Intramural Excitement

So, it all begins with numerous awkward phone calls. First, the nervous introduction. “Hi. Are you Ed?” “Yes, I am”. Followed by the inspection. “Do you, (a slight pause and almost certainly some shifting of eyes), referee?” “Yes, I do”. Then comes the elongated explanation about why a random boy has my number and is ringing me up during the day, giving me times, giving me dates, informing me what his favourite type of sandwich is, before culminating in the true meaning of the call, “Are you available to referee our match?”. “No.” “Oh, (another pause, this one full of embarrassment, of confusion, as if I had led him on whilst listening to all his chat about his sandwich when I knew I could not do the game. Eventually he comes to his senses)...Oh, goodbye” “Goodbye”.

The truth is I already have a rendezvous with the Jack Kane receptionist at 2 on a Sunday. And at that allotted time I take the changing room key and go join the other, slightly older referees. The chat blossoms, but unfortunately the time comes when one has to leave to find the teams who are supposedly attempting to play football on a pitch that has motorbike tracks going across it. But eventually I find my foolish employers, little do they know that my refereeing is as good as their playing ability, if not slightly worse in some cases.

And so the game begins. The ball being “hoofted” around the park by players who clearly used their legs until the early hours of the morning, the alcohol the reason why they kicked the opposing player rather than the football. The score reaches 3-0, I look at my watch in despair, it shows 7 minutes played. However, shouts of “We can still win!”, “Fight, fight for your lives!” and “Don’t worry keeper, you will catch the ball next time” are all too common, as one or two players make vein attempts to rally the dejected troops and amass a surge for glory.

Of course, these shouts are intermingled with the grumblings of the losing team, mutterings of complaint directed at a disconcerted referee. It must be my fault that they are now 6-1 down. For a start, it was definitely a foul throw, not to mention that guy shouted “mine” as opposed to his name. Clear infringements of the laws of the game, what is the ref playing at?

I suppose, I am not perfect, I do indeed make mistakes and so I can generally take credit for 1 or possibly 2 of the goals. Yet, before directing abuse at me, maybe they should consider the perfect pass they made, to the opposing forward. Or the fact they just tried to do a Cruyff turn and instead, tripped in the mud. Or potentially even consider that header they made that looped over the keeper nicely for an own goal. Yet, do they hear me complain?

One game I refereed even saw the unthinkable occur. A substitution took place, this being a regular occurrence, especially for those who have not seen a treadmill in the last 5 years. However, as one player left the field, another joined, jogging on with eyes of the following team watching her every movement. One of the boys recovered his composer and cried “kick the ball down her wing lads”. The poor girl, who was by far not the worst player I have seen play intramural, was then bombarded with long balls, every kick aimed in her direction. The openness of their tactics was embarrassing, but then they did score 5 goals from it.

At the end everyone trundles off to the changing rooms, lamenting missed opportunities or recalling fortuitous 40 yard goals. I gather my worthy £28, whilst listening to the players complain about the weather, the pitch, the referee, the changing rooms, everything and anything. But still they play in their droves, because this, is intramural football.