I was in store for the usual evening of nothingness. Your average Wednesday night, returning from nets and sitting here, in this same old bedroom, listening to the same old playlist, talking to the same insomniacs who keep me company. I don't know if I was in a good mood or not. Somewhere in between joyous and down in the dumps. 50%.
Until a little-known friend popped up on chat. Mr.Field celebrated his birthday a few days back, and despite only meeting me twice, invited me out for a few drinks in the student-filled Wednesday night in B-Town. Usually, I'd weigh up the pros and cons, knowing I was going out with just one person, of who I knew little, with money needing to be saved and seeing as it was already 11.30pm, my usual answer would of been a straight and quick, "thanks but no thanks".
Why I found myself stone cold sober, in a taxi, heading for the High Street, at near midnight is beyond me, but as I sat in this very same spot, contemplating another night of the same old stuff, I decided to take a chance. University is going to be similar for the first few weeks, so let's get a small taste of it. Spontaneous nights are either amazingly good, like Les Miserables in its hayday, or outrageously bad, like one of Cristiano Ronaldo's dives. This night was closer to a dive than a hit musical, but I don't regret going out I don't think. I saw a few people I knew, as you do, and had a few JD and cokes, (paid for by Mr.Field, as promised), and came home again. I didn't spend a single penny on drinks, and about £10 for taxis. I even found a £2 coin on the floor, which meant I was only £8 down for an evening. Generally, you can't complain.
However, at 3.25am, I find myself exactly where I didn't want to be 4 hours earlier. Sitting here, listening to Take That, doing nothing in particular. I have accepted 2 games for the weekend, where I will no doubt be in a spate of tiredness from the hedgehog-esque sleeping pattern I always seem to fall into, and to be honest, life seems to be just drifting. No pattern to it, or routine, just waiting for September. I had a moment of ambition earlier aswell. After netting with Southill, as I usually do on Wednesday, I batted well and had a brainwave. Southill play at a better standard than Bedford, and I seem to be handling these guys well. Move on the cards? I had a discussion with 'Swanny', who seems to think I'm automatically moving, but do I really want to? I'm not sure... I'll be making someone angry anyway!
Why is it that alcohol is a, "depressant"? Man, I need to quit the stuff! (No alcoholism, I promise!)
Thursday 31 March 2011
Tuesday 29 March 2011
Medievel Bowling and Constant Football
Sorry for the silence. Since the cup final, I have been on an intense and almost invigorating trip that involves a lot of refereeing, extortionate entertainment and plenty of tiredness. It's safe to say my extended weekend has been full of highs and lows.
Strangely enough, my Friday was as dull as most Fridays. The one day where nothing really happened, unless you count a fantastic win on the EuroMillions. Zero pounds. It almost goes without saying. After a rare productive training session, where people were actually bothered, (SHOCK HORROR!), I went home, ate some cookies and then tried to get to sleep. Maybe it was a mistake on the cookie front, because I could not sleep. At all. It was 5am when I last took a tiresome look at the blazing red numbers of my digital alarm clock, before the alarm went off at 10 for my early kick off.
Time for the 1st of my 4 games over this extended weekend, and it's safe to say I didn't want to be there. Sorry, from the 1st minute to the last, I would have preferred to have been in the Australian Outback, dying of thirst and being bitten by every insect on the planet. One of the teams were right moaners, (their skipper having modelled himself on Vinnie Jones), and to say I was relieved when I blew the final whistle, is an understatement. And a half.
My Saturday took a turn for the better though when I was invited for an evening of frolicking in the "new city" that is Milton Keynes. Driving past the "New City" sign, made me wonder how new a rusty sign needed to be. Anyway. We originally went to Xscape, to find out the bowling there was fully booked, so we went to some 'Leisure Plaza'. Greeted by a balding man, with a strange likeness to David Armand, we were charged the most ridiculous of prices for 3 frames of bowling and then shown to Lane 19, where the computers were from the early 1980's and didn't really work. After figuring out how to enter our names, we played our 3 frames, (ok... 4 frames!), to a standard usually seen by half-baked penguins, and had a laugh along the way. Halfway through however, David Armand came over to embarrass Natalie, (the birthday girl), and after a chorus of Happy Birthday, conducted by none other than myself, (literally no one else in the complex joined in...), we went home again via McDonalds. I got in at about midnight and I should have gone straight to bed.
I should have. But I didn't. For an unknown reason, I decided to doss on the laptop for a while, facebook stalking people and chatting to others, but before I realised, the time was 5.30am.. Oh no... I had to be awake at 9.30am for the latest chapter of the MAFC saga, followed a jam-packed day of activity. This wasn't going to be nice... It wasn't.
I nearly didn't wake up at all, but an angry Mother Mitten made me get up because she didn't want Father Mitten going in goal. Over protective Wife aswell as Mother! ;) So, I hauled myself out of bed and went to watch a football match. I was playing, and I was in goal, but for 90 minutes, I stood and watched as my teammates trounced all over the opposition, and proceeded to knock 9 goals in. It was exactly what I needed. An easy morning. After turning up a measly 5 minutes before kick off, the natural assumption was that I was hungover. So I went along with that story. Sounds better than, "Naa, I was just being a lazy bastard!" Still, no rest for the lazy. An hour later, I was at another game. An Under-18 game to referee, and I was hoping for an easy afternoon to follow the easy morning I had experienced. It was my day, because that's exactly what I got. Not a single word from the players, who, for the last 20 minutes, treated the game as a kick about in the park, as Modern FC went on to secure a 3-1 win.
I did think about going to sleep, as the headache I had from the morning was still dancing a tango on my temple, but I decided to keep up the activity and went to have a 2-hour net session at Cople. It was alright, I batted OK, but now that Bedford's outdoor nets are up, I will have much more fun in batting outdoors than the indoor echoes of a badly run school. It doesn't end there however.
Nope, at 8pm, I joined Ridgway and co. for the Sunday Night Pub quiz, where we failed emphatically, but had a laugh as always. Natalie got embarrassed again, for it was her birthday weekend, but my enthusiasm for whacking out another chorus of 'Happy Birthday' was nowhere to be seen. It had run away, with my brain and subsequent "awakeness", as I sat in the corner nearly falling asleep. I think I may have drifted off once, but was awoken from an accidental kick from Ridgway. As soon as I got home, I collapsed on my bed and didn't wake up for 13 hours..
Which brings us to today. I had almost forgotten I had a match this evening, a line on a league cup semi-final, but I remembered in very good time, and even had time to enjoy an outdoors net with Boony, who went and gave me two short balls that cannoned into both of my thighs. Come the match, I noticed I had two identical bruises on symmetrical points on my thighs and spent the consuing 120 minutes thinking of nothing else. I had a good game none the less, getting a controversial offside call absolutely spot on, and we went home a happy enough team.
A brief outline of my weekend then, but unfortunately, I don't have a scheduled game for ages now. No Saturday game at the moment, because one of the teams I was supposed to be doing are all on a stag do.. No game on Thursday because I was mysteriously taken off of it for no good reason and no game on the Sunday afternoon. And then no games at all the weekend after, because I feel some sheep appearing.. I feel the bank account is going to see some action soon. Oh dear..
Strangely enough, my Friday was as dull as most Fridays. The one day where nothing really happened, unless you count a fantastic win on the EuroMillions. Zero pounds. It almost goes without saying. After a rare productive training session, where people were actually bothered, (SHOCK HORROR!), I went home, ate some cookies and then tried to get to sleep. Maybe it was a mistake on the cookie front, because I could not sleep. At all. It was 5am when I last took a tiresome look at the blazing red numbers of my digital alarm clock, before the alarm went off at 10 for my early kick off.
