete farce, while maintaining civility. After all, it is just a game.  

True to the poor quality of linesmen the Association provides lately, one of them turned up in a bright pink t-shirt. He refused to say why, but was able to, firstly wake up, then exchange shirts with a spectator, who was sporting a similar shirt to the regulation black, that should be worn. This, young, linesman also seemed a bit too friendly with many of the Crap FC players for my liking, but then the game was ready to start. It just amazes me what idiots we have running the lines nowadays.  

Anyway, it was always going to be a physical contest from the start, and no surprise, when a Crap FC defender clattered in to an Awful FC striker in that usual manner that some young people do. I walked over to observe the cut down the injured player’s leg, as he lay on the ground, turned to the offender and gave him a yellow card. He looked surprised.

“That’s a bit harsh ref!”

“You were a bit harsh yourself mate… Get on with the game and watch your step.”

“Yeah, but he was…”

“…He was, she was, get on with it.” I waved my arms and we played on.  

Play was a bit laboured, with little creative flow or passing, like you get with untalented players. Many malicious tackles, as well as the usual excessive use of bad language, - which I particularly dislike - so it wasn’t long before there were problems. As a corner was being taken, an Awful FC player punched an opponent in the ribs. I had a perfect view, made sure the victim was Ok, then called over the offender.

“What’s up?”

I really hate that arrogant way young kids talk to their elders now.

“Nothing’s up, but your attitude.” He tried to play innocent to a man that’s been refereeing almost 30 years and, with some pleasure, he had to go. I looked up in to his eyes, “That was absolutely disgusting, now get off!”

I made sure the red card was brandished right in his face. “Get your disrespectful hide off my pitch.”

As usual, most of his mates came running over to plead his case, but I wasn’t budging. I’d made my decision and that was that. People like him will ruin the game if they’re given half the chance. Perhaps I did the lad a favour by sending him off to think about the issues in his head. Maybe that was the turning point, he saw why his anger needs to be in check and become a better person. I doubt it.  

The game continued without event, and Crap FC started to use their man advantage to gain more chances at goal. Yet, against the run of play, Awful FC got a corner. As it was about to be taken, a Crap FC player decided to verbally insult the player taking the corner. The Awful FC player said something equally puerile, but it was the Crap FC player that threw the punch. The Awful FC player fell to the ground, as though he’d been shot. I didn’t hear the insults, yet did see the punch and I can only go on what I see, so the Crap FC lad get a straight red card. There was the usual hoard of brainless fools surrounding me, with the same result; I don’t change my mind. Not because of arrogance, but 29 years of experience has taught me when I’m right, and I was right to send that thug off. 

Now both teams were a man down, you’d think they’d restrain themselves, but of course not, so I handed out a few more yellow cards in the hope of quelling this madness. No matter what the standards of play, my standards of referring never slips and players who break the rules, will be punished.                                     

Suddenly there’s a rare bit of skill; a Crap FC player, did a mazy dribble - which the crowd liked - through a number of players, to the penalty box, where he was cynically hacked down. I was a long way behind, but I didn’t hesitate to give a penalty. After getting my breath back, I spoke to the offending player.

“You ever looked at the rules mate?”

This indignant youth mumbled something like, “You what ref?”

“Well you better read up on the bit about hacking players down in the penalty box. That was deplorable!”  With pleasure, I rightly, showed him a straight red card. But the thug wouldn’t leave the pitch.

“Fat little runt!”

He used the most foul and abusive language, even when eventually escorted off the field of play by his team mates. Apparently, he was then going to miss more matches after receiving the red card from me, but he should have thought of that before he went around trying to injure other people.

 

After the penalty was scored, the Awful FC manager threw more insults my way.

“You waddle off to the spectacle store, you four eyed little…!”

No need to say the rest, but I will not be insulted and I stopped the Game.

“How dare you. I will not be disrespected in that manner.”

I gave him a yellow card, yet insults were thrown by spectators, who I couldn’t caution, but made up my mind to complain about in the match report. It is often said the crowd are an extra man, and, in this case, an extra man the team could do without. You would, - or perhaps not – be surprised the language that comes out of people in their thirties nowadays. They scream, shout, even flirt from the side-lines; very strange behaviour for parents.

