The Referee Chronicle: It's in the Bag

The referee bag is the most crucial piece of equipment in the referee’s arsenal. It literally is the toolbox that the referee’s tools are kept safe. There are many types of bags available to the referee. It is up to each individual referee to evaluate and purchase the best bag and supplies for his or her needs.

My old bag was a simple, standard type gym bag emblazoned with the United States Soccer Referee Program logo. It served me for a season and half before it needed to be retired. I was straining it beyond its capacity, and I’m honestly surprised it lasted as long as it did. Like all things, you get what you pay for, and it was fairly cheap. This Christmas, Santa Claus brought a new bag to replace the old one. Actually, Santa brought me three bags. I chose the new compartmentalized bag from Official Sports. This bag is proudly displays the USSF Soccer Referee logo as well. 

 I have lived most of my adult life by the US Coast Guard motto: Semper Paratus. That’s Latin for, “Always Prepared.” The referee needs to always be prepared. The soccer pitch is not a place to be caught short of any of the necessities. Looking at the front of the bag, I’ll go compartment to compartment and list the equipment I carry to each field.

The small, outside left pocket contains: two watches, a hand pump, Laws of the Game booklet, and two black trash bags. I always wear two watches for the games I referee. The one worn on the left wrist is the primary timekeeper; the watch on the right wrist is the backup. Both watches keep the running game time just in case one of the watches fails. During one game, the battery on my backup watch died. The field marshal laughed when I mentioned it to him and asked why I wore a backup. I honestly thought the situation answered his question, but I simply replied, “Because it’s better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.” Every referee must carry a copy of the laws of the game. Failing to do so is, in my opinion, unbelievably irresponsible. The black trash bags are used to protect the bag and its contents from the elements. In Miami, the summer sun shower can pop anytime. It’s good practice to always wrap the bag in plastic. 

The larger left sided pocket contains a pair of cleats and a first aid bag. I don’t wear cleats as my primary referee shoe; however, in the rain, the quick stops and starts needed for running a line can be treacherous. They also serve as back up shoes should the primary shoes suffer catastrophic failure, Semper Paratus. The first aid bag has athletic tape, ibuprofen, Icy-Hot ointment/spray, and an Epi-Pen. 

The two small front pockets contain two small plastic bags. The first contains several different types and styles of whistles. I primarily use a Fox40 Sharx whistle. It’s probably overkill on the smaller fields, but it is a distinct and very loud whistle. It is a black whistle with a pink lanyard. The pink lanyard makes it easy to spot on the pitch if I happen to drop it. I carry a regular Fox40 whistle in my pocket just in case I drop the primary whistle. I do carry two “old school” whistles with the cork pea. Sometimes, referees need to change whistles because a neighboring field’s referee has the same whistle.  The second small bag contains referee patches, two sets of yellow and red cards, pencils, scorecards, and a coin. 

The large right side pocket contains a pair of turf shoes. These are my primary refereeing shoes. Whether on grass or artificial turf, these shoes provide the right amount of grip for running a line or centering a soccer game in dry conditions. [Insert pic] The small, outer right pocket contains two pairs of referee socks. Wearing wet socks is one of the most awful feelings on the planet. Sometimes, you just have to change socks between games or halves.

This brings me to the main, large pocket; inside are all of the uniforms needed to officiate the game. All the colors of the rainbow are represented: two red, two black, two yellow, two blue, one green USSF Referee program shirts. With the exception of the green shirt, I have a long sleeve and short sleeve of each of them. Also inside the main pocket, there are league specific shirts: Club Sport Official shirt, Regla XVIII purple shirt, and a yellow Adidas shirt. There’s a USSF hat, an extra pair of referee shorts, and regular t-shirt for after the game.

Too large to fit into the bag are two sets of assistant referee flags. They rest inside the handles of the bag near the top pocket. A small cell phone holder is clipped to the shoulder strap. The little pocket inside the cell phone holder is my USSF Referee identification and my Florida Youth Soccer background clearance.

In total, the bag and its contents are around $1,000.00. The bag is more than just a carrying tool for all the equipment the referees need; it’s a bank vault that carries a large investment for each referee.

The Referee Chronicles: Week Four

Well, if you’ve been keeping a close eye on the week numbers, you’ll notice I skipped week three. That is by design. Week three was really uneventful. It was the championship game for the league, and I was an assistant referee for the match. What I recall of the match is that one team won and one team lost. So onto week four we go.

Week four had a two game Saturday night event. I am going to focus on the first match: the match I centered. Let’s take a stroll back to week two really fast: “I didn’t control the game as well as I should’ve or could’ve.” Remember that? Yeah, I did, too. So I did what any good referee should do with a game that was really bad: I reviewed my mistakes, developed a strategy on how to fix the problem, and then I let that game roll of my back. After a bad game, players need a short memory, so do referees.

