April 2012

[Sweder]

My first meaningful outing of any time or distance since Brighton occurred on Sunday. Rather like aspects of MarathonDan's training my route took me around a looped circuit, a confined area of grass. Or, to be more accurate, all over a patch of something that started out as grass but ended up a quagmire.

I may have mentioned briefly that I'd agreed to referee a veteran's match at the Dripping Pan. The regular season closed on Saturday with the Rooks bagging a strong 4-2 victory over Harrow Borough, only to see their play-off hopes dashed by results elsewhere. At halftime the all-conquering Rookettes paraded their trophies, a league and cup double. The ladies finished unbeaten in the league, 15 points clear of nearest rivals Enfield Town before stomping Eastbourne Town 3-0 on a filthy night in March to lift the Ryman League Cup. They have been simply magnificent. We're all off to the Town Hall tonight where the Mayor of Lewes will honour the players and staff with a gala reception.


Super Rookettes with The Rookmeister

Sunday morning arrived on the back of a monsoon. Rain lashed the town, dark skies swirling in from the north to dump a month's worth of water on our heads. This must be the worst drought in living memory. Amazon have sold out of 'Ark Building for Dummies'. Pah.

I drove off to the Pan for the pitch inspection at 10:00. Shiny eyes peered out from the dressing rooms as I strode past the clubhouse. The pitch looked OK, a few puddles here and there. My worry was, with rain persisting down, we'd soon be in a waterlogged situation, potentially dangerous. I met the club officials and they made it clear it was my call. The turf is being scraped up and relaid in the closed season in any case. I decided a strong word with the captains and a few early blasts on the whistle would take care of health & safety.

I found Peter, team captain, who explained the format for the tournament. Sorry? I thought you said 'tournament' ...
Yes. FOUR teams, matches drawn by lot, each playing 30 minutes (15 each way). If scores are level after 30 minutes matches decided by penalty shoot-out. Winners play in the final, losers for 3rd/ 4th place. Eleven-a-side, full pitch. Got it?

I wasn't too concerned. Most of the 'veterans' were balding or grey-headed, slightly rounded people, with a good deal more enthusiasm than energy. Hopefully. I survived without upsetting anyone, too much. I could have issued a yellow card for a dive that even Ashley Young might have thought twice about. Instead I did my best Howard Webb, jogging up to the floudering drama queen (he'd cried out as he'd arched his back, curling up like one of those Christmas cracker magic fish), waving for him to get up before wheeling away to the centre circle whilst chiding him loudly. 'Nice one Tom Daly, up you get son'.

Otherwise it was a case of making sure the series of comical coming-togethers amidst great plumes of muddy water didn't result in serious injury. The play was combative yet mutually respectful, a far cry from the appalling theatrics invading our living rooms every Saturday night. Plenty of skill too, when the rapidly developing bog didn't intervene to stifle a defence-splitting pass.

I'd ref'd match one in my Almeria finisher's top, a fabulous luminescent orangey-pink number. Much to my chagrin teams three and four entered the increasingly wet, ploughed-up field with one side decked out in full Netherlands kit. Bugger, I'd been Tango'd. Luckily I'd brought a black top. It was nice to get into a dry shirt for thirty seconds.


The winning goal in the exciting 2nd semi-final penalty shoot-out. Stripes won it 4-2 after a 1-1 draw in normal time

When I called time on the last place decider we'd seen a riveting penalty shoot-out, a 2-0 final win for the host team and the best own goal I've ever witnessed in the flesh. Determined to keep up with play at all times, even in the last match when frankly I could happily have circumnavigated a dustbin lid in the centre circle, I raced after a particularly swift counter attack late on, water and mud splashing up over my knees. The beleagured, somewhat portly, full back attempted to pass back to his keeper. He managed to scoop the ball into the air exactly like Ramirez bearing down on Casillas, lobbing the stranded stopper perfectly from 18 yards, the ball sailing serenely into the unguarded net as the attacking players pulled up, shaking their heads in wonder. I put my arm around the hapless defender. 'Bad luck mate, that was an absolute peach' I offered gently. He looked up at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen.
'You sure I wasn't offside ref?'
It was, sadly, the only goal of the game.

I used my Garmin as a time piece so happily I now have some interesting data to play with. 16.60 kilometres covered over the four matches, 2 hours 42 minutes of active time (in a three hour period). I ended up, happy and knackered, supping a pint of post-shower Guinness with the players in the Rook Inn. Using the referee's room was quite a thing. I left it a good deal muddier than I found it.

Below: my route around the pitch during the matches. I clearly can't spell 'Milky Bar Kid'.
These are the two halves of each of the first match. Note the penalty shoot out on the last image - far right of the 'map'.