Dr Ben Ives
Ben
Hello refereeing community.
We are seeking your help in relation to an ongoing research project which is aiming to present a typical experience of being a male football referee. We hope that this research will help both neophyte and experienced referees better appreciate and understand the many tensions and social dilemmas that characterise this vocation. As part of this process, several researchers from Buckinghamshire New University have interviewed numerous referees from various levels (7-3). From these interviews, we have created several short scenarios that are designed to represent the typical experiences of a male football referee, from pre- to during- to post-game. While these are still work in progress, we invite you to comment on how these vignettes may be similar (or not) to your own experiences of practice. Please note that we will be adding additional scenarios in due course, with the intention that it will eventually tell the tale of refereeing a football match.
When making comments, please specify which vignette you are referring to.
Thanks in advance for your help, we look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Doubts, fears, and worries
As Gallin approaches the junction, he glances at the brown road sign. A block white arrow points to the left and Old Leaf Playing Fields is stated in clear, distinctive, and ‘friendly’ white typeface. It prompts Gallin to think about the game ahead. The butterflies, which have occupied his stomach since the moment he woke, begin to flutter intensely.
‘How will I deal with the first challenge?’ ‘Will I get the big decisions correct?’ ‘How will I deal with the inevitable abuse?’ ‘Will I have to send someone off?’ ‘Will I meet everyone’s expectations?’
In an effort to tame his ever increasing levels of anxiety, Gallin engages in some positive self-talk: You’ve got nothing to worry about. Think about last week; you bossed the game, you had the respect of the players, they believed in your decision making. You’ve got the club marks and you’ve been getting good feedback from the FA observers. You’re at this level because others believe in you. Just do your normal thing and everything will be fine.
It is good advice, but it offers little reprieve. The closer Gallin gets to the ground, the more nervous he gets.
Banter, bitching, and smelly toilets
The referees’ changing room has that distinctive changing room smell; a mixture of grass, heat rub, boot leather, and sweat. Sam, Trevor, Darryn, and James are already settled in their regular spots. Like Gallin, they are all community based football referees. And like Gallin, they all have a match to officiate today.
As Gallin enters the room he gets the usual ‘Good afternoon, ****s-a-lot’ from Trevor.
‘Already?!’ Gallin retorts.
‘Don’t listen to him, he gets just as nervous as we do’, Sam steps in.
‘I can smell’, exclaims Gallin, wittily making reference to the stench coming from behind the toilet cubicle door.
Laughter fills the room.
‘Whatever! It’s the curry from last night’.
Trevor’s response is greeted with further ripples of laughter.
‘Anyway, James, what happened to you last week?’ Darryn pipes up.
‘Had a stinker, that’s what’, Trevor gentle mocks.
‘**** off, Trevor, it wasn’t that bad. I still think it was a penalty’, James immediately reacts.
‘So you don’t need these?’ Darryn playfully asks, while holding out his pair of glasses.
‘Ah, piss off you lot’, James sighs.
Everyone laughs.
Polite smiles and thank yous: Negotiating the early test
Gallin strides towards the home team manager. His polished boots and ironed kit glisten in the late afternoon winter sun. He appears confident, self-assured. On the inside however, he is anxious, nervous; all too aware that how he shows himself to the manager will affect the atmosphere in the game and maybe even the Club Marks he receives.
‘Good afternoon, please may I have your team sheet?’ Gallin asks in an assertive tone.
The manager pulls out a scrunched up piece of paper from his tracksuit pocket and hands it to Gallin.
‘Thank you, I very much appreciate that’, says Gallin with a polite smile.
‘No problem’.
‘And the match ball? Do you have one?’ Gallin inquires in a courteous manner.
The manager bends down and picks up the semi-inflated football that is next to his right foot, ‘Here, you go, ref’.
‘Seriously? You know that ball is flat’, Gallin inwardly thinks, while accepting the ball with grace. That is, he politely says ‘thank you’ with a smile.
Gallin positions his hands on either side of the ball and gives it a good squeeze. ‘Could you put a little more air in this for me, please?’
‘Are you sure, ref? Seems fine to me’, the manager retorts, wearing a wry smile.