Time for the 1st of my 4 games over this extended weekend, and it's safe to say I didn't want to be there. Sorry, from the 1st minute to the last, I would have preferred to have been in the Australian Outback, dying of thirst and being bitten by every insect on the planet. One of the teams were right moaners, (their skipper having modelled himself on Vinnie Jones), and to say I was relieved when I blew the final whistle, is an understatement. And a half.
My Saturday took a turn for the better though when I was invited for an evening of frolicking in the "new city" that is Milton Keynes. Driving past the "New City" sign, made me wonder how new a rusty sign needed to be. Anyway. We originally went to Xscape, to find out the bowling there was fully booked, so we went to some 'Leisure Plaza'. Greeted by a balding man, with a strange likeness to David Armand, we were charged the most ridiculous of prices for 3 frames of bowling and then shown to Lane 19, where the computers were from the early 1980's and didn't really work. After figuring out how to enter our names, we played our 3 frames, (ok... 4 frames!), to a standard usually seen by half-baked penguins, and had a laugh along the way. Halfway through however, David Armand came over to embarrass Natalie, (the birthday girl), and after a chorus of Happy Birthday, conducted by none other than myself, (literally no one else in the complex joined in...), we went home again via McDonalds. I got in at about midnight and I should have gone straight to bed.
I should have. But I didn't. For an unknown reason, I decided to doss on the laptop for a while, facebook stalking people and chatting to others, but before I realised, the time was 5.30am.. Oh no... I had to be awake at 9.30am for the latest chapter of the MAFC saga, followed a jam-packed day of activity. This wasn't going to be nice... It wasn't.
I nearly didn't wake up at all, but an angry Mother Mitten made me get up because she didn't want Father Mitten going in goal. Over protective Wife aswell as Mother! ;) So, I hauled myself out of bed and went to watch a football match. I was playing, and I was in goal, but for 90 minutes, I stood and watched as my teammates trounced all over the opposition, and proceeded to knock 9 goals in. It was exactly what I needed. An easy morning. After turning up a measly 5 minutes before kick off, the natural assumption was that I was hungover. So I went along with that story. Sounds better than, "Naa, I was just being a lazy bastard!" Still, no rest for the lazy. An hour later, I was at another game. An Under-18 game to referee, and I was hoping for an easy afternoon to follow the easy morning I had experienced. It was my day, because that's exactly what I got. Not a single word from the players, who, for the last 20 minutes, treated the game as a kick about in the park, as Modern FC went on to secure a 3-1 win.
I did think about going to sleep, as the headache I had from the morning was still dancing a tango on my temple, but I decided to keep up the activity and went to have a 2-hour net session at Cople. It was alright, I batted OK, but now that Bedford's outdoor nets are up, I will have much more fun in batting outdoors than the indoor echoes of a badly run school. It doesn't end there however.
Nope, at 8pm, I joined Ridgway and co. for the Sunday Night Pub quiz, where we failed emphatically, but had a laugh as always. Natalie got embarrassed again, for it was her birthday weekend, but my enthusiasm for whacking out another chorus of 'Happy Birthday' was nowhere to be seen. It had run away, with my brain and subsequent "awakeness", as I sat in the corner nearly falling asleep. I think I may have drifted off once, but was awoken from an accidental kick from Ridgway. As soon as I got home, I collapsed on my bed and didn't wake up for 13 hours..
Which brings us to today. I had almost forgotten I had a match this evening, a line on a league cup semi-final, but I remembered in very good time, and even had time to enjoy an outdoors net with Boony, who went and gave me two short balls that cannoned into both of my thighs. Come the match, I noticed I had two identical bruises on symmetrical points on my thighs and spent the consuing 120 minutes thinking of nothing else. I had a good game none the less, getting a controversial offside call absolutely spot on, and we went home a happy enough team.
A brief outline of my weekend then, but unfortunately, I don't have a scheduled game for ages now. No Saturday game at the moment, because one of the teams I was supposed to be doing are all on a stag do.. No game on Thursday because I was mysteriously taken off of it for no good reason and no game on the Sunday afternoon. And then no games at all the weekend after, because I feel some sheep appearing.. I feel the bank account is going to see some action soon. Oh dear..
Friday 25 March 2011
Cup Final 1
Thursday 24th March. The Under 18 Floodlit Cup Final at Kempston Rovers. With my name on the programme as an Assistant Referee, it almost felt like an average Thursday night. Except it didn't really.
Turning up in a suit, looking as if we were attending an award ceremony of some description, and enjoying a cup of tea in the company of the other 3 officials and a representative of the Beds FA, who can briefly be described, "strange", (Not you, Nick)! Going through cup final protocol, that you normally wouldn't bother with on your bog standard league game. Even reading the matchday programme was... different. Upon a brief glance on my profile, I was hoping, more than anything else, that it didn't say, "Nocturnal Bum, who sits on his arse all day". Thankfully, it didn't.
After what felt like forever, we went out for a warm-up in the mild musk of a mid-March evening and as we jogged around the parameters, doing our usual "shuttles", there was me, just wanting to get the match started. It never starts as quickly as you want it to on Cup Final day..
... Finally. 7:20pm. Time to "buzz" the teams and get this show on the road. We lined up for the stupid "Respect" handshake that no sets of teams take seriously, and introduced to the "Guest of Honour", (who just happens to play in the same team as me on a Sunday morning), and FINALLY, the first whistle was blown.
Yep. You guessed it. The match was a pile of cow dung. Few shots, 2 of the scrappiest goals you're ever going to see in a football match and little incident, the 90 minutes dragged on and on. It started off alright. It took about 10 minutes for me to get a decision to make, (offside, cheers!), and despite a schoolboy error and a brave, but ultimately mis-managed taking of a corner kick, I felt I did alright. Cup final over. No cock-ups. Done. On a slightly different note, I was very pleased both of my parents turned up to watch. My Dad hasn't seen me referee in a couple of years and I'm not too certain my Mum has ever seen me don the black of the referee. That was nice.
However, my failings as a human being were torn open as we sat in the bar having a drink, long after the game had finished. All the players, their coaches, parents and the rest of the crowd had gone, leaving the officials, a few representatives of the Beds FA and a few other referees who had come down to support, talking all things refereeing. Flanners, (who I have mentioned before), and Checketts, plus myself, were sat at a table and they were giving me advice and pointing out what I could of done better. I KNOW they weren't being cruel. I KNOW this. But, ever since I walked in through my front door, I have thought of nothing else. My mind set is stuck on "criticism", and I take it all too sensitively.
I take everything way too sensitively. Any constructive criticism in their mind, is taken as a needless jab in my direction in my mind. Whenever Mum has a go at me for this and that in her mind, it is taken as an act of hate and despisement in my mind. Why am I like this? I should take this advice, and learn from it. Not take it as a personal vendetta against my feelings. Yet, despite knowing this, I still feel a little bit down from it.
I am not sociable enough at refereeing events either. Unless I am with friends who I can count upon to not think I am strange, I like to keep myself to myself. Preferring to not make a fool of myself more than speak up and speak my mind. I've always been like this. I have never been extroverted I feel, although on occasions, I am mad.
Refereeing, in my mind, should be about turning up, refereeing 90 minutes and going home again. All of the pre-match ritual and post-match analysis of your performance, just leads me to over think things. Although refereeing is like anything else in life, learning from mistakes and experiences, striving to get better, I just don't know if I want to. Keeping things simple is the way forward. Refereeing is anything but simple.
At the moment though, with things as they are, I have no choice but to keep on going.
Turning up in a suit, looking as if we were attending an award ceremony of some description, and enjoying a cup of tea in the company of the other 3 officials and a representative of the Beds FA, who can briefly be described, "strange", (Not you, Nick)! Going through cup final protocol, that you normally wouldn't bother with on your bog standard league game. Even reading the matchday programme was... different. Upon a brief glance on my profile, I was hoping, more than anything else, that it didn't say, "Nocturnal Bum, who sits on his arse all day". Thankfully, it didn't.