 

While observing this, I was struck in a delicate area by the ball. The crowd sheered and I blow my whistle, with some pain, to stop the game and recover. While sitting down, I noticed, what I thought was, a lost child, wondering along the side-line, so looked for the child’s parents. Suddenly, the father appeared. He didn’t say thank you, but started shouting insults my way.

“Get on with it, you fat little interfering w**ker.”

“Hurry up, you useless blind c**t!” someone else shouted.

I may be slower than 30 years back, but my eyes and anticipation are second to none. When the first half ended, I resolutely smiled as I came off the pitch for the half-time break, even if a comically large pair of glasses were thrown at me by a masked assailant, who darted in the manager’s office.

 

There, like man a Saturday, I sat in the referee’s cupboard between two sets of changing rooms, being, shall we say, character assassinated. For support, I never hesitate to phone my wife of thirty years. She is my rock.

“Give it up if it bothers you so much, you idiot. Anyway, the car’s broken down again.”

This was my wife being supportive. I walked back out with more self-assurance. God, I love my wife.  

But as soon as we kicked off, one of the Crap FC players started an argument with a supporter. As I approached the player in question, someone - who I was unable to identify - tripped me up, sending me in to a dirty puddle, face first. Everyone seemed to have a good laugh at this.

“Who was that?” I shouted, wiping my eyes to see.

Nobody admitted it, but I did hear a Crap FC player remark, “You look like a drowned rat.”

A referee needs some respect and a player, who was lucky to be on the pitch for a previous misdemeanour, deserves a straight red card, so he understands he can’t insult a man of authority.

“That comment is totally disrespectful.” I showed him the red card and pointed for him to leave the field. He looked shocked, which they all do.

“I was only having a laugh ref.”

“Not so funny now, is it, you got to leave the field… Get off and have a bath.”

I brandished the card square in his face.  

This incident started a mass-brawl that involved me falling over a foot again and some of the spectators, both sides of the pitch fighting one another. When I tried to intervene, a posy of fathers chased me from the field to the changing room, where I took refuge, until the police arrived. I phoned my wife for support.

“Give it up.”

Somehow, the game was re-started with only nine players on each team. Both teams seemed to adapt well, and Crap FC took the lead in the match with a great individual goal, scored by a great young player, who might have gone all the way with Reading FC, before a life of drugs ruined his chances, probably. Anyway, I was quite sure the goal was off side and had no hesitation ruling it out, even though this went against the linesman and half the spectators. I stuck to my guns.

“No goal.”

I pointed to the goal, “Goal kick.”

There were screams and shouts, and insults galore, but I’m happy being Mr Unpopular, as long as the game is run as it should be. At this point, I booked two players from the Crap FC team, who said something unrepeatable to me about my ability as a professional referee. 

About ten minutes on, Crap FC took the rightful lead, after a sustained period of attacking football. A great cross was eagerly taken by the Crap FC striker and they were 2-1 ahead. There was a bit of back chat from some of the defending players, but that’s to be expected. However, when Awful FC got a corner, a Crap FC defender ran over to the Awful FC player, accusing him of cheating.

“I’ll be the judge of that, now go away.”

He didn’t listen, so I quickly brandished a yellow card and gave a free kick to Awful FC, but the offending player continued arguing to me with a couple of his team mates, while I’d placed the book and cards back in my pocket, so as far as I was concerned the game was back on and I whistled to play on.  

One of the Crap FC players, taking advantage of the distracted Crap FC players, quickly crossed the ball to the back post, where his team mate was standing and duly knocked the ball in to the net to make the game 2-2. This was a fair goal in my eyes. The player I’d last written in to the book was still standing next to me and looked at me like he wanted to rip my head off.

“You’re a so and so.”

In fact he said other words, then so and so, that shall go unspoken. I went straight for the red that was in my pocket, but as I did so, he tackled me and held me to the floor.

“I can’t let you do that, or I’ll have to hurt you ref.”  