My team and I met on the side of the pitch to discuss our plan for the game. This is something I didn’t do in the previous game I centered. A lot of that has to do with the league; some of it has to do with the referees. First mistake from week two fixed. I explained to my assistants what I expected from them and what they will get from me in return. I expected hustle. I expected them to be in position to make the calls they made. That really is one of the best defenses to any criticism: be where you’re supposed to be. What they got in return was 100% hustle from me, and me being in position for the calls I made. When the center referee is in position to make the correct calls, the linesman on the team sideline hear a lot less crap from the players.

We approached the center spot as a team. The captains were called. The captains’ meeting was brief, but I felt more confident in my discussions with them than the previous match. I explained what I expected from the teams and the captains. The coin was flipped, and we took our positions.

I blew the whistle to start the game. Team A kicked off and moved well with and without the ball. Team B was just as fluid. The communication between teammates was excellent on both sides of the pitch. Their communication reminded me of something: I could communicate with the players, too. And I didn’t need a whistle to do it.

For some reason, the teams in this league like to say, “good shit” when their players do something well. I’m not a fan of the phrase, but if it’s the status quo, who am I to inflict my personal dislike for the phrase on them? I did take their praise of one another into consideration. What was stopping me from saying something positive to the players? The answer was simple: nothing. I noticed two players making a textbook play on the ball, great shoulder to shoulder challenges as the play moved down the left wing. It was great play by both teams, so I told them it was, “good challenge! Clean contact, guys, keep that up.” I saw no harm in this; I was not cheering a particular player or team. I merely stating that as the referee, I saw good, clean contact, and that’s the kind of play I like to see. It was my equivalent of  “good shit.”

There were times when talking helped diffuse a situation before it happened. For example, I found that saying; “good jumps” before a 50/50 ball in the air reduced the amount of pushing from behind as the two players jumped for the ball. I also found that saying, “watch the hands, let go, or no holds” when someone tugged on a jersey was usually sufficient to stop the foul from occurring. Of course, this tactic was only used if mutual combatants did the tugging or if no real advantage was gained by the foul. Stopping the game for these types of fouls truly interrupts the flow and is generally frowned upon, even by USSF and FIFA. These would be the ‘trifling’ fouls that referees that want to advance through the ranks need to recognize and eliminate from the ‘whistle vocabulary.’

By doing this very simple thing, I had taken control of the game and urged the players to play the soccer game I wanted. I controlled the game, and I didn’t do it with a warehouse worth of whistles or cornucopia of cards; I did by simply talking to the players throughout the game. Mistake number two from week two had been corrected.

I am yet still far from perfect, so mistakes were still made throughout the game; however, my mistakes were met with less screaming and yelling than the previous week. For example, a missed handball: the play was in the middle of the field and I was perfectly parallel to the play. This actually put me out of position to see what happened. Here’s what everyone else on the pitch saw: Team A handled the ball and the ball dropped to his feet. What I saw:  the player from Team A standing and the ball fall to his feet. I could not see the player’s arm stretched out from my angle. Everyone else could. Including the player from Team B who failed to play to whistle. The player from Team B put his hand on the ball to stop it from moving and then kicked it into play. That’s when I blew the whistle for the hand-ball awarding Team A the kick.

I explained to the B Team player that while I could probably assume what happened, I didn’t see it happen; therefore, I couldn’t call the foul. He immediately replied, “Yeah, I know. I didn’t play to the whistle; it’s my fault.” Holy crap on a cracker, right? A player just admitted a blown call by the referee was his fault! I really need to record these conversations.

I learned a lot from my mistakes in the previous game I had centered. I learned I needed to communicate more without my whistle. I learned that saying something as simple as, “that was a great run off the ball; you really opened up some space” shows to the players that you really understand the game and you’re watching every aspect of it. I learned you could stop fouls before they start by letting the players know you’re watching them closely. I learned this because after this game, probably the best game of my refereeing career, players from both teams asked if I wanted to come out for drinks with them. Unfortunately, I still had one more game to officiate. That beer would’ve tasted sweet.

The Referee Chronicles: Week Two

Week two was rough from the beginning. I was still quite sore and stiff from the previous week’s games. I had three games to officiate: two lines, one center. I’m going to focus on the center game.

            It was the first center referee gig I had done since roughly 1999. I thought I had a good game, despite what both teams thought. Well, let me rephrase: I had a good game given the fact it was my first in forever. This was not my best game, and I’m not afraid to admit it. I didn’t control the game as well as I should’ve or could’ve. Let’s delve in:

            It started well, although a bit chippy. It was the quarterfinals for their league, and both teams were looking to advance by playing hard. There were a few fouls; some were niggling and not really worthy of calling. Looking back, not calling those trifling fouls may have lead to the rough play throughout the game. About midway through the first half is where it all started to go downhill for me.