Gallin politely smiles back, ‘IFAB law number two states that the match ball must be of a pressure equal to 0.6 – 1.1 atmosphere at sea level’.
The coach nods in recognition, ‘You know your stuff then, ref?!’.
‘I try’, Gallin politely replies with a broad smile.
Crossing the white line
Twenty-yards from the white line, Gallin snorts a shot of invigorating wintry-fresh air, reviving and stiffening his whole face and covering the walls of his lungs like a frost. He exhales rapidly through pursed lips. His stride becomes more deliberate, injected with a pronounced machismo; long and regular. He wraps the strap of his whistle around the fingers on his left hand and pulls it tight, then pats his breast pocket for the umpteenth time to feel the shape of his cards, notepad, and pencil. A spattering of onlookers line the pitch, laden with winter-ware and chary and censuring glowers.
‘Get your game-face back on’. Gallin scolds himself. He turns his head and, with an assured smile, meets the eyes of the closest spectator. ‘Afternoon. It’s another cold one’. He says with a controlled stridence, inviting the spectator to at once break his steely frown.
‘Afternoon, ref. Are we ready?’
Gallin looks down to the white line brushing the toes of his boots, and with one last constriction of his sphincter he looks up again and steps over onto the pitch. ‘Let’s do it’.
The insignificant mistake
Blue Number Four scoops up the ball and wipes away the moisture in a makeshift pouch in front of his shirt whilst hastily scouting the pitch for an available and well-positioned teammate. Gallin blows again on his whistle. ‘Red throw. It’s red ball’, he says with some conviction.
The spectators exchange looks and a murmur of bewilderment encircles the pitch. An air of displeasure radiates from the Blue players and wraiths across the frosted grass to Gallin’s lonely position. ‘Maybe I got that one wrong,’ he thinks to himself, gently chewing the corner of his bottom lip and replaying the decision in his head. ‘My position wasn’t great, looked to have come off Blue but I didn’t have a clear line of sight. ****!’
‘Make a mistake there, do you think, ref?’ Asks Blue Number Four ****ily as he jogs by.
‘Yeah, perhaps, but that’s the first I’ve made, you’ve made five already.’ Gallin retorts with a wink and a smile. He senses some relief when Number Four grins back. He got away with this one, it didn’t really matter. But the next one might.
Crossing a different line
Gallin blows on his whistle and straightens his arm out to the side to signal the direct free-kick. Number Six responds by throwing both arms in the air and spinning round to face the referee. ‘What the ****, ref?’
‘What? I got that right, don’t you think?’ Gallin retorts with a pert smile. The player almost smiles back, momentarily forgetting he is should be mimicking outrage at the decision against him. Of course, the home spectators protest as well but the short and barely audible chorus of opposition peters out as quickly as it had begun.
‘That’s a ****ing joke, innit, ref?’ Yells one slightly more committed observer. Gallin allows himself a raised eyebrow and an inconspicuous sigh before once again signalling the free-kick.
IFAB Law 12 – Fouls and Misconduct, Subsection 3 Disciplinary Action (Sending-off Offence) ‘using offensive, insulting or abusive language and/or gestures’. It was a statute embossed on the mind of every referee, easily and perfectly declaimed whenever the need arose, and yet in practice Gallin found his mandate considerably more knotty and ill-defined. The fact is he felt not offended, insulted nor abused, at least not anymore. He’d become habituated, not indifferent to such aggressive questioning, even abuse, more generally, but certainly conditioned by it here on the pitch where frustrations were understandably many.
‘This guy’s a ****ing clown,’ the same player continued his assault, more muted now and at a distance but his words carried on the biting winter breeze.
Gallin’s ears *****ed. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clamped tighter. A line had been crossed. ‘Number Six.’ He beckons the player over while reaching into his pocket. ‘A word, please.’
Let me read your mind: The power of (no) handshakes
Gallin blows the full-time whistle and instantaneously begins to reflect on his performance. ‘I did okay, I think?’ His inner voice quietly ponders. Social interactions, particularly the post-game handshake, will soon provide the answer to his question. Like many football referees, Gallin believes that the number, type, and distribution of handshakes he receives from stakeholders (e.g. players, managers, and spectators) offers a strong indication into whether he was a dutiful referee, or not.