A few of his shocked team mates tried to pull him off me. No matter how hard they tried, he held on to me with anger, probably drug-fuelled. He held so tight I became breathless and had to promise him I wouldn’t show him the red card when he let me up. He then let go and I was reminded of my promise, but, once I got my breath, and he was restrained, I recovered remembered my role as a dispenser of justice.

“Where in the rule book, since 1863, does it say you can rugby tackle a referee and stop him administering the law?”

I showed the 5^th player of the match his red card. There was much complaining from players and spectators about me reneging on my promise, but rules are there to be kept.  

While walking back to the centre circle, I noticed one of the Awful FC players was arguing with one of the irate supporters on the sideline. I went over to inspect and as I got closer, saw, with my own eyes, the Awful FC player, push the spectator, who fell back in to a group of small and completely defenceless children. On the face of it, none of those kids were hurt, but, call me an old-fashioned bugger if you wish, but I’ll not have small children dragged in to adult conflicts, ruining them forever. This behaviour is absolutely disgusting. What kind of standard is that to set vulnerable children? He was shown a straight red. The bloody hooligan then tried to go on about how the spectator had started it.

“You’re supposed to set an example to these kids.”

Off went the 6^th player of the game. I just don’t get some of these idiots that are allowed to play on the public football pitches of Berkshire. When I played, we called the ref sir, but as one of the players collided with me, he spoke a language I don’t call English.

“soz, bro,” I think he said.

“I’m not your brother, yo.”

The game continued as tight as it could be with only eight players on each team and a lot of free space on the pitch. Players tired and slowed down, creating fewer chances for the teams to attack. I think Crap FC were playing the better football that could be played. In fact, Crap FC had a great chance to take the lead when one of their strikers ran free of the last defender with only the goal keeper to beat, but he was fowled and I pointed for a penalty. 

As I was about to blow for the penalty to be taken, I felt a sharp pain in my neck. It wasn’t rheumatism or a joint pain that I can suffer on damp days, more like a missile projected at me, so I looked around and couldn’t see anything suspicious. I regained myself and was about to blow the whistle, and it happened again. I looked in the direction it came from to see the same children that the player had pushed a spectator in to, loitering with feigned disinterest.   

I had no choice but to stop the game for the sake of the children, parents and spectators, then I wandered over.

“Which one of you kids is shooting at me?” There were about five of them, not one of which said a word, but moved slowly away to reveal a young toddler sitting on his bum, holding a sling shot in his hand. Clearly it wasn’t him, but I decided to confiscate the sling shot all the same, for the safety of everyone else and myself, which in turn provoked his father to come forward.

“He was only having a bit of fun.”

“Only having a bit of fun for him is ruining the game for everyone else.”

Some people are just selfish and this kid was one of those people, even though it was probably one of the older ones. Some friends they were to pin the blame on him. 

Meanwhile, the players were yelling at me as well as spectators, and the penalty was scored. The score was now 3-2 to Crap FC and less than ten minutes to go, which is what the game was really about. When a team is winning so closely, with so little time left, it was no surprise to see they used delaying tactics in order to run the clock down. One time-delaying tactic that I couldn’t ignore, and I personally think unsporting, was used by the Crap FC goal keeper. As a goal keeper, he must only hold the ball with his hands for no longer than 6 seconds, before releasing to one of his players. The first time I saw him hold it longer, I let it go, but counted to nine seconds in my head and said nothing. But when I caught him doing it a few minutes later, I blew my whistle and gave a penalty for disruptive and deliberate time wasting. After the usual arguing, the penalty was about to be taken when the striker running to the ball was tripped up and landed in the mud. Without hesitation, I sent the offender off, while being insulted by his friends.

I suppose the crowd got the result they deserved, as I was now obliged, - by the official rules - to abandon the match, as we were now one less than the mandatory minimum to play an official match. Unfortunately I was chased to the car and had to drive off sooner than intended, leaving my kit bag and favourite flask behind. I added this in the referee report and am sorry to say this is not a rare incident in the modern game of amateur football, played by half-wits who think they’re playing in the Premier League. All the same, I have been asked to referee the re-match next week and said, “Of course,” without hesitation, because I love the game of football.