International Official (Unofficial) by Bill Pottorff

What do you think of when you hear the word challenge? Climbing to the top of a mountain peak, swimming or running some astonishing distance, taking on some action that an ordinary human finds extraordinary? I looked up the word “CHALLENGE” in the dictionary and I found over 20 definitions. My favorite was, “Difficulty in a job or undertaking that is stimulating to the one engaged in it.” When footballers (soccer players) get to the end of their playing days, many go into coaching or training while others continue their passion by taking up a position on the couch with a beer watching the game. But some decide to pick up a whistle and become the custodians of fairness and safety, the judge and jury of the laws of the game carried out in the blink of an eye, to discern circumstances, proclaim responsibility and instantaneously punish with conviction yet never allow decisions made, but instead player’s actions to dictate the outcome of every match. In other words, they pull on a black shirt and become referees.My many years of playing the game gave me an advantage with the laws and foul recognition, but match management only comes after many mistakes during play. A referee can watch and read and dissect diagrams and attend seminars, but it is the hours and hours of chasing players and dealing with the unexpected that brings with it the experience to move along to the next level. Most referees have a next level to attain. Maybe a higher level of match, school ball, that classic stadium, those special teams or a division or league. Gaining a higher rank is only a vehicle to become qualified to get to the matches one wants to officiate. Developing a new challenge can be a rebirth in refereeing. In the midst of burnout a new target to shoot at can give birth to a new excitement, a rejuvenated meaning. Finding the next challenge and setting that bar at an attainable level is what keeps many officials who referee for the right reason in the game and this is a story about one such challenge.Several months ago I was reading the recently discontinued monthly web based Corsham Referee International Football Newsletter, produced by the brilliant Julian Carosi (Where have you gone Julian Carosi… a planet turns its lonely eyes to you… Woo, Woo, Woo… keep reading… there will be no more Simon and Garfunkel references…I promise). He mentioned the fact that England, much like every other country in the world, has a deficit of qualified referees to work their matches. I found this hard to believe at first until I learned from several sources that the number of active

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referees can diminish by 40% and more from the beginning to the end of a normal season. This is sadly due to referees choosing not to continue to endure abuse from the coaches, players and parents. It leaves assignors scrambling for officials and matches that go unattended. It can also create a window for a referee to pack his whistle and take on the challenge of officiating a match abroad.Knowing that I was going to England to visit my lovely wife’s family in May, I contacted Mr. Carosi about the possibility of being a guest official during my stay in the UK. He quickly replied to my message with the information I required. As my in-laws live in Stoke-on-Trent, Julian gave me the contact information for Mr. Peter Heafield, the Referee Development Officer for the Staffordshire Football Association. I put together an introduction e-mail with all of my pertinent information and a request to officiate a match, only half expecting a positive response. But to my surprise I received a message the next day from Mr. Heafield saying that he was sure he could get a match for me if I contacted him nearer to the time I was going to be visiting.Due to the excitement generated by his response, my initial inclination was to contact him again and ask the one-hundred-and-one questions that I had, but on further introspection I wanted to portray the calm, cool and so under control official that I am

replying, “Good stuff. Contact you nearer my visit. All the best, Bill”

I couldn’t wait to tell my other two mates that comprise “The Three Amigos”, the finest refereeing team that has ever worked a match in these parts. In work, family or play, have you ever been in a team where the understanding is so strong that you can actually sense what the other members are going to do before it happens? Well… we don’t have that, but we have a great time working matches together! (I did say finest, that being

an unquantifiable qualifier) I should say had that, as our great friend Zach (with an “H”) Smith left the New York area for business purposes in Florida, leaving Andrew Ashmall-Liversidge (that’s his nickname… you should hear the long version!) and I to search for the replacement Amigo. Make that a substitute amigo… never a replacement my dear Zach (with an “H”)

They were both very supportive of my adventurous quest to broaden my horizons in far away lands, to learn and advance my techniques as a football official. Back in the pub after officiating another fine match, Andrew’s first response after I gleefully told of my upcoming adventure was to take a large pull off his pint, plonk his glass down on the table and grunt, “You’re gonna get punched”.

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Left: The Buffalo, Ashmall Right: The Monkey, Smith Center: The Emu, Yours truly

A thought that hadn’t even remotely occurred to me now was at the forefront of my thinking. I retorted defensively, going into a protracted list of difficult matches with teams that wanted to kick each others balls more than the match ball and how I magnificently managed the situations. Then I realized my English amigo was winding me up as a wide smile spread across his broad face. I chuckled and placed the thought to the back of my mind, but that quip stayed with me and came to the surface once again in the midst of my adventure.

My wife, Debs left for England a week before I did as she had more vacation time coming to her and wanted to spend time with her family. I had some business to attend to in London before I took the train to meet her in Stoke. I was able to lookup some old team mates of mine after my business meeting with the directors of London’s DG3, the European division of the international printing company I sell printing for in the New York area. Of course meeting my friends requires several pints of refreshment before scampering to catch my train to Stoke.

