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“People, who need people,” sang Barbara Streisand in her hit song of 1964, People, “are the luckiest people in the world.”
And if there’s a group of people in the world who need people, and love, and a vigorous group man-hug, it’s the referees of our dear sweet National Rugby League.
Is there a more vilified group? Are there individuals in the game – the world – for whom perfection is so demanded?
There are not. And it’s time – past time – we go into bat for ‘em.
Consider: Players stuff up rudimentary play-the-ball, administrators schedule Dragons-Rabbits at the SCG at 6pm on a Friday, and journos make spelling mistakes using software with a computerised spell-checker.
And these people are criticised, sure. But we don’t demand they’re sacked. We understand they are humans, and to err is thus, et cetera.
Yet if refs make a mistake, they’re not considered human. Or at best the most useless humans in the world.
And we demand they’re sacked. Which is silly.
Or maybe it’s fair enough: we pay our Fox Sports subscription we can yodel thus.
(Channel Nine).
But here’s the thing: if we are going to demand sackings when refs make mistakes, we must apply the same thing to ourselves. We can’t demand perfect adjudication unless we apply the same stringent demands upon ourselves in our everyday lives.
For as Jesus and possibly Barbara Streisand said: he who has not sinned may indeed ask the referee if his eyes are painted on.
So if you’re fair dinkum, next time you return from the bar and can’t remember which beer belongs to who, sack yourself from the pub. Red card, home you go.
And cut the refs some slack. It’s a very tricky gig, and they do get 97 per cent of things spot-on correct.
And that’s not a number I plucked from the air. Their work is quantified thus. Refs will make between 390 and 410 decisions every match. And every single one is reviewed. Refs are allowed a mistake rate of three per cent.
Decisions are graded differently. Missing a man inside the ten does not equate to sending the wrong fellow off.
They train hard. Really hard. During the week refs will ride a bike or work a rowing machine until they attain a certain heart-rate, and then they’ll be tested with decisions.
They call it BTUF – Brain Training Under Fatigue. They’re exhausted then tested cognitively.
And not just rugby league stuff. There could be quizzes on an iPad. Tracking a digital ball. Quick! Six times nine!
Like police officers they undertake simulated conflict to deal with “unreasonable” people. You get yelled at by James Graham and David Klemmer. Deal with that.
I hung around with the refs one evening, Bulldogs versus Souths at ANZ Stadium, like a fly-on-the-wall in the sheds. Smell of liniment in the air, match balls on a table. Technical stuff, cords, comms kit, what look like flak jackets.
Refs boss Tony Archer was there. And Russell Smith, ref coach. He would be up watching replays of the night’s game until 3am.
That was about the time the refs were able to leave ANZ Stadium the previous time those teams met, the infamous Night of The Bottles. Bad Friday.
Refs Jared Maxwell and Gavin Morris talked shop with Archer, making karate chop movements with their hands, talking tactics, phantom salt-and-pepper shakers.
I caught bits of it – “Take ‘em back”, “move ‘em up”. Some of it they whispered lest the journo hear. Publicity-conscious, our refs. Probably fair enough.
Walking out onto the ground with Archer a bloke leaned over the parapets ten metres above us and yelled: “Archer! Your refs are shit! They’re shit, mate! Shiiiiit.”
Archer made a face a cross between a smirk and a brush. Pfft, good one, champion.
I took a plastic seat on the sideline next to reserve ref Ben Cummins. ANZ Stadium was roaring for Dogs and Bunnies. It was a frothing Coliseum. The noise on the sideline was a cloak. Cummins was still as a ninja.
A replay of a knock-on came on the screen. Maxwell awarded Souths a scrum based on the word from video ref Bernard Sutton.
“People say these things can take too long and to just get on with it,” said Cummins. “But end of the day the decision is right.”
I noted that people don’t seem to cop that a referee can make a mistake. Cummins chuckled. “That is true.”
By the 33rd minute the Bulldogs led 18-nil. Souths attacked but the Dogs conceded a string of penalties.
“When teams get ahead and they’re defending they don’t mind giving away penalties,” said Cummins.
“Wouldn’t Bin ‘em?” I asked.
“You’d have a word with the captain first,” replied Cummins.
(AAP Image/Mick Tsikas)
As if reading Cummins’ mind, Maxwell called out James Graham. Word came from the video box there’s been five consecutive penalties in the ruck. Maxwell explained this to Graham. The big Pom nodded. Something of a ritual. Graham knew what he could get away with and now knew for how long.
Sam Kasiano came off after 15 minutes of sweaty man-action. A giant Burgess came off, blowing like bellows. All these sweating behemoths, on and off.
But refs Jared Maxwell and Gavin Morris had no such respite. Their bodies and minds were engaged all 80 minutes.
After a scoot from dummy-half a winger can float back off to his wing. Props can go hammer-and-tong then have a drink. Even playmakers can have a spell in defence one in from the sideline.
But refs, running all game, have to concentrate every second.
Consider one single hit-up. Refs need to think of: his position; comms with his fellow referee; whether blokes are back ten; whether it’s a high tackle; a late tackle; a strip; a forward pass; a dud play-the-ball; the lippy hooker; the 30,000 people screaming obscenities.
And repeat. Every play, every tackle, every set. All game.
Bottom line is they’re super-fit rules people, professional action men of officialdom. And they actually make very few mistakes but those they do are massively amplified.
Their best games they’re anonymous.
Bottom line they do their best. And they are the best there is.
Even if their eyes are painted on.