            After a beautiful feed from the midfield, Team A had a clear breakaway. The goalkeeper from Team B came out to challenge. The keeper missed the ball completely and recklessly, and dangerously, took out the attacker. I waited to call the foul to see if the ball would cross the goal line, but it just trickled wide. I blew the whistle and immediately pointed to the spot. Now came the hard decision: which color card. I went with the straight red. Here, I made two mistakes.

            My first mistake: I did not confer with my assistant referee. I definitely should’ve done this. I talked about it at halftime; the nearside assistant had a great look. He agreed it was a penalty, but felt it was more a clumsy challenge than a reckless and dangerous one. This information would’ve changed the color of the card. I wish he would’ve called me over to discuss it, but the onus is on me to confer.

            My second mistake: the position on the field where I displayed the red card. When displaying a straight red, the official should pull the player away from the pack of other players that feel they can both officiate and play the game at the same time. The team that’s about to get the card thinks you’re wrong, and the team benefitting from the card has your back. Often, the team that “has your back,” has it in a way that is too confrontational for your own good. Surrounded by attackers and defenders, I displayed the red card to the keeper. This was a horrible decision. Horrible. The defenders were less than happy. There was a lot screaming, yelling, and it’s probably a good thing I don’t speak Spanish.

            The goalkeeper was angry. He was yelling, and he was extremely demonstrative while speaking. For a moment, I seriously thought he was going to punch me in the face. Removing the goalkeeper from the fray and then issuing the red card could’ve diffused a lot of this. It made for a difficult rest of the game. It was the first of two red cards issued that game.

            The game continued to be extremely physical. Good shoulder-to-shoulder challenges were pretty much non-existent; they were full body checks that would make NHL players jealous. Slide tackling is prohibited in this league; thank the gods. Several cautions were issued during the first half.

            I completely failed to manage the first half game to the best of my abilities. I blame two things: fitness and the amount of time that had passed since officiating as a center. Unfortunately, the second half didn’t get much better.

            If you recall, I was still quite sore from the previous week’s games. I was doing my best to stay in good position to see the play. Because my fitness wasn’t where it should be, I kept an extremely tight diagonal. I rarely ventured off of my line to change views. I’m not going to lie: I was too sore and too out of shape to venture. It definitely affected my ability to referee well. It also made me miserable on the pitch. I was cranky because I was crampy.

            I guess I should clarify another league rule: unlimited substitutions at any stoppage of play. That being said; a substitution must be acknowledged and allowed by the referee before it can happen. This is an important law to keep in mind because it led to the second red card of the match.

            Despite this being a recreational men’s league, the professional time wasting tactics of the big leagues are not missed on the beer league ballers. A ball was played out of bounds, and it took some time for a player to snag it to put it back into play. A considerable amount of time had started to tick off the clock. As soon as the player A approached the touchline to throw it in, the captain of team A yelled for a substitution. I denied this request. I felt it was a time wasting effort, and the captain had plenty of time during the ball recovery to make this sub. I yelled, “No sub! Next stoppage! No sub!” I ordered play to continue. Shortly after yelling this, a new player from team A came on to replace a player. I was kind of fed up at this point. It actually took more time to enforce this infraction. I’m not sure I handled it correctly, but at the time, I think it was the right thing to do. I’m the hardest Monday morning referee on myself than anyone else.

            I blew the whistle because the ball had been thrown in. I approached the player who came on illegally. I told him that it was an illegal substitution, and as the law requires, I had to show him a yellow card. This was his second yellow card. He received one in the first half for time wasting or possibly for failure to respect the distance. I explained to him that his substitution was not allowed. I showed him his second yellow and then displayed the red. He was respectful and tad confused. I tried to explain it to him, but again, time was wasting away. Team B’s time was running out. Oh, I should mention another league rule: there’s no added time. Because the player that came on illegally wasn’t a recognized player on the pitch, Team A was able to keep 11 men on the field. This was both a point of contention and confusion (and something I’m not 100% I got correct). I again had to explain the rulings and such, which took even more time off the clock. I didn’t want to allow a substitution because it was time wasting. Now, looking back, I ate more time off the clock than the team would have if I had just allowed the substitution.

            Two red cards, a goalie tossed out, almost got punched in the face (and maybe should’ve), poor communication between myself and the assistant refs, a tremendous amount of muscle cramps, and what I believe to have been a death threat in Spanish, this was by far one of the worst games of my officiating career. I lost control of the game before it started. I was out of shape, out of position, and out of patience. It’s a dangerous mix when it comes to officiating. And the really sad thing is: it was just game one of three that night.

            The Referee Chronicles are a diary of my adventures as a United States Soccer Referee. Check back in with Following Futbol to see where the flags and whistles take me.

            

Referee Chronicles--Week One

On November 16^th, 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.