After flying all night and meeting for a drink with my debaucherous friends, my misses was more than a little nervous that I might fall fast asleep, miss my station stop in Stoke and end up miles away in Manchester. And I would have as well but not for the fact that I asked the conductor to please wake me. I explained that I had come to London on the red eye from New York. The kind looking old woman looked into my bloodshot eyes and proclaimed that she was a conductor and not an alarm clock and refused to commit to the task. My puzzled look became a plea to those around me to please warn me when the Stoke station was nearing and thankfully a couple across the isle was kind enough to wake me. My face was smooshed into the contours of my luggage when I was gently woken by my neighbors. My wife’s panicked look on the Stoke station platform melted into happiness when I was the last to step off of the train. She got me back to her folks place and into my warm bed. I didn’t sleep that night… it was more like a coma.

Stoke-on-Trent is a delightfully beautiful place to all but those who live there it seems but I guess where one lives and works is always more mundane than where one visits. However, I find it hard to listen to anyone who is not astounded over beauty of the countryside that is so green that one must squint ones eyes like looking into the illumination of a green sun. The ancient oaks watch over the dark blue system of canals that slowly flow through the creases in the green landscape while long thin barges slowly sputter for miles and navigate their system of locks. The sky is scrubbed

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My DG3 Colleagues in London

clean by rain regularly giving the air a freshness that can revitalize with a single deep breath. It seems around every corner is a picture postcard from another era when life was more simple.

The Stoke area is known as The Potteries, originally named for its indigenous clay used in the creation of fine creamware, bone china and famous figurines. Unfortunately the large manufacturers of these beautiful creations have

recently all but disappeared and the kiln smokestacks that once dominated the cityscape stand idle in stages of deterioration. This is a sore subject with the locals as it was a source of pride and identity that may never be replaced. Stoke is also known for the football fanatics (you may have heard them referred to as hooligans) who fiercely support their teams, Stoke City and Port Vale. They are some of the hardest in the country and their violent exploits are legendary, although the FA has put in place policies that have helped to control the organized battles of previous decades.

Peter Heafield had left a message with my in-laws to have me contact Mr. Tony Green. Tony is the league assignor for The Potteries and District Sunday League based in Staffordshire. As it turns out, Tony is also an expert official and a very quality man.

A fresh new English Midlands morning encouraged my eager phone call to Tony. He spoke in a slow confident almost melodic midlands drawl as if each word was chosen just for the sentence he was speaking. He explained to me that I was going to be the center official for an open aged Premiere match between the two towns of Knutton and Sneyd Green. He said that with a win, Sneyd would be level on points with the league leaders who had a game in hand. So they needed this win to keep their slim hopes of a title alive. Tony pointed out Knutton was down the table and had no chance at the title but are known to be a hard nosed lot that won’t roll over for any team coming to their park.

“Are you up for it Bill?” Tony smiled into the phone.

I confidently explained that this is exactly the sort of clash I envisioned when I set out to organize this cultural exchange and I was very much up for the challenge. We arranged to meet the following morning at the petrol station down the road as he actually lived only a short distance away. The directions to the field were complicated

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so Debs agreed to follow Tony to the park, take some photos for me than go to her girlfriend’s house nearby so she wouldn’t be forced to endure the entire match. We decided to rendezvous at 9:50 for the 11:00 kickoff and Tony completed the call with a ta-rah. I hung up the phone with a smile of anticipation and a flutter of excitement.

It was then that my wife handed me a small plastic red and white striped booklet with the Stoke City Football Club seal emblazoned on its cover. I thought she had picked up a team picture book until I opened it. There staring back at me was a ticket to Stokes final home match of the season that afternoon at Britannia Stadium vs. Wigan Athletic. Do I have the greatest wife in the world or what!

The ticket booklet has a single season ticket with the location of the seat showing through a clear plastic insert on the inside front cover and a book of alphabetized coupons that are removed each match when entering the stadium according to the letter that is posted out front on game day. This makes it a little more difficult for those other than the season ticket owner to use unless trusted to return the book of coupons.

It was a wonderful ticket! Near the center line just 8 rows up from the visitor’s bench. I would be sitting on my own but in a fabulous spot to watch the celebration of a team that most pre-season prognosticators reckoned would not stay up in the Premiership and be relegated back down after one season.

Debs had gotten the ticket from our special friends Diana and Maurice (the greatest pub crawlers who have ever lived… my heart wishes they lived nearer but my liver is thankful they don’t!) whose neighbor was not able to use it. She also organized to drop me at Weatherspoons, a large pub just off the center square to meet our good friend Pete who is a big Stoke supporter and a wonderful man. We have gone out on many occasions over the years with him and

his lovely wife Virginia but I hadn’t seen them for some time.