We are seeking your help in relation to an ongoing research project which is aiming to present a typical experience of being a male football referee. We hope that this research will help both neophyte and experienced referees better appreciate and understand the many tensions and social dilemmas that characterise this vocation. As part of this process, several researchers from Buckinghamshire New University have interviewed numerous referees from various levels (7-3). From these interviews, we have created several short scenarios that are designed to represent the typical experiences of a male football referee, from pre- to during- to post-game. While these are still work in progress, we invite you to comment on how these vignettes may be similar (or not) to your own experiences of practice. Please note that we will be adding additional scenarios in due course, with the intention that it will eventually tell the tale of refereeing a football match.
When making comments, please specify which vignette you are referring to.
Thanks in advance for your help, we look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Doubts, fears, and worries
As Gallin approaches the junction, he glances at the brown road sign. A block white arrow points to the left and Old Leaf Playing Fields is stated in clear, distinctive, and ‘friendly’ white typeface. It prompts Gallin to think about the game ahead. The butterflies, which have occupied his stomach since the moment he woke, begin to flutter intensely.
‘How will I deal with the first challenge?’ ‘Will I get the big decisions correct?’ ‘How will I deal with the inevitable abuse?’ ‘Will I have to send someone off?’ ‘Will I meet everyone’s expectations?’
In an effort to tame his ever increasing levels of anxiety, Gallin engages in some positive self-talk: You’ve got nothing to worry about. Think about last week; you bossed the game, you had the respect of the players, they believed in your decision making. You’ve got the club marks and you’ve been getting good feedback from the FA observers. You’re at this level because others believe in you. Just do your normal thing and everything will be fine.
It is good advice, but it offers little reprieve. The closer Gallin gets to the ground, the more nervous he gets.
Banter, bitching, and smelly toilets
The referees’ changing room has that distinctive changing room smell; a mixture of grass, heat rub, boot leather, and sweat. Sam, Trevor, Darryn, and James are already settled in their regular spots. Like Gallin, they are all community based football referees. And like Gallin, they all have a match to officiate today.
As Gallin enters the room he gets the usual ‘Good afternoon, ****s-a-lot’ from Trevor.
‘Already?!’ Gallin retorts.
‘Don’t listen to him, he gets just as nervous as we do’, Sam steps in.
‘I can smell’, exclaims Gallin, wittily making reference to the stench coming from behind the toilet cubicle door.
Laughter fills the room.
‘Whatever! It’s the curry from last night’.
Trevor’s response is greeted with further ripples of laughter.
‘Anyway, James, what happened to you last week?’ Darryn pipes up.
‘Had a stinker, that’s what’, Trevor gentle mocks.
‘**** off, Trevor, it wasn’t that bad. I still think it was a penalty’, James immediately reacts.
‘So you don’t need these?’ Darryn playfully asks, while holding out his pair of glasses.
‘Ah, piss off you lot’, James sighs.
Everyone laughs.
Polite smiles and thank yous: Negotiating the early test
Gallin strides towards the home team manager. His polished boots and ironed kit glisten in the late afternoon winter sun. He appears confident, self-assured. On the inside however, he is anxious, nervous; all too aware that how he shows himself to the manager will affect the atmosphere in the game and maybe even the Club Marks he receives.
‘Good afternoon, please may I have your team sheet?’ Gallin asks in an assertive tone.
The manager pulls out a scrunched up piece of paper from his tracksuit pocket and hands it to Gallin.
‘Thank you, I very much appreciate that’, says Gallin with a polite smile.
‘No problem’.
‘And the match ball? Do you have one?’ Gallin inquires in a courteous manner.
The manager bends down and picks up the semi-inflated football that is next to his right foot, ‘Here, you go, ref’.
‘Seriously? You know that ball is flat’, Gallin inwardly thinks, while accepting the ball with grace. That is, he politely says ‘thank you’ with a smile.
Gallin positions his hands on either side of the ball and gives it a good squeeze. ‘Could you put a little more air in this for me, please?’
‘Are you sure, ref? Seems fine to me’, the manager retorts, wearing a wry smile.
