On November 16th, I
stepped onto a soccer field as a referee for the first time in at least 14
years. It was exciting, terrifying, blissful, and painful. You see, I’m 40
years old and far from a spring chicken anymore. Sure, Ryan Giggs may be able
to play Premier League ball at 40, but that dude is in incredible shape: me,
not so much. I agreed to do four adult club league games, playoff games
nonetheless. This was far from a brilliant moment by yours truly.
Game 1: I have to say, for game
one, I was feeling every bit of 10 feet tall and bulletproof. I was really
excited to be doing something I’ve loved for so long, but I was unable to do
for this reason or that. Mostly the reasons were I was over extended with
volunteer fire and EMS commitments. I worked 48 hours a week and volunteered
about 24 hours in my community. It was hard to squeeze in refereeing at the
same time. Now, I have the time to hit the field, but I digress. The role of
the assistant linesman can be both the hardest and the easiest job as a soccer
official. You have less area to cover; however, you do a TREMENDOUS amount of
sprinting. Often, you sprint the entire 60 yards from half to goal line. For
the first game, I felt no pain. I was ready, willing, and able to run with the
big boys. I often couldn’t keep up with the guys, but I gave it my all for
every sprint. I felt really good because I knew the guys on the field and the
sidelines would see that I gave it 110%, and I was never out of position for
lack of trying.
Game 2: The winning team from game
one had to play back to back against another team. They were considerably wiped
out. I was tired, but I wasn’t wiped out. I was an assistant referee for this
game as well. For the first half, my sprints were as hard and as fast as in the
first game. However, come halftime, I was still feeling ten feet tall, but I
was no longer bulletproof. About mid-way through the second half is when I
started to feel it. It being, “Hey David, do you realize how stupid this is? Do
you realize you haven’t run this much since, well, 1999? Do you realize that if
you don’t die of a heart attack mid-sprint, you just may die of sheer
exhaustion tomorrow?” This was just a question that probed the back of my mind
as I huffed and puffed back to my position and hoped that the bulk of the play
stayed in the other guy’s half for a bit.
Game 3: Remember that question that
was probing the back of my mind? Yeah, it was no longer probing. It was a cross
between a drill instructor screaming in my face for 80 minutes straight and
hearing Stewie from Family Guy, say,
“Mommy, mommy, mom, mommy, mom…” for that same 80 minutes. It was about half-way
through the third game my left calf started to cramp. I forgot to bring bananas
for the games, but I had a metric fuck ton of Gatorade to drink. My hydration
was outstanding, but the Gatorade could no longer fill the potassium void, and
I still had another game to go. During each stoppage in play during the third
game, I had to find a way to stretch out my calf to deal with the cramping.
Sometimes I would grab the bench near the players and stretch; other times, I
would run over to the fence behind the goal. Once, I used a tree to lean
against to stretch out my calf. The tree was infested with fire ants. I didn’t
care. That’s how bad my leg was. I wasn’t going to give up, though. I wasn’t
going to let my team of officials down by pulling up lame.
Game 4: To hell with my other
officials, my head would say. If you want to walk for the rest of the month,
you’ll stop this shit right now. Each leg cast a vote in favor of my brain’s
logic. So did both of my feet; however, hubris will always cripple even the
most righteous of men, and stupid of men, and I continued on. Another reason I
trucked through the pain was my friend. His game was the fourth and final game.
I really wanted to show him how decent of a ref I was. He was the goalkeeper
for his team, and I called a penalty kick against his squad. At that point, his
opinion of my skills as an official was loud and clear. I’m pretty sure he
would’ve been happy for me to pull up lame in the previous match, but it was
too late. Each stride I took, whether running or walking, felt like the devil
was holding a mighty fine shindig on my shins, calves, feet, quads, and
hamstrings. I think this the pain I experienced was what hellfire and brimstone
feel like. And I’m pretty sure my friend was really happy with me experiencing
that much pain, as they were knocked out of the playoffs, the PK being the
difference in the match.
The Aftermath: The games ended, and
I desperately wished my life had ended, too. To put it simply, I hurt. I
shuffled off the field as if I had been hobbled like in the Stephen King
book/movie, Misery. If you haven’t
seen the movie or read the book or you just don’t know what hobbling is,
imagine someone tying your ankles to a 4x4 block of wood then smashing your
ankles with a sledgehammer or similar tool to keep you from walking. Did you
cringe? Are you saying ouch? Umm, yeah, exactly. That’s about how I felt.
I guess my friend wasn’t too mad at
me; he wanted to get some food after the games. Don’t get me wrong; I was
famished. I just wasn’t a fan of this suggestion. I would’ve been happy to be
fed through a feeding tube or an IV for the next week while I remained in a
medically induced coma. Because the coma wasn’t a viable option, I wanted to go
home, soak in a hot water bath or a bath filled with heroin to ease my pains. I
think this dinner idea was actually retribution for penalty kick, but I could
be wrong. Sitting down at IHOP and eating a short stack hurt, but I was willing
to suffer through it with my wife and my friend.
For the next week, my wife had this
mixed look on her face. Half of the look was, “oh baby, I’m sorry you hurt so
much” and the other half was, “I so informed you thusly, idiot.” I thoroughly
appreciated both comments, and I certainly deserved the second. The smell of
Icy Hot and other brands of the nauseating menthol cream and greases and roll
ons and patches permeated the air in our home. The dogs hated it. The cats
hated it. The wife hated it. I would’ve drunk it if it provided relief. To be
honest, I’m surprised I wasn’t kicked out of the house for that week and sent
to live in an old-fart-trying-to-play-sports assisted living place. I would not
have blamed the family in the least bit if they voted me off the island.
Saturday was fast approaching, and
I needed to heal rapidly. I had three more games to referee. Sometimes, I’m not
the loudest whistle on the soccer field.
aStay tuned for the next installment
of the Referee Chronicles.
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