Debs dropped me out front in the bustling hive of excitement that was pre-match Weatherspoons and I went inside and found Pete quite easily considering the throng of red and white clad supporters attempting to be served(I guess being 6’5’ helps). We had a quick pint and then he wanted to go to another pub up the road named Last Orders where his mates were. This was a smaller establishment with its patrons

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packed in even tighter and the conversations were louder and faster. It was obviously getting closer to kickoff. We patiently waited for a fresh pint at the bar when Pete motioned for me to follow him towards the back. We passed a load of supporters dressed in an array of costumes ranging from knights in chain mail to beefeaters to a man with a mustache wearing a red wig and a ball gown. I pretended not to notice the man in the dress as he probably could have beaten me up and later Pete explained that on the final home match of the season the lads like to play fancy dress. I followed Pete through the raucous crowd past the pool table, down a dark smelly corridor and out the back door to a sunny out door space complete with a big protected wide screen TV that was showing the Manchester United vs. Arsenal match. The area was the creation of the space between the brick backsides of several buildings with three wooden picnic tables and large ashtrays overflowing with stubbed out cigarette ends. The space was filled with barrel chested men with thick necks and callused fingers bringing their cigarettes up to their ruddy faces. Pete introduced me to several of these

men who looked me in the eye and offered steely handshakes revealing tattoo encrusted forearms. They were Stoke supporters and in great spirits as “We’re staying up” was the phrase on everyone’s lips. We enjoyed several more pints together before Pete advised me to get the remainder of my pint down my neck because we were about to take a taxi to the football ground.

A week later, debs and I were doing the obligatory ten-pubs-in-five-hour-pub-crawl with our friends Diane and Maurice in the nearby party streets of Newcastle-under-Lyme when we came across a table of the men I had met in the Last Orders out back space. Several of them shouted, “Hey Bill!” and I immediately walked over to their table to say hello. We shook hands and had small talk for a moment or two; I wished them all the best then rejoined my group. Maurice was staring at me through eyes resembling ping-pong balls when he asked me how I knew that lot. I told him and he began to explain that that group of fellows was part of the Naughty Forty, one of the most notorious hooligan gangs in all of England. They were big enough alright but I wouldn’t have guessed that these chaps were the same lot from these newspaper clippings:

http://www.mark-chester.co.uk/cuttings.php

Stoke City versus Wigan Athletic had a wonderful carnival atmosphere as everyone knew that win or lose, The Potters were staying up! It was a commemoration of an over achieving season without the necessity or torment of a do or die victory that was

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The phrase of the day from some of the greatest fans in all of England

anticipated in the pre-season. There was sustained electricity in the air but the singing lost some of its steam during a long period without any real threats by either team late in the first half. The loudest it got during that period was when one of Rory Delap’s enormous throws was rightly disallowed by referee Lee Probert because it beat Wigan’s goalkeeper Richard Kingson and sailed into the net without touching anyone.

I had a meat pie and a cup of strong black coffee at the half to take the edge off the chill that blew through the stadium while the teams were in their changing rooms, but when the ball was in play my body was warmed with the pure excitement in the air. Stoke won the match 2-0 on goals by Fuller and Beattie, both in the final 20 minutes that brought up the tempo of the celebration and the teams signature song, Tom Jones’ “Delilah” could be heard for miles around. With Probert’s final whistle came a deafening roar and I saw many hugs and tears of joy as the players came back out and circled the field in a victory lap of recognition to their adoring fans. It was moving to witness the Potters pride.

I found the right bus to get me back into the town center for a final pint with Pete before Debs collected me and took me home to rest up for my big day blowing my whistle.

I woke with a smile knowing that it was finally my day to become an international (unofficial) official and the sun was streaming into the room through the spaces between the curtains. I peeled them apart revealing a crystal clear blue sky that was calling out to all earths’ inhabitants to come out and enjoy! I had a hearty Midlands breakfast that consisted of eggs, whose yolks were dazzlingly orange (not the pukey yellow yolks that emerge from the American super market variety), thick slabs of meaty bacon(not the fat with a fringe of meat that passes for acceptable stateside) and cheese filled oatcakes (oatcakes are indigenous to and only available in Stoke-on-Trent and are difficult to find because their secret recipe can only be bought with the purchase of the oatcake house of which very few remain) with their hearty taste and

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The entrance to the park

unique consistency rounded off a perfect preparation for the task at hand. I received my well wishes from the in-laws and it was off to meet Tony.

We arrived at the petrol station 5 minutes early and as is standard with any great referee, Tony was already there waiting for us. After a smile of recognition and a quick intro we were off following closely behind Tony’s silver Toyota on our 15 minute trek to the match at Alsagers Bank. It was a good plan to follow him as we would have had trouble locating the park with its tiny lanes and lack of street signs but we arrived about the same time as the field caretakers and team managers. Only moments later, Ron Daily my other assistant referee arrived with a smile.

