A Day in the Life of a Sunday League Ref

A couple of Sundays ago I awoke and was suddenly fuelled by a burning desire to leave the comfort of my living room and referee a game of Sunday league football. Well, not really… I didn’t actually want to give up the best part of my Sunday to watch a bunch of mediocre footballers trip over their own feet. Given however, that I too am partial to exposing my ineptitude on the football field each Sunday, I reasoned that by volunteering to referee, I was doing others a favour that would hopefully be returned.

It was a terrible decision.

I didn’t realise it before, but the best way to make 22 people hate you is to spend five minutes being relatively hesitant about whether or not to blow a whistle. Initially, I laboured under the sad misconception that, it being Sunday league and all, they would want a free flowing game without too much interference from yours truly. I had assumed that each side would be happy to play in the spirit of the game, respecting each other and myself in a utopian display of true goodwill and sportsmanship – I was wrong. In the ensuing hour and a half I was exposed to the darker side of human nature. Both teams were conniving and deceitful in their attempts to manipulate me into making decisions and under the increasing pressure I floundered. Several frail blows of the whistle and marginal offside calls later, tempers on both sides flared and pretty soon the game descended into farce. Inwardly praying that there would be no major incidents, I attempted to keep calm and carry on.

Luckily a game of football can only last so long, and I sought solace in this thought as the game reached the end of the first half. As the minutes of the second half slowly ticked away, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. With 10 minutes to go however, a clumsy foul in the box sent a marauding winger flying and my worst nightmare was realised – all eyes were on me. Each player spun around to see what I was going to do. I blew my whistle. Still unsure of myself, and with the awkward hesitation of a young man losing his virginity, I pointed limply to the spot.

It was a terrible decision.

Judging by the reaction from some of the players you would have thought they had just caught me having an orgy with their mothers. A tsunami of abuse was hurled my way and several of the players invaded my personal space. As a man who lives in perpetual fear of confrontation, this all proved too much for me. The game mercifully ended soon after (there were still five minutes to go, but I blew the whistle anyway) with the final result 3-3. Pathetically, this was a small crumb of comfort for me because, as I walked off the field, I knew that both teams were disappointed that they hadn’t been able to win.

Luckily my own team were playing the next match and so I took my position on the field hoping to put the morning’s misery out of my mind. To my horror, as the game progressed I became aware that in this game too, players from both sides were committing the dual offence of both cheating and abusing the ref. The ref was doing us a favour, he wasn’t getting paid and he certainly wasn’t enjoying himself. It was disappointing to see him treated in such a way.

Perhaps it is just a by-product of playing football, perhaps it was something to do with the weather that day, perhaps everyone in St Andrews is a bastard – I am not sure. Whichever way you slice it, there was a distinct lack of empathy on display that Sunday from almost everyone. I enjoy playing Sunday league and now I have a newfound respect for the referees. I just hope that next time I am in their position, people will have a little more respect for me.

Images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Bicycle_kick#mediaviewer/File:Rovesciata_Carlo_Parola.jpg / http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Association_football#mediaviewer/File:Leon_Rugilo.jpg