Football Fable: GANGSTA REF
Don’t mess with the Gangsta Ref. He’s made shouting at referees a dangerous business.
Twenty-two players are ready to kick-off on a Sunday morning. Hebden FC in yellow and black, ‘The Wasps’, against Bowers End FC, ‘The Reds’.
It’s not Hackney Marshes. It’s not a public park. It’s a decent little ground with a small stand. Two of the better teams in the vast Sunday football system.
Before the usual shouting on and off the pitch, with occasional outbreaks of football, there is calm. An almost uneasy silence.
A mobility scooter enters the pitch from behind the goal and makes its way slowly, almost interminably, to the centre circle. The groundsman is fuming. Shaking his head in silent fury at this outrage.
The player holding the match ball, stands next to his fellow striker. Two ‘up top’. Old Skool.
“He’s fucking up the pitch. Look at it!”
“Leave it Tony.”
“Look at those grooves from his wheels though,” says Tony deadpan.
“It is what it is bro.”
Tony shakes his head. Stays motionless.
The mobility scooter reaches the centre circle. Out hops, and it really was a sprightly movement, a middle-aged man in black. A tight black referee’s shirt fighting against his love of a good night out, with a massive fake badge sewn on to suggest he’s a designated referee from an international football organisation.
Large baggy shorts, neat socks with ties, cool boots (knock-off ones), stubble like Desperate Dan (ask your Grandads), thinning hair. He points to a wispy wingback who ‘came inside’ hoping to get an early touch after kick-off. In a broad cockney accent, with a gravelly tone, he says, just about loud enough to be heard:
“You…..muggins.” He says, “Get that scoota back over to the sideline. There’s a good lad.”
The player opens his mouth to say “You wot mate?” but one glance from his captain, Pudsey, was enough.
And so, as the silence continued and a chilly breeze crept up to further inconvenience the players, the wing-back stepped into the mobility scooter to take it back.
“How does it work?”
“You having a bubble son? There’s a couple of pedals, one’s a brake. There’s a gear stick. Now get a fucking move on. We haven’t got all day you plum.”
After a couple of jerky movements, the wing-back crosses the pitch painfully slowly in the scooter, making new tramlines, before finally picking up some pace and dumping the scooter next to the smattering of coaches and spectators. He sprints back to the other side of the pitch using vital reserves of energy that should have been for the match.
“You gonna say something?” said Batesy, assistant manager of Hebdon.
“Am I fuck!” said Jack Prince, the gaffer.
In the centre circle the ref puts his head down and arms up like prime Elvis.
“Captains, over here.”
Pudsey from Hebden and Bowers captain Robbo quickly walk in and shake hands cordially, something that wouldn’t have happened with a different match official in the middle. But they wanted to show willing and respect, in the circumstances.
“Both of you fine gentlemen have had the pleasure of my company before. On the pitch, and if I’m not mistaken, off it. I’m sure you’ll be as ‘good as gold’ today, as will your teams. But you can’t be too careful. So if you don’t mind, I’ll give you a little warnin.
“I don’t mind a tough tackle. Even if you leave a bit on someone. But what I don’t stand for is backchat. I don’t need any of your lip. I have enough earache at ‘ome. Anyone fancies a piece, I’ll give it ‘em. Don’t be a fackin’ hero eh.
“Talking of which, bad language. I don’t wanna fackin hear any. You’re ‘ere to play football, it’s not the fackin’ working men’s club. Keep it clean.”
Robbo’s eyes widened.
“You alright there son?”
“Yes, yes sir.”
“Remember, if the match is all square after 90 we’re straight to pens, winner through to the next rahnd. No fackin’ about. Any questions?”
The match is about to kick off. The ref has whistle in hand and has signalled to his assistants and both goalkeepers to check everyone is ready. One of the players has his hand on a groove the mobility scooter made, like Alan Titchmarsh inspecting the soil.
The ref puts his hand down and walks over to him.
“You got a problem son?”
“Er no,” said Stevie Jones, one of the few players to have not had the honour of being reffed by this particular official.“…Well okay, I did wonder, are you ok, only you entered on that scooter so I was worried.”
The two captains, and the other handful of players who could hear, took a sharp intake of breath. On the touchline someone ventured a “come on get on with it” but at a managed volume they knew couldn’t be heard in the middle of the pitch. The silence seemed to go on until the next football season, as the ref stared at the quizzical player, not aggressively, almost confused.
“I’ve had a bit of a bad leg since the shooting. I never over-extend meself before the match….warmed up in the changing room. But I need the scoota for entry and exit. Common sense. I hope that answers your questions. I didn’t know Jeremy fackin’ Paxman was playin’ today.”
And then he smiled, but that was more disconcerting, because it was more like a grimace or a baby with wind, almost pained:
“Tell you what tho’ son,” he said stepping away from him but not removing any intimidation. “You’ll go far. Be inquisitive. Be curious. I watch loads of fackin’ docs. Discovery Channel, ‘istory Channel, the lot. Be educated.”
The player was frozen to the spot, partly from the vibe he was getting from his dismayed teammates.
One of them was giving that ‘I wouldn’t if I were you’ look that parents give to kids when they don’t want to tell them off in public.
“Gentlemen, let’s play football.”
And with that he peeped on his whistle.
Game on.
With the Gangsta Ref in charge…..