We walked across the gravel parking lot towards the opening in the tall iron fence admiring the beautiful green pitch and the vivid blue sky with a single large billowy cloud. We entered the gateway and walked towards the field where we could see the grounds keepers feeding a long blue rope through eyes at the top of waist high posts that were evenly spaced around the entire pitch. Tony explained that this was a league directive to keep all supporters at least ten yards from the touch lines. As we walked the field looking for maladies that could cause injury to the players, it was interesting to listen to Tony and Ron comparing notes on recent matches, results and challenging incidents that required their tactful management. We found a potential ankle breaking hole on the field near the edge of one of the penalty areas that was quickly filled but it sparked Tony to tell a tale of a pitch that is carved out of the middle of a dense forest that each time he works a match there, dozens of holes must to be filled because of an infestation of… rabbits.

We finished our pitch inspection and started back towards the changing facility watching the custodians erect portable player benches with green canvas rain protection for each team near the touch line. We entered the small cement block club house into a dimly lit alcove with several doors laid out before us. Tony led us into the referee changing room which was slightly larger than a closet with built in benches around its edges and a shower stall at the back. It was clean and smelled better than anticipated as it seemed recently painted in a shiny beige color. It was the epitome of basic.

There was a rap at the door and someone handed Tony the team sheets and asked if we would like coffee or tea. I asked if I could get a cup for my wife and he replied “Sure, but we have no milk.”

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I ran out to the car and Debs asked for tea, so I hustled back through the front door and into the changing room. I was a step or two into the room with the words “Tea please” on my lips before I realized there were 18 sets of eyes staring at me in astonishment that a referee was interrupting the managers impassioned pre-match speech. The manager slowly turned with daggers in his eyes while I played it off cool by saying something like,” Uhhh… daaa…ooops, uh wrong room..ha ha”.

My head was nearly exploding with embarrassment as my hand reached behind me desperately stabbing for the door handle to make my hasty retreat. I felt a titanic relief as I left the room until I nearly bumped into the manager and the captain of the other team in the corridor looking at me wondering why on earth I was coming out of the opposing teams training room before a match! I played this off masterfully once again as I gave them a sort of boy scout salute and said, ”Uhhh… ha ha …good luck today”, as they stared at me suspiciously. I ducked into the proper door to the relative safety of the changing room and forgot all about Deb’s tea.

My partners were now dressed and I only had to take off my track suit and I was ready myself. I was told that I would not need to bring my flags as they would be furnished and we used Tony’s very cool set of Touchline Flags (of which I’m now a proud owner) that have handles like motorcycle grips and the spinning system that does not allow the flag to tangle is far better than any I have ever used. Tony presented me with a Staffordshire Referee Association patch that Peter Heafield had generously supplied for my uniform but unfortunately it had no Velcro to attach it to my chest pocket, so I used my USSF patch instead. I brought two additional USSF patches to give to each of them and they seemed genuinely pleased to receive them. I placed my book into my top pocket, my extra yellow card for quick bookings in my front pocket along with my whistle and zipped my USSF flipping coin into my back pocket and was ready to present my pre-match briefing. I have worked on my pre-game, as it is normally referred to in the states for years now and I am proud of the way it has developed. I normally receive positive feedback from the depth that is covered quickly but effectively. It normally begins with a brief review of AR mechanics but I didn’t feel this was appropriate as they might find it demeaning. So, I skipped that and went to positioning which is normally a sentence or two about which section of the field they will be stationed and the direction of the diagonal I will patrol. Winston Churchill is attributed with the quote, “Britain and America are two countries divided by a common language’’ and it proved that referee terminology differs greatly as well. We struggled

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Entering the field of play

with this simple concept of our positioning until it became so ridiculous we just had to laugh and trace out our positioning on the wall! FYI: The term I was taught is the “Left Diagonal” which refers to the center referees running to the left corners of the field and the AR is always stationed on the referees right touchline whereas they used the term “Left Backs” pertaining to the ARs always patrolling the portion of the field nearest to the defenses’ left full back, which is just a different way of saying the same thing.

After that small stumble I proceeded with my pre-game which I realized had to be trimmed down a hair due to my time consuming gaffs. My composure returned and I felt right at home going through the details of what I expected of our team in dealing with the many situations that normally happen and to touch on a few circumstances that rarely happen but are very important to deal with correctly when the situation does arise. I closed my pregame as I normally do with, “Work hard, think fast and expect the unexpected”, and right on queue there was another rap on the door with an invitation to take the field.

The three of us walked out into the daylight together and the first thing I noticed was my billowy cloud had grown into an overcast sky and a brisk breeze was up, carrying with it quite a chill. The Knutton Matthey team was warming up on one end of the field wearing claret tops and shorts with white socks while the Sneyd Green team was entirely clad in bright blue. I watched them warming up, knocking the ball across the field right to their teammates feet and trapping on a dime and I recognized immediately that the standard of this match would be high.

