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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