After what felt like forever, we went out for a warm-up in the mild musk of a mid-March evening and as we jogged around the parameters, doing our usual "shuttles", there was me, just wanting to get the match started. It never starts as quickly as you want it to on Cup Final day..
... Finally. 7:20pm. Time to "buzz" the teams and get this show on the road. We lined up for the stupid "Respect" handshake that no sets of teams take seriously, and introduced to the "Guest of Honour", (who just happens to play in the same team as me on a Sunday morning), and FINALLY, the first whistle was blown.
Yep. You guessed it. The match was a pile of cow dung. Few shots, 2 of the scrappiest goals you're ever going to see in a football match and little incident, the 90 minutes dragged on and on. It started off alright. It took about 10 minutes for me to get a decision to make, (offside, cheers!), and despite a schoolboy error and a brave, but ultimately mis-managed taking of a corner kick, I felt I did alright. Cup final over. No cock-ups. Done. On a slightly different note, I was very pleased both of my parents turned up to watch. My Dad hasn't seen me referee in a couple of years and I'm not too certain my Mum has ever seen me don the black of the referee. That was nice.
However, my failings as a human being were torn open as we sat in the bar having a drink, long after the game had finished. All the players, their coaches, parents and the rest of the crowd had gone, leaving the officials, a few representatives of the Beds FA and a few other referees who had come down to support, talking all things refereeing. Flanners, (who I have mentioned before), and Checketts, plus myself, were sat at a table and they were giving me advice and pointing out what I could of done better. I KNOW they weren't being cruel. I KNOW this. But, ever since I walked in through my front door, I have thought of nothing else. My mind set is stuck on "criticism", and I take it all too sensitively.
I take everything way too sensitively. Any constructive criticism in their mind, is taken as a needless jab in my direction in my mind. Whenever Mum has a go at me for this and that in her mind, it is taken as an act of hate and despisement in my mind. Why am I like this? I should take this advice, and learn from it. Not take it as a personal vendetta against my feelings. Yet, despite knowing this, I still feel a little bit down from it.
I am not sociable enough at refereeing events either. Unless I am with friends who I can count upon to not think I am strange, I like to keep myself to myself. Preferring to not make a fool of myself more than speak up and speak my mind. I've always been like this. I have never been extroverted I feel, although on occasions, I am mad.
Refereeing, in my mind, should be about turning up, refereeing 90 minutes and going home again. All of the pre-match ritual and post-match analysis of your performance, just leads me to over think things. Although refereeing is like anything else in life, learning from mistakes and experiences, striving to get better, I just don't know if I want to. Keeping things simple is the way forward. Refereeing is anything but simple.
At the moment though, with things as they are, I have no choice but to keep on going.
Wednesday 23 March 2011
The Business End
Come March, lower league football becomes crazy. Game after game after game after game, piled into a month or 2, simply to catch up on the devilishly cold winter we have and the blanket of snowfall that covers our country like a roast turkey is covered in foil. League games need to be filled, left vacant by referees who get better offers with cup finals and the like. I had a game on Saturday, a game on Sunday, had a game tonight, will have my cup final on Thursday before another full weekend of football. What with pre-season cricket training in between, surprisingly, my evenings and weekends are completely full. For the first time in a long time, I am at least, a little busy.
The game tonight was in the league that usually takes place on a Thursday. It had been rearranged because of the cup final, and involved the top 2 teams in the league. The game itself was alright, Kempston holding on to a slender 2-1 lead, with Northampton Chenecks pressuring until their skipper decided to dance on a Kempston player. By that, I mean he stamped on him. Not once, not twice, but 3 times. The speed at which the red card came out must have been a record, and from then on, the game was done and dusted. 30 minutes before kick off, Tiny and Rich had offered me the middle, claiming I was always on the line. It is true, I always get lines on this league, and I would have accepted if they had given me some warning!
Besides, it's more money in the wallet, of which I need at the moment. Upon getting back in the changing room, I had a sneaky look at my phone to see 7 text messages, 4 missed calls and a voicemail. Interesting. Most of them were from Sister Mitten about the upcoming Mother's Day gift(s), one from Beddoe inviting me on a Summer holiday, which, regretfully, I have no choice but to turn down, unless The National Lottery are kind to me and a voicemail from the referee for Thursday's cup final.
Yeah, I know. I'm blabbing. Fuck me, it's 04:30. Mother Mitten will be complaining that I've stayed up all night yet again, and yep, I know. I know. I know. But sitting here now, I don't feel tired at all. I never feel tired going to sleep, whatever time it is, and it takes me literally hours to drift off. I guarantee you, I will go to bed after this and will not sleep until it's daybreak. Guaranteed. It's starting to piss me off, although I do little to help myself over this matter. Tomorrow holds very little, until the evening net session, where I will no doubt bat well, (because my pre-season has been largely successful), and then come home to waste away the evening again.
It won't help when the clocks go forward on Saturday either. I'll end up going to bed at 6am, instead of 5am, with a whole day of football ahead of me.
I desperately, desperately, desperately want to talk about something else aswell, but I can't. I will definitely update you when it's safe to do so. Remind me.
I'm off to go and lay in my bed, looking blankly at the ceiling. Isn't that cool?
The game tonight was in the league that usually takes place on a Thursday. It had been rearranged because of the cup final, and involved the top 2 teams in the league. The game itself was alright, Kempston holding on to a slender 2-1 lead, with Northampton Chenecks pressuring until their skipper decided to dance on a Kempston player. By that, I mean he stamped on him. Not once, not twice, but 3 times. The speed at which the red card came out must have been a record, and from then on, the game was done and dusted. 30 minutes before kick off, Tiny and Rich had offered me the middle, claiming I was always on the line. It is true, I always get lines on this league, and I would have accepted if they had given me some warning!
Besides, it's more money in the wallet, of which I need at the moment. Upon getting back in the changing room, I had a sneaky look at my phone to see 7 text messages, 4 missed calls and a voicemail. Interesting. Most of them were from Sister Mitten about the upcoming Mother's Day gift(s), one from Beddoe inviting me on a Summer holiday, which, regretfully, I have no choice but to turn down, unless The National Lottery are kind to me and a voicemail from the referee for Thursday's cup final.
Yeah, I know. I'm blabbing. Fuck me, it's 04:30. Mother Mitten will be complaining that I've stayed up all night yet again, and yep, I know. I know. I know. But sitting here now, I don't feel tired at all. I never feel tired going to sleep, whatever time it is, and it takes me literally hours to drift off. I guarantee you, I will go to bed after this and will not sleep until it's daybreak. Guaranteed. It's starting to piss me off, although I do little to help myself over this matter. Tomorrow holds very little, until the evening net session, where I will no doubt bat well, (because my pre-season has been largely successful), and then come home to waste away the evening again.
It won't help when the clocks go forward on Saturday either. I'll end up going to bed at 6am, instead of 5am, with a whole day of football ahead of me.
I desperately, desperately, desperately want to talk about something else aswell, but I can't. I will definitely update you when it's safe to do so. Remind me.
I'm off to go and lay in my bed, looking blankly at the ceiling. Isn't that cool?
Sunday 20 March 2011
A Tired Howard Webb
I liked today. Today was a good day. For the first time in a long time I was genuinely, 100%, perfectly looking forward to refereeing. A cup match between top of Division 3 and mid-table of Division 4. On paper, a mismatch that deserved a mammoth scoreline to the obvious. In professional terms, this match was your Manchester United vs Leicester City. Arsenal vs Watford. England vs Japan... Sorry...