I asked my two AR’s if they knew of any bad blood between any players and they said they knew of none. I missed the obvious follow up which is, are there any players they feel might be targets due to their skill level? As it turns out I learned at half time that each team had several professional players that play for there select teams for money and then play with the lads on their Sunday side. It didn’t come into play this time, but this is important information to have before the match because if initially aware of a dichotomy of abilities, the better players could be saved some knocks early on by protecting them from any lesser skilled player’s rough treatment. I gathered from our conversations that Tony is not shy about issuing yellow cards, which I have no problem with but I am a firm believer in communicating my displeasure with my whistle and verbal admonishments before going to my book, especially early on. But my biggest concern was to discern what is acceptable contact and what is a foul at this level in this

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Look at the old boy run!

league. This is not something that Tony or Ron could describe to me, it is something that I needed to determine for myself by watching and listening to the players reactions to contact.

My watch said it was five minutes to eleven and the players were warmed up and heading towards their bench areas for their final coaches brief. I checked in the three match balls leaving two near the benches and tucked one under my arm. My assistants had their flags furled tightly and straight to their sides looking to me for the nod to take the field. We simultaneously took our steps onto the pitch and with my whistle met the captains at the center circle for the coin toss. The captains shook hands and I conducted the toss. The Sneyd skipper chose heads correctly while curiously trying to read what is written on my unusual patch and I explained to both captains that I would like my conversations to be with only them (yeah right!) and to let me know if I can be of service throughout the match. We shook hands and they jogged to join their teammates and take their positions. My teammates took turns shaking my hand and wished me luck before scampering off to check the nets one last time and get into position. I counted the players, confirmed that the keepers where ready and received nods form my ARs with their flags unfurled. I poked the buttons to begin both of my watches (one watch goes up from zero which is helpful when documenting at what minute a goal is scored and the other counts down from 45 ending with a buzzing alarm), took a deep breath and gave a strong authoritative blow on the whistle. My adventure was finally under way!

I admit I was a little cautious with contact to begin with and the players let me know about it, but they quickly got the ball back into play so it wasn’t obvious or prolonged ridicule and I soon began to loosen the reins on the match. I try to speak to the players throughout the match, just small comments about their performance or conduct or I’ll try to introduce some humor. If for nothing else, it lets them know that I am near by to make them think twice about fouling but it also portrays that I want to be involved in their match, I am working hard for them and I’m not just there to collect a paycheck. It is a good tactic for match management but it does open one up for debate about absolutely every call, which, as long as they aren’t irresponsibly berating me or getting too loud, the banter can be quite entertaining at times. Being an out-of-towner, on this day I probably wasn’t as chatty as I normally am, but that didn’t stop them from evaluating every call!

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Tony Flagging

Controlling this match on its own was difficult enough but I had my pretty blue sky with its puffy cloud deteriorate before I knew it into a blinding rainstorm complete with gale force winds and eyeball stinging sleet! I was forced to take up blinking several times per second and giving up on a portion of the field to keep the wind behind me and my eyes slightly less assaulted.

It didn’t take long for Sneyd to stamp their superiority on the match as they scored their first in the third minute and second in the 20th both on fine strikes by their number ten, Aaron Kelter. He had several other opportunities that were saved or narrowly missed so I identified him as an important player to keep an eye on to protect him against harsh defensive tactics. His counterpart on Knutton, number nine Dwayne Spence was an extremely fast player with good skills but his team mates couldn’t seem to get the ball out in front of him to run onto so he was forced to deal with the ball only rarely and with his back to goal where he was not nearly as effective as when he was breaking to the goal with the ball at his feet.

The Knutton right back and the Sneyd left half came together in a bit of a fifty/fifty crunch and the ball was cleared away harmlessly, but the two had words and as they were heading back up field, the back stopped dead so the Sneyd player watching play couldn’t stop in time and bumped into his back. I had my eyes on them as I thought that they were both displeased with each others conduct so I shouted at them to behave and they both put their palms up to heaven like two little angels saying, “What?”

For a period of time I ran my diagonal much wider than normal so I could keep my beady eyes on them and make sure there was no more foolishness. I felt good about the synergy that Tony and I had built in the first few minutes as most of the business was being conducted in his end and we had great eye contact, backing each others calls and he wasn’t afraid to manage his quadrant like an assistant REFEREE should (I emphasize that as some ARs feel as if they are nothing more than a tool for the center to utilize for offside calls and balls into touch) by speaking

to the players to help maintain control. Tony is a polished professional and I enjoyed working with him almost immediately. Ron, obviously a seasoned veteran, didn’t have a lot to do (except keep himself from freezing to death in the frigid rain) made 2

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perfectly positioned offside calls ( it’s normally a perfect call when only person who complains is the player who is called offside) and I quite enjoyed his demeanor. How many times has this man been shouted at, complained to, cursed at, begged for reconsideration, spit in the general direction of, threatened and had his integrity challenged, yet he still makes his calls with a big ear to ear smile! That’s not to say that Tony’s more reserved and stoic method of conducting a match is anything less than fabulous. In fact, I quite enjoyed his dry sense of humor that he allows to escape on occasion. I feel it is important to develop ones style of match management by looking into ones self and identifying how to deal with not only the crimes and punishment but also how to deal with rejection, personal attacks, second guessing of one’s own decisions, anger, loss of confidence and a whole host of other emotions that one must endure and concur to succeed at this position. I challenge all that read this to look into yourself and try to discover the best way for YOU to deal with the situations you have come across while officiating, especially those that became volatile. Sometimes it is most difficult to look at a situation that went bad and think of anything but how the idiot coach or the stupid player ruined the match instead of what could have done in advance to eliminate the problem before it became a problem. But… back to the match.

