The Roar
The Roar

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They’re blind, they’re deaf - who’d want to be a ref?

Who'd wanna be a ref?
Expert
13th August, 2014
14

I’ll admit that I’m typically scathing towards the men in the middle. I’ve dished out more than an appropriate share of verbal volleys over the years.

Sarcastic applause is the only type of gratitude I’ve ever displayed. But a weekend epiphany has given me a new decree.

I had gone to watch a couple of my mates play their final game of the season in the lower-lower-lower divisions of park football, somewhere out in the depths of Western Sydney suburbia. My mates, who for the sake of this recount, play for the ‘Blues’, promise me fireworks – they were up against their direct rivals (the ‘Whites’) for the last spot in the semis.

It’s ten minutes before kick-off though and the referee still hasn’t made an appearance. The sidelines are canvased for a willing volunteer. I’m offered the job, but I swiftly say no. I’m here to enjoy a lazy afternoon of dustbowl football, not to see myself become the enemy.

But just as the search begins to border on desperate, I have an uncharacteristic change of heart. This could well be my chance, I think to myself, to validate my criticisms of referees; to show the rotating cast of mistake-makers how easy things can be.

I take the rusted netball whistle on offer, and even despite having no linesman to support me, I’m supremely confident of delivering a performance worthy of genuine applause.

As both teams run through their pre-match warm-ups and routines, I take a moment to ponder what type of referee I’d like to be.

Will I rule with an infallible iron fist, seising every chance to needlessly stamp my hubris on the game?

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Perhaps I’ll take the collegial approach, attempting to win over affections by engaging in playful banter and calling players by their first names.

Or maybe I’ll play the role of the silent deflector; the stone-cold, steely-faced official who isn’t capable of small talk, providing explanations or showing any signs of enjoyment whatsoever.

Buoyed by this foreign sense of authority, I oversee the first half with swashbuckling aplomb. I’m not called upon too often, but when I am, my calls are clear and my hand gestures textbook. The score is locked at 0-0 after a very mild-mannered opening stanza.

The cosmic balance must’ve been ruptured during the interval, because the second half is a hellish firestorm of testosterone. The turning point comes almost immediately after the restart.

The Blues have the ball camped in the Whites box when a heavy touch gives way to a Herculean clearance by a Whites defender. It catapults over halfway, providing the bait for a lone foot-race between striker and stopper. In the midst of the joust, the Whites striker tumbles to the ground, just as he was appearing to gain the advantage.

At this moment, I’m still some 40 yards away from the incident. The old adage says the ball moves quicker than you, and it’s seemingly amplified when you’re the one with the whistle.

It would’ve been impossible for me get in a position to make the perfect call, and so I act on instinct and wave play on. But I’m soon surrounded by a circle of burning eyes and gnashing teeth that make me question whether I’ve made the right decision.

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They’re screaming in unison, just inches from my face, and I literally have to wade through a wall of arms and shoulders to get back to the game. In reality, I could’ve easily sent at least three of them off but I’m keen to avoid escalating things beyond repair.

It doesn’t work though, because every call thereafter is met with a venomous whine or scoff, and I’m second-guessing myself more and more with every passing second.

Even the most obvious of calls are met with unanimous disdain by the Whites. It’s a twisted phenomenon – you’re made to feel at fault for things that you have no bearing on. I reassure myself that I’m being completely impartial, but the cries of the mob work their way into my conscience.

We’re into the last minute of stoppage time when a Whites defender upends a Blues player in the box. There’s minimal contact, though enough to justify a penalty. I blow the whistle.

The same circle of players gravitates to me once again.

While this part of the country is well noted as a breeding ground for some of our most revered talent, I’d also argue that it’s equally skilled at producing some of the most colourful phrases you’re likely to ever hear.

I’m slapped with insults that I’ve never heard before. They’re certainly creative; I’ll give them that. The penalty will be the last kick of the game and so I choose to keep the cards in my pocket once more, desperate not to antagonise a situation that threatens to spill into dangerous territory.

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It’s more difficult this time round though; I have to peel their grips away from my body.

Somehow, it calms enough for the penalty to be taken. It’s scored. The Blues win and qualify for the semis. The Whites don’t. They’re pissed. And they let me know it.

It’s been nearly a week since the game, but I’m still replaying things over in my head. And that’s even without the looming dread of having to face the media or a review panel.

And it’s surfaced an idea that I’ve always harboured deep down – referees are human, very human. They’re perfectly susceptible to the natural forces of intimidation and pressure and doubt just as much as any.

What’s more, refereeing is a job where you’re only likely to satisfy 50 per cent of the people you’re servicing. That takes courage and a hardiness found in few.

So this weekend, spare a thought for the man in black.

And remember: there’s a good chance that he loves the game just as much as you do.

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