I sensed an upset though. But before I could go and strut my stuff in black, I had to face another torturous night. A few years ago, I was classed as a human being. These days, I am more of an owl than a human being, just without the fully rotatable neck. Last night, I had told myself I was going to sleep at the nice, comfortable hour of 1am. What happened? I stayed awake, bloggling in here at the dirty and downright rude hour of 4am and despite saying I was going straight to bed, I didn't. I eventually made it to sleep at the break of dawn at around 6am. Even then, I ended up awakening at 20 minute intervals until I was fully woken up by a no doubt Polish man, 3 hours later, who seemed to take great pleasure in throwing a boulder at my wall. I was amused however, when I banged on the wall to tell Father Mitten to keep his DIY'ing quiet, only to find out I was abusing a complete stranger.
I would like to add that the foreigner, (not necessarily Polish), was laying down a carpet with a very, very noisy machine that sounded like it was sucking in the whole house, at an impossibly early hour for a temporary insomniac such as myself. After hearing the foreigner leave, I was happy enough. I could get a few hours kip before the big game, but Father Mitten had other ideas. He whipped out his power drill, (stop it!), and started drilling into my wall. However tired you are, you CANNOT sleep while in the middle of a warzone. It might aswell have been for the amount of noise that was being created...
So I gave up. I was going to have to officiate on a couple of hours kip, and all of a sudden, I was nervous again. My journey to the ground was a long one thanks to impossibly thick traffic, probably due to a health and safety hazard somewhere. As has been usual though, since my return to the refereeing arena, the nerves settled in time for kick-off and the boost from the banana and Tropical Lucozade was enough to get my head on the game.
The game itself? A "barnstormer"! And I'd just like to point out at this moment in time, that I was amazing. Sorry, but it's true. I might have still been asleep for the first 5 minutes, running around like a sleepwalker, but otherwise I was absolutely spot on, and the players knew it aswell. They were saying that I was the best referee they've had all season, and rightly so. It was a classic cup tie, end to end, with strong tackles and a couple of what the BBC commentary team like to call, "handbags", but thanks to my immense man management skills, I succeeded entirely. The 90th minute decision, to send the defender off for 'DOGSO', and the close decision to award a free kick instead of the penalty that everyone was up in arms for, was perfect. It went all the way to the wire, and the better-placed team won on penalties. Always a harsh way to finish a football match in my opinion.
I might suggest a law change to FIFA, where the players contest a game of Musical Chairs to decide the winner of a football match. It's about as tense as a penalty shoot-out, but it provides the one thing that a shoot-out cannot. A sing along!
Ok, maybe not...
Given I only had 2 hours sleep, plus an end-to-end 120-minute cup tie making my legs ache to an unsubstantiated level, most of you must be thinking I should be out cold by now. Well, you're wrong. I attempted to go to sleep at around 10pm, but after laying awake for 2 and a half hours, I decided to give up entirely. It's now 01.38, and I have another, no doubt, action-packed game to officiate in tomorrow afternoon. After last weeks calamities, I have no game to play in the morning, however. Phew. I fear also, I may be developing a fatal case of man flu in time for my run of 4 games in 6 days, (it was 5 in 7 before today), and if this insomnia carries on much longer, I'm in trouble.
But, seeing as I'm in the middle of a mini-high at the moment, I shall not worry about such things. And, let's be honest, I dont get many highs at all, even if they are mini!
I sensed an upset though. But before I could go and strut my stuff in black, I had to face another torturous night. A few years ago, I was classed as a human being. These days, I am more of an owl than a human being, just without the fully rotatable neck. Last night, I had told myself I was going to sleep at the nice, comfortable hour of 1am. What happened? I stayed awake, bloggling in here at the dirty and downright rude hour of 4am and despite saying I was going straight to bed, I didn't. I eventually made it to sleep at the break of dawn at around 6am. Even then, I ended up awakening at 20 minute intervals until I was fully woken up by a no doubt Polish man, 3 hours later, who seemed to take great pleasure in throwing a boulder at my wall. I was amused however, when I banged on the wall to tell Father Mitten to keep his DIY'ing quiet, only to find out I was abusing a complete stranger.
I would like to add that the foreigner, (not necessarily Polish), was laying down a carpet with a very, very noisy machine that sounded like it was sucking in the whole house, at an impossibly early hour for a temporary insomniac such as myself. After hearing the foreigner leave, I was happy enough. I could get a few hours kip before the big game, but Father Mitten had other ideas. He whipped out his power drill, (stop it!), and started drilling into my wall. However tired you are, you CANNOT sleep while in the middle of a warzone. It might aswell have been for the amount of noise that was being created...
So I gave up. I was going to have to officiate on a couple of hours kip, and all of a sudden, I was nervous again. My journey to the ground was a long one thanks to impossibly thick traffic, probably due to a health and safety hazard somewhere. As has been usual though, since my return to the refereeing arena, the nerves settled in time for kick-off and the boost from the banana and Tropical Lucozade was enough to get my head on the game.
The game itself? A "barnstormer"! And I'd just like to point out at this moment in time, that I was amazing. Sorry, but it's true. I might have still been asleep for the first 5 minutes, running around like a sleepwalker, but otherwise I was absolutely spot on, and the players knew it aswell. They were saying that I was the best referee they've had all season, and rightly so. It was a classic cup tie, end to end, with strong tackles and a couple of what the BBC commentary team like to call, "handbags", but thanks to my immense man management skills, I succeeded entirely. The 90th minute decision, to send the defender off for 'DOGSO', and the close decision to award a free kick instead of the penalty that everyone was up in arms for, was perfect. It went all the way to the wire, and the better-placed team won on penalties. Always a harsh way to finish a football match in my opinion.
I might suggest a law change to FIFA, where the players contest a game of Musical Chairs to decide the winner of a football match. It's about as tense as a penalty shoot-out, but it provides the one thing that a shoot-out cannot. A sing along!
Ok, maybe not...
Given I only had 2 hours sleep, plus an end-to-end 120-minute cup tie making my legs ache to an unsubstantiated level, most of you must be thinking I should be out cold by now. Well, you're wrong. I attempted to go to sleep at around 10pm, but after laying awake for 2 and a half hours, I decided to give up entirely. It's now 01.38, and I have another, no doubt, action-packed game to officiate in tomorrow afternoon. After last weeks calamities, I have no game to play in the morning, however. Phew. I fear also, I may be developing a fatal case of man flu in time for my run of 4 games in 6 days, (it was 5 in 7 before today), and if this insomnia carries on much longer, I'm in trouble.
But, seeing as I'm in the middle of a mini-high at the moment, I shall not worry about such things. And, let's be honest, I dont get many highs at all, even if they are mini!
Saturday 19 March 2011
Attacking (Student) Finance - With a Big Hammer
Apologies in advance for the awful Americanism. But I have heard that Student Finance are big "douches", and I found out for myself this week, that most people's sentiments were with foundation and completely justified. Quite frankly, I'm surprised most people haven't trekked all the way to their headquarters to literally hit them with a hammer. As far as I can tell, their offices are either in Watford, Darlington or Bristol. I have yet to figure out which, as they insist on telling me to send, "evidence", to different places.
Quite frankly, if I, and my family and all of my friends develop an acute case of dementia in the next few weeks, then I'm going to have nothing to prove who I am. And then we're in trouble. Student Finance England, (for we are not sheep, haggis or leprachauns), want me to send my passport, which I can't because it's about 7 years out of date and has a picture of me with curtains, (yep, THOSE curtains), so instead I must send my birth certificate to prove I am not Alfrazi Al-Alfaraini from Saudi Arabia and in fact, me. I must also send two copies of an 18-page form that somehow proves that Father Mitten is not the Director of Kelloggs and Mother Mitten is not Karren Brady and then maybe, I get some money from David Cameron. Maybe. Well... probably, but it will never come in time.