The tempo of the match, which I can’t really dictate as long as it is being played fairly, was running at a frantic pace. There was a lot of dribbling at full speed, hard but fair tackles, small passes in tight areas then the ball was being sprayed all over the field to be collected and the cycle continued. Oddly the ball didn’t leave the field for huge chunks of time so I couldn’t stop chasing play or slow the pace. The cold and the blinding rain along with some meritless player bickering had thrown me off a bit and I momentarily began second guessing myself. I let the thought that I might be allowing things to become unmanageable to enter my head.

I had expressed my authority early on in the match by calling several fouls that were of the somewhat minor variety and I received some negative comments from the players involved, but I also proved my fitness by being near the fouls when I stopped play and backed the calls with confident words that explained my perspective. As the players began to understand that I was fit and going to stay up with play and not tolerate foolishness, they began to get on with the match making my job much easier so I rewarded their self discipline. I began allowing play to continue citing advantage once or twice and permitting a little more physical play thus allowing the tempo to gain velocity. That’s when my mind began telling me the match had the potential of a run away train. The problem is that a referee can’t manufacture a foul to slow things down

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One half in the books

so if players are flying around, the first foul that occurs could be of a violent nature that destroys a match. I was telling the players to settle down and keep it calm while play continued, but that only goes so far. Once player management is lost it is like trying to get toothpaste back into the tube so I pushed through the mental challenge by continuing to communicate loudly and by pulling in on the reins after the ball finally went out of play.

I managed to survive this dicey section of the match without any trouble but I fully understood that the match had teetered on the edge momentarily and I would need to keep a tighter hold on things for the duration. The players still had their indiscretions and their sharp words of criticism but with little more controlled excitement. I think the frantic nature of that portion of the match took something out of the players because for the rest of the half I was able to see when something was brewing, be near the spot and was not taken by surprise by anything… that is until the second half.

I blew the whistle to end the first half. The rain had ended and the storm moved on as the sun was now occasionally peeking through the gaps between the clouds. I met Ron and Tony at the center circle where they supplied me with hand shakes and we walked off the pitch wet and cold. Even so, Ron was all smiles and gave a word of encouragement but I could sense that Tony was thinking about how to say what he wanted to convey to me. We walked a moment in silence before he said he thought I was playing too far out on the wing on my diagonal causing too large of a space between us. I agreed but explained about the little incident between the players on that side that I wanted to keep an eye on. Tony was correct in pointing out that there was a lot more going on down the center of the field that I would do better being near than babysitting the couple out on the wing. He said my fitness was good, my signals were strong but I should be talking more with the players, slowing things down more after fouls with a few words instead of allowing things to go on so frantically. Good advice.

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We went inside our little domicile and I sat down and sighed feeling a break from the tension I was feeling and going over in my head what I learned about the first half. Tony patted me on the shoulder and they both told me I was doing fine. I said something about the number 10 and that’s when he identified the several pro players in the match and their stand out play made more sense to me. Tony showed me how he puts a new slice of wide masking tape on his yellow card before each match, creating a home made writable card so when he goes to his pocket to book someone he can write on the tape and put it away quicker than getting out the book, producing the card, writing down the particulars and putting it away. Very clever but I also think he was hinting to me something else about the yellow card…to not leave it in my pocket!

We talked a bit about the match but I mainly just listened. I wanted to hear the perfect advice that was going to help me improve in the second half. I know I didn’t have a horrible first half but I did have a momentary lapse in self confidence that I hadn’t felt during a match in a very long time and that was concerning me. I know this sport, I have played at this level and higher, I have refereed matches much harder and more contentious with assistants who were much less qualified so I should not be feeling inadequate, yet my over all feeling was that I had a bad first half. I think Tony sensed what I was thinking and as we were about to take the field for the second half he asked if I was going to still be in town on Tuesday. He said there was a difficult match that he felt I would enjoy officiating and he would like me to work it if I was around. I was going to be away but that didn’t matter as the message was delivered. He looked me in the eyes, smiled and gave me another pat on the shoulder as we marched back into battle.

