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I,
Zebra
By Bill Zahren
(Posted 02/25/03)
I gave my daughter a yellow
card the other day.
I stopped play and lit her
up with a card in the kitchen, made sure she didn’t have anything
to say about it, and then recorded it on the refrigerator-based
report sheet thusly:
#8 Blue, 14th hour, Caution,
Dissent, 50 cents taken from allowance.
“Dissent,” as everyone knows,
is one of the seven cautionable misconducts in soccer, as
enumerated in Law 12. It couldn’t be more plainly set out
in ye-little-old USSF Advice to Referees:
2.29.2 DISSENT.
Dissent is committed by words, actions (including
gestures), or a combination of the two. The referee
should evaluate dissent in terms of content (what exactly
is said or done), loudness (the extent to which the
dissent can be seen or heard widely), and whether it
is clearly directed at an official (including assistant
referees and fourth officials).
The objective
in dealing with dissent is to support the spirit of
the game, to maintain the authority of the officials,
and to reduce the likelihood of such behavior becoming
widespread.
What could be
clearer? Haley talked back to My Holiness, so I had to show
her the yellow card. We certainly can’t have such behavior
become widespread.
It may further alarm you to
know that I just emailed the Great Iowa State Soccer Referee
Dalai Lama (the flowing yellow jersey, the black knee socks
-- striking) this burning question:
“If an attacking player
snaps his or her leg like a dry twig away from play and commences
shrieking as if he or she has just been mustard gassed, should
play stop right away or at the next natural dead ball?”
These are the questions that
fill the mind of a freshly minted rookie soccer referee like
me. As of 4 p.m. Feb. 22, 2003, I’m a Level 8 referee, baby.
Got my whistle, fancy yellow zebra shirt, black shorts, black
knee socks (chicks dig ‘em!) and black shoes. By 4:05 p.m.
I was legaly drunk with power.
By Sunday afternoon I was wearing
my ref jersey around the house, giving the girls the "who's
your zebra daddy?" waving my linesman flags like I was signaling
for a rescue ship and making sure they play the waffle not
the opponent in the kitchen. I got red and yellow cards in
my breast pocket and the full authority to toss your butt
if you give me any crap. Because I’m the high, holy referee.
And you’re not. Deal with it.
For the non-soccer fluent,
soccer refs carry two cards, each about the size of a playing
card. One is yellow and the other is red. The ref holds up
the yellow card to "caution" a player to ixnay on the careless
or reckless or unsporting play. Think of it as the "you're-pissing-me-off"
card.
The ref holds up the red card
to “send off” (kick out) a player for committing any of the
seven more serious types of misconduct. Among the seven is
getting two yellow cards in one game. Yellow plus yellow equals
red on the soccer color wheel.
Here’s what happened: I’ve
been coaching my daughters’ soccer teams for the last eight
years. With the youngest, Jena the Destroyer, graduating to
the larger-field, 8-on-8 game this fall, she deserves a coach
who has actually played the game -- and that ain’t me.
So I figured I’d retire as
coach after this year and ascend to the throne where I reign
as All-Being Master of the Game and His Extreme Royal Highness,
the Ref.
Being a ref is a way for an
old bugger like me to be involved in the game without taking
the radical step of actually playing it. Me trying to play
soccer would only benefit the orthopedic medical community
or my wife and kids via the collection of large life insurance
settlements.
At ref school you learn how
to run the field without technically dying. (If someone does
die on the field during the play the proper restart is a drop
ball from the spot of the death). Motor scooters are not allowed
on the field. I asked.
Sure, my wife thinks I should
get brain scan. Everyone knows the American sporting public
treats referees with the utmost respect and courtesy.
Witness the lovely woman who
sat behind us at a college women’s college basketball game
Saturday night. Said spent the WHOLE FRIGGIN’ GAME berating
the zebras with her most-attractive Wicked Witch of the West
screech.
I quickly started hoping someone
would drop a house on her.
Thank you for the providing
my daughters with such a wonderful example of how to show
referees respect and courtesy, Mrs. Battle Axe. If I’d had
my referee cards with me (I don’t yet carry them at all times),
I would have stuffed the ruby-slipper red one up her nose.
But I kept my zebra-like calm.
“ROOKIE SOCCER REF ARRESTED FOR ASSAULTING IDIOT FAN” is not
a headline you want your daughters to read. Plus, it was good
practice for when I become the object of such fan affection.
I should start feeling the
fan love sometime this spring when I “do” my first game. It
will probably a be a low-pressure battle between 11-year-old
girls wherein the toughest call I have to make pertains to
illegal hair scrunchies. But, if anyone wants to lay someone
out with a vicious hit or talk smack to My Glory, I’ll be
ready to “pop a card.” (The wife digs it when I talk ref dirty,
especially while wearing the black knee socks.)
Are you eyeballing me? Don’t
you eyeball me.
Play on!
© 2003 Bill Zahren
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