And to make matters worse, I have only really filled out the easy application bit. We are awaiting the massive forms from Mr.Postman as the senior Mittens of the household wish to conduct this major operation in the same fashion as when they did the same for Sister Mitten, 3 years ago. We attempted to do it online, but Father Mitten forgot where he met Mother Mitten, much to the sarcastic disgust of Mother Mitten, so we went down the classic route of paper and pen. I envisage some horrible times ahead.
As for the subject of University itself, it has been a hot topic in this household in the past week. It has lead to some... debates, in which Mother Mitten got her point across much better than I did, and we have come to the conclusion that I need a job. Mother Mitten will regret it when I come home after EVERY SHIFT, and complain to her how useless it is, and then when she tells me to shut up, I will remind her it was her idea. Ok, I won't.
However, despite attempting to wriggle round important decisions with my now, famous, silences, this is a subject I find difficult to defend myself on, and rightly so. I don't want a job. And ok, I know most people dislike going to work, but the only route I can go down these days is the call-centre malarky, and quite frankly, after my brief experience in such an environment, the idea makes me physically sick. I can handle footballers shouting at me, because I have weapons I can use. Over the phone, if someone shouts at me, (which they did in my briefest of experiences), I know I will be reduced to a quivering wreck because I have very little backbone, and will do what I always do when criticised. Run away.
I will be brutally honest. I seriously don't see myself lasting 6 months in a call centre. I worked for Autoglass as a temp, (very briefly), and I honestly cannot describe a more traumatic experience. Unless you count the time I was used as a taxi to Birmingham. And yeah, I know "it's just for the money" and I know, "it won't be forever", but it's for long enough and I don't want to spend my time talking to people who don't want to be talked to.
Father Mitten tried to make me see how much University will cost, by using pen and paper. Despite his original estimates, that I would be £1000 short with just Student Finance, we eventually worked out, I will be ever so slightly short, if I just existed. I get the feeling Father Mitten's maths grade wasn't so high back in the day... However, I will admit, it was at this point that I knew I needed something to go with. BUT, I am going to try everything in my damnest power to avoid a call centre. Seriously.
Back to today, and it was largely uneventful until I decided to go and support Dassy in his battle with the electronic board as 4th official in his County Cup final. He did well, despite spending most of the game chatting to me, and despite his electronic board displaying that Number 87 was being replaced by Number 87 at one stage. Otherwise, there was little hiccup. I managed to pick up an appointment from Master Bob and another possible one for the end of the month aswell. It's all money at the end of the day. We went for a cheeky chicken and chips afterwards, described by Dassy as, "Food Poisoning in a Box", and then drove home with the radio up to a very, very high volume and me bobbing my head in a fashion that suggested I was a duck with an avid obsession of drum and bass, before getting home.
I had pointed out I was going to watch the Comic Relief drama unfold, but I was put off by Sickipedia, and Kettle's attempt to show me the worst song in existence, to which I promptly agreed.
And now, after a conversation or 4 with many drunken beings, I have just looked at the clock to find it is 03:52. Why, oh why, do I stay up this late? Warming up for university? At least I'll be good at that!
Quite frankly, if I, and my family and all of my friends develop an acute case of dementia in the next few weeks, then I'm going to have nothing to prove who I am. And then we're in trouble. Student Finance England, (for we are not sheep, haggis or leprachauns), want me to send my passport, which I can't because it's about 7 years out of date and has a picture of me with curtains, (yep, THOSE curtains), so instead I must send my birth certificate to prove I am not Alfrazi Al-Alfaraini from Saudi Arabia and in fact, me. I must also send two copies of an 18-page form that somehow proves that Father Mitten is not the Director of Kelloggs and Mother Mitten is not Karren Brady and then maybe, I get some money from David Cameron. Maybe. Well... probably, but it will never come in time.
And to make matters worse, I have only really filled out the easy application bit. We are awaiting the massive forms from Mr.Postman as the senior Mittens of the household wish to conduct this major operation in the same fashion as when they did the same for Sister Mitten, 3 years ago. We attempted to do it online, but Father Mitten forgot where he met Mother Mitten, much to the sarcastic disgust of Mother Mitten, so we went down the classic route of paper and pen. I envisage some horrible times ahead.
As for the subject of University itself, it has been a hot topic in this household in the past week. It has lead to some... debates, in which Mother Mitten got her point across much better than I did, and we have come to the conclusion that I need a job. Mother Mitten will regret it when I come home after EVERY SHIFT, and complain to her how useless it is, and then when she tells me to shut up, I will remind her it was her idea. Ok, I won't.
However, despite attempting to wriggle round important decisions with my now, famous, silences, this is a subject I find difficult to defend myself on, and rightly so. I don't want a job. And ok, I know most people dislike going to work, but the only route I can go down these days is the call-centre malarky, and quite frankly, after my brief experience in such an environment, the idea makes me physically sick. I can handle footballers shouting at me, because I have weapons I can use. Over the phone, if someone shouts at me, (which they did in my briefest of experiences), I know I will be reduced to a quivering wreck because I have very little backbone, and will do what I always do when criticised. Run away.
I will be brutally honest. I seriously don't see myself lasting 6 months in a call centre. I worked for Autoglass as a temp, (very briefly), and I honestly cannot describe a more traumatic experience. Unless you count the time I was used as a taxi to Birmingham. And yeah, I know "it's just for the money" and I know, "it won't be forever", but it's for long enough and I don't want to spend my time talking to people who don't want to be talked to.
Father Mitten tried to make me see how much University will cost, by using pen and paper. Despite his original estimates, that I would be £1000 short with just Student Finance, we eventually worked out, I will be ever so slightly short, if I just existed. I get the feeling Father Mitten's maths grade wasn't so high back in the day... However, I will admit, it was at this point that I knew I needed something to go with. BUT, I am going to try everything in my damnest power to avoid a call centre. Seriously.
Back to today, and it was largely uneventful until I decided to go and support Dassy in his battle with the electronic board as 4th official in his County Cup final. He did well, despite spending most of the game chatting to me, and despite his electronic board displaying that Number 87 was being replaced by Number 87 at one stage. Otherwise, there was little hiccup. I managed to pick up an appointment from Master Bob and another possible one for the end of the month aswell. It's all money at the end of the day. We went for a cheeky chicken and chips afterwards, described by Dassy as, "Food Poisoning in a Box", and then drove home with the radio up to a very, very high volume and me bobbing my head in a fashion that suggested I was a duck with an avid obsession of drum and bass, before getting home.
I had pointed out I was going to watch the Comic Relief drama unfold, but I was put off by Sickipedia, and Kettle's attempt to show me the worst song in existence, to which I promptly agreed.
And now, after a conversation or 4 with many drunken beings, I have just looked at the clock to find it is 03:52. Why, oh why, do I stay up this late? Warming up for university? At least I'll be good at that!
Wednesday 16 March 2011
The Library of Dreams
Bedford to Manchester, once again, but this time there was not a single drop of alcohol involved! Nope, today saw the trek to go and see the mighty Red Devils in the 2nd leg of their Last-16 tie against Marseille. Father Mitten had managed to get 2 tickets, "as a treat". I've always enjoyed going to Old Trafford. The buzz surrounding 73,996 people all packed into a huge arena, sacrificing limbs and voicebox, (or maybe not), to push your team over the line. We never get to go very often, possibly once a season, but when we do, it's always an enjoyable day out.
In case you're wondering, yes I am "one of those fans". I do consider myself a poor Man United fan, based on the fact I hardly ever go and see them and, the last couple of years, am not really bothered whether they win or lose. It's different when you're actually there though...