The second half started off more controlled than the first with more accurate passing and plays being set up with several passes strung together being finalized with an opportunity. It was end to end football, but not the blasting the ball down the field and chasing then huffing it back which allows a referee to stand in the center and watch it go back and forth like a tennis match. No, this was played on the floor with long accurate passes that required running at top speed to stay near the ball and potential fouls. I had my mojo back and I felt strong and able to stay within the best distance to make clear judgment. The match was hard but fair until a little over 10 minutes into the second half when… it happened.

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An easy penalty call from this angle and distance

In the 57th minute, Sneyd’s number eleven, Daren Chadwick, received a sharp pass in the area near the penalty spot which he trapped perfectly in front of him looking up to see exactly where he was going to deposit it in the back of the net. The closest defender, Knutton’s number seven Liam Shepherd gave Chadwick a swift kick in the

shin pad which put him off balance slightly but didn’t bring him down. However, Shepherd quickly made up for missing the opportunity with his second whack to the leg that dropped the Sneyd forward like a sack of potatoes off the back of a pickup truck. I was straight to the side only a short distance away so it was an easy call to make as I whistled and raced to the spot of the foul to award the penalty kick. As I got to the scene of the crime, Shepherd was giving the

prostrate Chadwick an earful of gripe about taking a dive and Chadwick rose quickly to stand toe to toe with Shepherd. I whistled loudly in an effort to stop any actions that might occur when suddenly Shepherd hauled off and slapped Chadwick across the face. My first inclination was to get between them and break it up, but I heard a little voice in the back of my memory croak, “You’re going to get punched!”

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It can only be red

I leapt back and returned to blowing my whistle. There was no retaliation from Chadwick as he didn’t seem to be interested and his teammates got in the middle to calm the tempers. My job on this play became much easier now as I didn’t have to decide if I was going to book Shepherd for the foul or just give the penalty. Striking is violent conduct that requires the players immediate removal from the match so my decision was made for me. To my surprise, the captain of Sneyd came along and put his arm around Knutton’s culprit and asked if since this was the last match of the season, could I please just give him a caution for the attack. I explained that this was VC and I had no alternative but to show him the red card in this instance. Shepherd left the field grumbling to himself and everyone cleared the area for the penalty kick. As I turned to give the penalty kicker the ball, to my horror it was the goalkeeper who came the entire length of the field to take the kick in a somewhat unusual act that could easily be seen as rubbing salt in the wounds. I thought I could hear the Knutton reserves sharpening their knives inside their green canvass portable bench enclosures as the keeper smashed in Sneyd’s third goal to nil. I slowly walked back to the center circle semi wishing I could just call the game right then but I knew that I had over half an hour to keep any homicides from occurring. But as I approached the kickoff a thought occurred to me that made me smile to myself… this is why I came here to do this. If I had come all this way and was asked to work a simple child’s match, I would have been disappointed. This is the challenge I asked for all of those months ago. I wanted this and now I was in the midst of it and a lot of my tension melted away because I knew that I was going to manage this successfully. As the dictionary says, I was “Stimulated to be engaged in it”. I gave Ron and Tony a smile and a nod, took a deep breath and blew my whistle to resume the match.

Chadwick was now much more animated since he got the Old Spice slap on the cheek and he was dribbling much more than I wanted him to considering he had a massive target of retaliation attached to his ankles. He was quick and clever and able to keep the ball away from the opposition and himself out from under the orthopedic surgeon’s x-ray machine.

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Players are not the only ones looking fatigued

Then, quite against play, Kutton’s skipper collected a ball at midfield and played a perfect through ball that Nickolas Dean latched onto and finished nicely to get his team on the score board. I was pleasantly surprised as I was thinking this might take some of the ill will out of the air and we could all smoothly finish this match off without further incident. But… it was only moments later that even more surprisingly, with ten men mind you, Knutton once again created

an almost identical play and suddenly in the blink of an eye we had a two goal to three contest on

our hands. The match had turned for Knutton who now had a breath of life and was looking to snatch at least a point. I knew the tempo would now get very busy again but the good news was that the Knutton players would probably not be so interested in kicking someone in the air. However, with twenty minutes still remaining, a one goal lead and a numerical superiority, Sneyd was knocking the ball around nicely and forcing Knutton to chase. Knutton were rapidly becoming fatigued and frustrated, two ingredients that can spoil a referee’s soup.

With maybe fifteen minutes remaining, there was a situation that occurred about thirty yards from goal when a Sneyd player beat his man and the beaten defender lunged and brought him down. Now, this was not a particularly hard tackle but there was the element of a tactical foul that should warrant a yellow card. As they both got up from the ground it seemed to me that the foul mainly occurred due to the defenders exhaustion and the Sneyd player was not complaining. This coupled with the fact that I had recently sent off one of the defenders teammates (I know… cowardice) I decided to give the defender a brief but firm verbal warning. I said a few firm words with emphatic hand gestures and was finished with him when I turned around in time to see the Sneyd captain place the ball down, look up briefly then send a nice through ball that a forward shot just over the bar. I signaled goal kick and no one thought anything of it until after the match when Tony pointed out that this was my biggest mistake of the match. Since I had a word with the defender, no matter how brief, I should not have allowed the kick to be taken quickly and should have restarted with a whistle as I had essentially taken the defender out of position during our brief conversation. Had that shot gone in, Knutton would have had a legitimate argument for bringing it back. It is always stressed to allow the attacking team to take a quick free kick after being fouled but it is not fair to give the kicking team an advantage by keeping the defender busy

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while the kick is being taken. Even though it was only a moment’s delay, Tony was exactly right and I dodged a bullet on that potential controversy.

