The ref, so the saying goes, is a w****r. And when the ref doesn’t really know the rules, hasn’t got a whistle, and has only worn his boots twice before, that would seem to be a reasonable conclusion to draw. The ref is also, for one week only, me.
I’ve avoided it for as long as I could. When my son joined the local football club in September, it was clear that parental volunteers were vital to its running. Each of the eight teams in the under-nines age group required a manager and an assistant manager, and referees would be needed for every home game, along with “match day representatives”. I dodged every bullet.
In part, my reluctance to put my hand up was the result of already having commitments every other Sunday morning. Additionally, I was anxious about getting embroiled in the club when I wasn’t sure my son was going to stay the course. And, frankly, I worried that I didn’t know enough about football to be much help.
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