However, before we embarked on our journey, of which I shall get to, I first had to venture into town to look for a panda. Genuinely. However, I couldn't find the fancy dress shop and seeing as I was running out of time, I bought a panini and made my way home. At 2.30, we left our driveway for the long 30 second drive to the pub. Yep. We were meeting 'Phil' and 'Dan', 2 other people who had been chucked into a car-sharing scheme. Phil and Dan are your natural "blokes". Smokers, drinkers and the intelligence of your average toddler, and as they jumped into the back seats, the discussion instantly turned to football, and naturally, how referees are to blame for everything. These guys did not have any knowledge of how football worked. I imagined them going to matchdays, shouting at the referee non-stop for 90 minutes and thinking they know better than Giggs and co. They're tirades on 'How Referees Ruin Football' and 'How Referees Never Give a Decision for United' quickly stopped as I mentioned I was a referee, and suggested they should try it out for themselves before shifting the blame on to them.
The rest of the journey was fairly quiet.
When we got in and around Manchester, the Sat Nav attempted to send us to Old Trafford via Mumbai but as we finally found our bearings, we went to park round the back of an unused landfill site, paying a ridiculous £10 for the privilege, and did what most football fans do. Head to the pub.
Now, this place wasn't for the faint-hearted. It reminded me of the Bluebell in Bedford. Full of dodgy alcoholics who spend their whole weekends drinking 'John Smiths', and after buying 2 pitchers of Carlsberg at £12 a pop, of which I had none, and some of what my Dad called, "waffle" and what I call, "bullshit", we made our way to the stadium, via Lou Macari's Chippy, (that charged us a further £11 for cheeseburger and chips, twice), leaving the "blokes" to get as hammered as possible. Our seats were in the 1st tier of the massive North Stand, level with the goal on the opposite side of the dugouts.
The game itself was distinctly average. United went 1-0 up early on, but despite being ahead for 85 minutes of the 90, the fans were not to be heard. If this place was the "Theatre of Dreams", then we were watching a ballet, not a musical. It might aswell have been silent, as I wistfully watched the top tier of the stand behind the goal, full to the rafters with Marseille fans making an absolute racket. It was embarrassing. I like an atmosphere when you go to watch football matches. Surprisingly for me, I love the banter and the competition with the other fans, and wished, more than anything, for a bit more hostility towards the away fans. We went 2-0 up, thanks to 'The Little Pea' but a Wes Brown own-goal, (naturally), meant for squeaky bum time for the quiet United contingent. We held on fairly comfortably and as the final whistle sounded, the biggest noise of the night was heard. Everyone making for the exits.
We found our way back to the car, still in one piece thankfully, and waited. We then waited some more and after a fair amount of time, eventually saw the "blokes" stagger round the corner. Great. This trip home is going to be eventful.
In fact, it wasn't. They both fell asleep in the back seats, meaning a less awkward drive than on the way there, and despite a couple of near fateful diversions, we eventually found our way home and ended up damn-near pushing the other 2 out of the car. They still had a 30-minute drive home ahead of them, and they might well be sat in the pub car park, asleep.
All in all, a successful trip, but I did notice I have sank into my shell a bit. I was practically silent during the scarce discussion on the journey there and the more detailed chat at the pub, where I would hope to take at least some part. It didn't really matter in the end.
Tomorrow, hopefully, sees the beginning of my war with Student Finance UK, as the applications for getting loans for University, open. I have heard stories of pain and anguish from these people, so am not expecting an easy ride. Still, alarm set for 10am.
And I didn't even get round to the story of the scary middle-aged woman and the silent raving man... Another time, maybe.
In case you're wondering, yes I am "one of those fans". I do consider myself a poor Man United fan, based on the fact I hardly ever go and see them and, the last couple of years, am not really bothered whether they win or lose. It's different when you're actually there though...
However, before we embarked on our journey, of which I shall get to, I first had to venture into town to look for a panda. Genuinely. However, I couldn't find the fancy dress shop and seeing as I was running out of time, I bought a panini and made my way home. At 2.30, we left our driveway for the long 30 second drive to the pub. Yep. We were meeting 'Phil' and 'Dan', 2 other people who had been chucked into a car-sharing scheme. Phil and Dan are your natural "blokes". Smokers, drinkers and the intelligence of your average toddler, and as they jumped into the back seats, the discussion instantly turned to football, and naturally, how referees are to blame for everything. These guys did not have any knowledge of how football worked. I imagined them going to matchdays, shouting at the referee non-stop for 90 minutes and thinking they know better than Giggs and co. They're tirades on 'How Referees Ruin Football' and 'How Referees Never Give a Decision for United' quickly stopped as I mentioned I was a referee, and suggested they should try it out for themselves before shifting the blame on to them.
The rest of the journey was fairly quiet.
When we got in and around Manchester, the Sat Nav attempted to send us to Old Trafford via Mumbai but as we finally found our bearings, we went to park round the back of an unused landfill site, paying a ridiculous £10 for the privilege, and did what most football fans do. Head to the pub.
Now, this place wasn't for the faint-hearted. It reminded me of the Bluebell in Bedford. Full of dodgy alcoholics who spend their whole weekends drinking 'John Smiths', and after buying 2 pitchers of Carlsberg at £12 a pop, of which I had none, and some of what my Dad called, "waffle" and what I call, "bullshit", we made our way to the stadium, via Lou Macari's Chippy, (that charged us a further £11 for cheeseburger and chips, twice), leaving the "blokes" to get as hammered as possible. Our seats were in the 1st tier of the massive North Stand, level with the goal on the opposite side of the dugouts.
The game itself was distinctly average. United went 1-0 up early on, but despite being ahead for 85 minutes of the 90, the fans were not to be heard. If this place was the "Theatre of Dreams", then we were watching a ballet, not a musical. It might aswell have been silent, as I wistfully watched the top tier of the stand behind the goal, full to the rafters with Marseille fans making an absolute racket. It was embarrassing. I like an atmosphere when you go to watch football matches. Surprisingly for me, I love the banter and the competition with the other fans, and wished, more than anything, for a bit more hostility towards the away fans. We went 2-0 up, thanks to 'The Little Pea' but a Wes Brown own-goal, (naturally), meant for squeaky bum time for the quiet United contingent. We held on fairly comfortably and as the final whistle sounded, the biggest noise of the night was heard. Everyone making for the exits.
We found our way back to the car, still in one piece thankfully, and waited. We then waited some more and after a fair amount of time, eventually saw the "blokes" stagger round the corner. Great. This trip home is going to be eventful.
In fact, it wasn't. They both fell asleep in the back seats, meaning a less awkward drive than on the way there, and despite a couple of near fateful diversions, we eventually found our way home and ended up damn-near pushing the other 2 out of the car. They still had a 30-minute drive home ahead of them, and they might well be sat in the pub car park, asleep.
All in all, a successful trip, but I did notice I have sank into my shell a bit. I was practically silent during the scarce discussion on the journey there and the more detailed chat at the pub, where I would hope to take at least some part. It didn't really matter in the end.
Tomorrow, hopefully, sees the beginning of my war with Student Finance UK, as the applications for getting loans for University, open. I have heard stories of pain and anguish from these people, so am not expecting an easy ride. Still, alarm set for 10am.
And I didn't even get round to the story of the scary middle-aged woman and the silent raving man... Another time, maybe.
Monday 14 March 2011
Calamity Carr
Sundays are usually the highlight of my week. Despite being branded by most as a, "boring but relaxing end to the week", I am usually driving around attending different sporting functions, all of my week's activity coming in an eight-and-a-half hour stretch, all at once. However, today was a bit different.