Gallin politely smiles back, ‘IFAB law number two states that the match ball must be of a pressure equal to 0.6 – 1.1 atmosphere at sea level’.
The coach nods in recognition, ‘You know your stuff then, ref?!’.
‘I try’, Gallin politely replies with a broad smile.
Crossing the white line
Twenty-yards from the white line, Gallin snorts a shot of invigorating wintry-fresh air, reviving and stiffening his whole face and covering the walls of his lungs like a frost. He exhales rapidly through pursed lips. His stride becomes more deliberate, injected with a pronounced machismo; long and regular. He wraps the strap of his whistle around the fingers on his left hand and pulls it tight, then pats his breast pocket for the umpteenth time to feel the shape of his cards, notepad, and pencil. A spattering of onlookers line the pitch, laden with winter-ware and chary and censuring glowers.
‘Get your game-face back on’. Gallin scolds himself. He turns his head and, with an assured smile, meets the eyes of the closest spectator. ‘Afternoon. It’s another cold one’. He says with a controlled stridence, inviting the spectator to at once break his steely frown.
‘Afternoon, ref. Are we ready?’
Gallin looks down to the white line brushing the toes of his boots, and with one last constriction of his sphincter he looks up again and steps over onto the pitch. ‘Let’s do it’.
The insignificant mistake
Blue Number Four scoops up the ball and wipes away the moisture in a makeshift pouch in front of his shirt whilst hastily scouting the pitch for an available and well-positioned teammate. Gallin blows again on his whistle. ‘Red throw. It’s red ball’, he says with some conviction.
The spectators exchange looks and a murmur of bewilderment encircles the pitch. An air of displeasure radiates from the Blue players and wraiths across the frosted grass to Gallin’s lonely position. ‘Maybe I got that one wrong,’ he thinks to himself, gently chewing the corner of his bottom lip and replaying the decision in his head. ‘My position wasn’t great, looked to have come off Blue but I didn’t have a clear line of sight. ****!’
‘Make a mistake there, do you think, ref?’ Asks Blue Number Four ****ily as he jogs by.
‘Yeah, perhaps, but that’s the first I’ve made, you’ve made five already.’ Gallin retorts with a wink and a smile. He senses some relief when Number Four grins back. He got away with this one, it didn’t really matter. But the next one might.
Crossing a different line
Gallin blows on his whistle and straightens his arm out to the side to signal the direct free-kick. Number Six responds by throwing both arms in the air and spinning round to face the referee. ‘What the ****, ref?’
‘What? I got that right, don’t you think?’ Gallin retorts with a pert smile. The player almost smiles back, momentarily forgetting he is should be mimicking outrage at the decision against him. Of course, the home spectators protest as well but the short and barely audible chorus of opposition peters out as quickly as it had begun.
‘That’s a ****ing joke, innit, ref?’ Yells one slightly more committed observer. Gallin allows himself a raised eyebrow and an inconspicuous sigh before once again signalling the free-kick.
IFAB Law 12 – Fouls and Misconduct, Subsection 3 Disciplinary Action (Sending-off Offence) ‘using offensive, insulting or abusive language and/or gestures’. It was a statute embossed on the mind of every referee, easily and perfectly declaimed whenever the need arose, and yet in practice Gallin found his mandate considerably more knotty and ill-defined. The fact is he felt not offended, insulted nor abused, at least not anymore. He’d become habituated, not indifferent to such aggressive questioning, even abuse, more generally, but certainly conditioned by it here on the pitch where frustrations were understandably many.
‘This guy’s a ****ing clown,’ the same player continued his assault, more muted now and at a distance but his words carried on the biting winter breeze.
Gallin’s ears *****ed. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clamped tighter. A line had been crossed. ‘Number Six.’ He beckons the player over while reaching into his pocket. ‘A word, please.’
Let me read your mind: The power of (no) handshakes
Gallin blows the full-time whistle and instantaneously begins to reflect on his performance. ‘I did okay, I think?’ His inner voice quietly ponders. Social interactions, particularly the post-game handshake, will soon provide the answer to his question. Like many football referees, Gallin believes that the number, type, and distribution of handshakes he receives from stakeholders (e.g. players, managers, and spectators) offers a strong indication into whether he was a dutiful referee, or not.