Knutton was obviously slowing with fatigue and with about ten minutes remaining, Sneyd’s Chadwick who was still skipping around between defenders cut across the top of the goal area with the ball at his feet. A defender who had no hope of reaching the ball lunged in the general direction of it and lifted his leg forcing Chadwick to hurdle him and as a result, he lost possession of the ball. Even though there was no contact, the player lost the ball because of the defenders challenge and I stopped play with my whistle as Ron raised his flag and gave it a wiggle signaling a foul. This call brought indignation from the Knutton players as they shouted that he wasn’t even touched. I knew I had made the right call and I probably should book the defender for a tactical foul but at the moment I wasn’t sure if Ron was signaling for the same foul I called or if he had seen something different so watching the players I back-peddled to Ron’s side and asked him what he’d seen. He was signaling the same foul and confirmed that I had made a good call so I walked back into the den of criticism surrounded by the Knutton player’s biting comments and awarded the free kick. Yes, I once again kept my card in my pocket (remember, minutes left…last match of the season). After pushing the irritated members of wall back ten yards, Sneyd put the final nail in Knutton’s coffin with a fine goal that finished the scoring for the day.

The final few minutes were a formality with the contest already decided and the players too tired to cause any more bother. The vibrating alarm inside my watch told me it was full time and I put the whistle to my lips for the final time in this match. Several players from both teams shook my hand as they departed the field and once again the Sneyd captain inquired as to whether the red card could be downgraded and I explained it was out of my hands.

As I waited for my AR’s to make their way to me, I had a sudden rush of mixed emotions: Relief that I had kept a lid on a challenging match, pride that I accomplished my task successfully and allowed the players to determine the winner fairly and without injury and a touch of sadness that my international (unofficial) officiating debut was at a conclusion.

Ron and Tony met me out in the center of the field with their flags furled and offering hand shakes. “Not a bad job at all Bill,” Tony said through his reserved smile and Ron added with an ear to ear, “Yeah, good job,”

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Left: A.R. Ron (Smiley) Daily Right: Mentor/Assignor/ Friend/ A.R. Tony Green Center: Unofficial International Official/Blogger Bill Pottorff

We walked towards the sideline together and I picked up the match ball that I had signaled a player to kick to me. We walked off the field together and I presented the ball back to the home manager and he thanked me for the match with a hand shake. A final hand shake with the Sneyd manager and then it was the walk to the clubhouse to hear what Tony had to say about my second half performance. Debs was waiting and gave me a peck as I walked by and I told her I would be right out after we changed out of our soggy kit. Tony told her it would only be a moment as he had to change quickly and get to another match.

As we pulled off our soggy uniforms, Tony gave his assessment of my second half by pointing out my mistake of allowing the quick restart that I wrote about earlier. He reiterated that I was extremely fit and that I managed the players better (although he did say he would have used his yellow card on at least that last tactical foul) and my handling of the foul in the penalty area and the sending off where “Spot on”. He was very complimentary on most aspects of the rest of my game and said he wished I lived closer so I could help him out with his job of placing capable officials at games he assigns. He even brought up commuting …

I changed into dry warm clothes and sealed it with my USSF track suit and while Tony showered, Ron and I went outside. Believe it or not it was back to being a bright sunny day… the only day I ever recall getting frostbite and sunburned on the same day! Debs joined us and we chatted for a moment and Ron said his goodbyes and left for home. Tony emerged from the changing room with his official league blue blazer and tie, freshly pressed trousers and shiny loafers explaining that he had to look the part when arriving at the ground of his next match. He told me that because of the red card there was a need for me to fill out a Football Association Misconduct Report of which he

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didn’t have one with him. We formulated a plan to meet at The Sportsman Pub, just down the road from my in-laws. As we chatted, Debs discovered that she had gone to school with Tony’s wife and the meeting at the pub to fill out the misconduct report turned into a reunion. It also became an exchange of cultural icons as I gave Tony my USSF flip coin that I had used in the match and he graciously gave me a tie with his association’s logo and information on ordering the AR’s flags that I think are fabulous. He later gave me some lovely little figurines that his company, Wade, is famous for producing which I thought was very generous. We had a pint or two and in the warm snug of cushioned chairs, we all enjoyed the art of conversation and had some great laughs.

A perfect ending to a wonderful day… the day I became an unofficial international official.

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