As has become usual with my Saturday night's, I didn't get to sleep till the darkest hours. 5am, I got to sleep, mainly because I couldn't before that for reasons unknown. Waking up at half 9 then, for a bog standard league game for a team I am not really bothered about anymore, was more difficult than I had imagined. Bed, as has become traditional, seemed a more attractive prospect, however, to avoid being pummelled by an enthusiastic manager, (and today's referee none the less), I hauled myself out of bed, and drove to the match, simply 2 minutes down the road. You could tell no one wanted to be there. The usual matchday hulabaloo was replaced with a somewhat serene and relaxed atmosphere, suggesting the others felt this was a bit of a come down from last weeks heroics. Either that, or they had been out on the lash, and let's face it, it was probably the latter. Our opponents however, all probably too old to hit the town these days, looked completely up for it and after going 1-0 up, there was only one way this match was going to go. Ok, it was 2-2, with a single minute left on the watch that was strapped to the wrist of Father Mitten, and ok, I made a clanger. We lost 3-2, and I don't care!
We couldn't win the league even before this game started. I'm not too fussed if we get promoted, seeing as I'm not playing next year anyway, and the only game worth being interested in is the cup final. There is no way I can get away with not playing otherwise, so I guess I'll just have to keep going...
As for my afternoon plans, they went completely down the pan. I didn't feel too well, mainly due to the fact of not enough sleep, (and let's face it, I'm used to much more!), and general lack of enthusiasm, meant I went for an intended few hours nap, but waking up at 9.30pm, meant it was anything but. So now I am left back in, "that pattern", being very down on myself and thinking...
I am, slowly but surely, losing interest in... well, everything. Playing football in the morning should be fun and something I want to do, not something I feel I have to do, to avoid disappointing other people. Refereeing should be something I looking forward to and enjoying once I am there, but I spend most of Friday and the consuing night, just not wanting to go. I didn't even want to go to nets this afternoon, an activity I enjoy a lot more than football, but even that failed. I am losing interest in everything, and honestly, I am mightily scared. I'm scared that, soon enough, I'm going to lose all the activities I once enjoyed, simply because I over-think things..
All because I'm being dragged down by my own brain. Sometimes, I just hate this.
As has become usual with my Saturday night's, I didn't get to sleep till the darkest hours. 5am, I got to sleep, mainly because I couldn't before that for reasons unknown. Waking up at half 9 then, for a bog standard league game for a team I am not really bothered about anymore, was more difficult than I had imagined. Bed, as has become traditional, seemed a more attractive prospect, however, to avoid being pummelled by an enthusiastic manager, (and today's referee none the less), I hauled myself out of bed, and drove to the match, simply 2 minutes down the road. You could tell no one wanted to be there. The usual matchday hulabaloo was replaced with a somewhat serene and relaxed atmosphere, suggesting the others felt this was a bit of a come down from last weeks heroics. Either that, or they had been out on the lash, and let's face it, it was probably the latter. Our opponents however, all probably too old to hit the town these days, looked completely up for it and after going 1-0 up, there was only one way this match was going to go. Ok, it was 2-2, with a single minute left on the watch that was strapped to the wrist of Father Mitten, and ok, I made a clanger. We lost 3-2, and I don't care!
We couldn't win the league even before this game started. I'm not too fussed if we get promoted, seeing as I'm not playing next year anyway, and the only game worth being interested in is the cup final. There is no way I can get away with not playing otherwise, so I guess I'll just have to keep going...
As for my afternoon plans, they went completely down the pan. I didn't feel too well, mainly due to the fact of not enough sleep, (and let's face it, I'm used to much more!), and general lack of enthusiasm, meant I went for an intended few hours nap, but waking up at 9.30pm, meant it was anything but. So now I am left back in, "that pattern", being very down on myself and thinking...
I am, slowly but surely, losing interest in... well, everything. Playing football in the morning should be fun and something I want to do, not something I feel I have to do, to avoid disappointing other people. Refereeing should be something I looking forward to and enjoying once I am there, but I spend most of Friday and the consuing night, just not wanting to go. I didn't even want to go to nets this afternoon, an activity I enjoy a lot more than football, but even that failed. I am losing interest in everything, and honestly, I am mightily scared. I'm scared that, soon enough, I'm going to lose all the activities I once enjoyed, simply because I over-think things..
All because I'm being dragged down by my own brain. Sometimes, I just hate this.
Saturday 12 March 2011
Undecided, (Again)
These weekends come round awfully fast don't they? No? Well, seeing as any sort of activity in the life of Mitten comes in these 2 days, I suppose it's the only time of the week where I awake from my midweek induced stupor and participate in real world activity.
18 minutes have elapsed of the weekend so far, and I'm happy to report that nothing has happened. I've spent the last 2 days re-living the momentous Ashes Tour Down Under, and then finding out I had another copy sent to me, meaning some daft paperwork and a printer that went on some sort of industrial action, probably over the condition its left in, left to gather dust in the corner of my parent's bedroom. After an eventual agreement over pay and conditions, the package now lays in the kitchen, waiting for it's second dispatchment, unless someone can provide me with a better offer. I didn't think so either.
So, to tot up the bank tally after this truly dreadful error of judgment from moi, I suppose I'd better referee hadn't I! Wootton Reserves vs Eastcotts AFC, a very, very, very, very .... (I could go on forever), very average fixture in which I will no doubt recieve my usual quota of phrases such as, "That's crap ref!" and "Are you watching this game?!"
No. No I am not. In fact, I am watching the delightful bluebottle that has just raced into that nearby oak tree, and decided to build a nest there. What the hell else do you think I'm watching? Imbesiles.
It didn't help that when I rang the manager of the home team earlier, who had not bothered to ring me to confirm the fixture, spoke to me in such a manner that suggested I was missing a number of my brain cells and was in fact, a hippo. When I find the place in which I am officiating, (a usual worry of mine because of paranoia of getting extremely lost), I recieve no sort of hospitality at all, usually getting given the key to a so-called, "changing room", that smells like many babies have been changed in them, before going about my usual pre-match routine, that no player in the history of the game appreciates is vitally important, until their own ears get ripped out by the earring they so stupidly got done thanks to peer pressure in the 1980's. The 90 minutes happens, usually with a lot of goals in between, seeing as no team of this standard bothers about defending, aswell as being shouted at monotonously for being a useless kid and I get paid £23 and go home again.
Do you see the problem? I'm not sure whether I'm enjoying this refereeing lark or not. I don't like the fact I have to start at the bottom and work my way up. And I know it's like that in life generally. I'm supposed to be doing it because I enjoy it, because I want to do it and I like doing it, but at the moment, I'm still completely undecided. I'm not looking forward to refereeing later at all, but I should be. I'm not dreading it, or don't want to do it. I just... don't enjoy it as much as I used to. These days, especially with things as they are, part of me feels like I HAVE to do it, to gain even a moment of respectability.
Ok, after a moments thought, I have put it down to it being the end of the season, and I may be getting slightly fed up football in general, a usual diagnosis when it comes to March, as my thoughts wander to Summer based activity.
Talking of football, (like I have been for the last million years), tonight at training was, different. I got injured. Something that doesn't happen very often. After saving a particularly powerful shot, I got a searing pain up my right elbow, and bowed out at an early stage, almost England Cricket-esque, (not yet!). However, I was invited to play in the match as a right-back, seeing as I don't need my elbow at right-back. I haven't played out on pitch in 5 years. I had never, ever played as a right-back and it's safe to say I wasn't Gary Neville, but more Krusty the Clown. As Alan Pardew once famously said... I got raped.
Still, it was something different and after I came home, indulged on a box of 20 mini donuts, of which only 3 remain, it's time to enjoy the middle of the afternoon. It is nearly 1am after all.
18 minutes have elapsed of the weekend so far, and I'm happy to report that nothing has happened. I've spent the last 2 days re-living the momentous Ashes Tour Down Under, and then finding out I had another copy sent to me, meaning some daft paperwork and a printer that went on some sort of industrial action, probably over the condition its left in, left to gather dust in the corner of my parent's bedroom. After an eventual agreement over pay and conditions, the package now lays in the kitchen, waiting for it's second dispatchment, unless someone can provide me with a better offer. I didn't think so either.
So, to tot up the bank tally after this truly dreadful error of judgment from moi, I suppose I'd better referee hadn't I! Wootton Reserves vs Eastcotts AFC, a very, very, very, very .... (I could go on forever), very average fixture in which I will no doubt recieve my usual quota of phrases such as, "That's crap ref!" and "Are you watching this game?!"
No. No I am not. In fact, I am watching the delightful bluebottle that has just raced into that nearby oak tree, and decided to build a nest there. What the hell else do you think I'm watching? Imbesiles.
It didn't help that when I rang the manager of the home team earlier, who had not bothered to ring me to confirm the fixture, spoke to me in such a manner that suggested I was missing a number of my brain cells and was in fact, a hippo. When I find the place in which I am officiating, (a usual worry of mine because of paranoia of getting extremely lost), I recieve no sort of hospitality at all, usually getting given the key to a so-called, "changing room", that smells like many babies have been changed in them, before going about my usual pre-match routine, that no player in the history of the game appreciates is vitally important, until their own ears get ripped out by the earring they so stupidly got done thanks to peer pressure in the 1980's. The 90 minutes happens, usually with a lot of goals in between, seeing as no team of this standard bothers about defending, aswell as being shouted at monotonously for being a useless kid and I get paid £23 and go home again.
Do you see the problem? I'm not sure whether I'm enjoying this refereeing lark or not. I don't like the fact I have to start at the bottom and work my way up. And I know it's like that in life generally. I'm supposed to be doing it because I enjoy it, because I want to do it and I like doing it, but at the moment, I'm still completely undecided. I'm not looking forward to refereeing later at all, but I should be. I'm not dreading it, or don't want to do it. I just... don't enjoy it as much as I used to. These days, especially with things as they are, part of me feels like I HAVE to do it, to gain even a moment of respectability.
Ok, after a moments thought, I have put it down to it being the end of the season, and I may be getting slightly fed up football in general, a usual diagnosis when it comes to March, as my thoughts wander to Summer based activity.
Talking of football, (like I have been for the last million years), tonight at training was, different. I got injured. Something that doesn't happen very often. After saving a particularly powerful shot, I got a searing pain up my right elbow, and bowed out at an early stage, almost England Cricket-esque, (not yet!). However, I was invited to play in the match as a right-back, seeing as I don't need my elbow at right-back. I haven't played out on pitch in 5 years. I had never, ever played as a right-back and it's safe to say I wasn't Gary Neville, but more Krusty the Clown. As Alan Pardew once famously said... I got raped.
Still, it was something different and after I came home, indulged on a box of 20 mini donuts, of which only 3 remain, it's time to enjoy the middle of the afternoon. It is nearly 1am after all.
Friday 11 March 2011
Having Your Own Wiki Page
Wikipedia. An online encyclopeadia, mostly used by desperate students trying to find information to fill up the word count on a particularly difficult assignment or, in my own experience, used to try and find out about the history of french mime artist Marcel Marceau, even if Wikipedia said he was convicted for drug trafficking offences in 2009, (despite being dead).
No, this evening, boredom had reached a whole new level. Luckily for myself, someone else was experiencing much the same problem, so we decided, with my nouse for writing creatively, (sort of..), and his magical ways of working out code on a computer, we decided to make a Wikipedia page all about, me! Yep, Ridgway's idea entirely, inside an hour and a half, we managed to create a highly detailed synopsis of my, mostly, sporting life with a few drunk stories chucked in for good measure, simply to give us something to do. By 1:30am, we had completed our piece of art, and as Ridgway hurried off to sleep after realising the time, I stayed behind and marvelled in our magnificence. I like the final result, and although it will probably be deleted by Wikipedia for not having enough references, it's certainly a piece of work we can be proud of! Ask me for the link!
Otherwise, today has been, as you could probably work out, largely uneventful. I really didn't feel too good earlier, I was going through a very bad patch, but a couple of people cheered me up and a bit of compelling 2010 Ashes viewing, (despite buying the DVD twice...), did enough to get me back to normal. Last night saw my usual pre-season cricket net with Southill that was largely successful. The anticipation surrounding the new season is almost unbearable, with the first friendlies starting in just over a month's time. I almost want the football season to end now, so I can concentrate on cricket.
However, football has not ended and I will vow to concentrate until it does. I got the result of my assessment back, despite not getting a result at all, (I never find out!), and look forward to another weekend full of sport. On Tuesday night, I went to watch the Beds Senior Cup semi-final with Rayment. A largely uneventful game, and a long round trip, but it cured the boredom and I was very surprised to be greeted with a post-game test on what I had learnt by Rayment! It was too late to give a proper answer!
However, given it is the, "working week", I'm afraid there is very little to update you on. Posts are now not wholly frequent and interesting, but just wait till the Summer and then September...
No, this evening, boredom had reached a whole new level. Luckily for myself, someone else was experiencing much the same problem, so we decided, with my nouse for writing creatively, (sort of..), and his magical ways of working out code on a computer, we decided to make a Wikipedia page all about, me! Yep, Ridgway's idea entirely, inside an hour and a half, we managed to create a highly detailed synopsis of my, mostly, sporting life with a few drunk stories chucked in for good measure, simply to give us something to do. By 1:30am, we had completed our piece of art, and as Ridgway hurried off to sleep after realising the time, I stayed behind and marvelled in our magnificence. I like the final result, and although it will probably be deleted by Wikipedia for not having enough references, it's certainly a piece of work we can be proud of! Ask me for the link!
Otherwise, today has been, as you could probably work out, largely uneventful. I really didn't feel too good earlier, I was going through a very bad patch, but a couple of people cheered me up and a bit of compelling 2010 Ashes viewing, (despite buying the DVD twice...), did enough to get me back to normal. Last night saw my usual pre-season cricket net with Southill that was largely successful. The anticipation surrounding the new season is almost unbearable, with the first friendlies starting in just over a month's time. I almost want the football season to end now, so I can concentrate on cricket.
However, football has not ended and I will vow to concentrate until it does. I got the result of my assessment back, despite not getting a result at all, (I never find out!), and look forward to another weekend full of sport. On Tuesday night, I went to watch the Beds Senior Cup semi-final with Rayment. A largely uneventful game, and a long round trip, but it cured the boredom and I was very surprised to be greeted with a post-game test on what I had learnt by Rayment! It was too late to give a proper answer!
However, given it is the, "working week", I'm afraid there is very little to update you on. Posts are now not wholly frequent and interesting, but just wait till the Summer and then September...
Tuesday 8 March 2011
Being a "Kid"
As a teenager, especially around the ages of 14, 15, 16, I HATED, beyond anything else, being "patronised". At every event or sporting day, there were comments, probably unintentional, about my age. It wasn't just me, the comments were very general. I still hear a few these days, especially in the refereeing world, although I would like to think I was more mature to think nothing of it and have since discovered the meaning of the word, "banter".
But when I was a few years younger than I am now, I always thought there was no need for older people, around 30+, to comment on how us, "younger lot", were taking over. Or how good it is that us, "younger generation", were getting opportunities and the like. At that age, I found it quite demeaning for some reason. I remember a couple of distinct examples. A golf tournament, when I was 15, there were a lot of juniors playing in a tournament and a couple of old heads claimed how good it was that their sport was so popular amongst younger people. It was good, but by the tone of their voice, it sounded like they thought they were being taken over. They thought their traditional club was being modernised into something they were not used to. I used to think we were looked down upon by older members. These days, I am no longer a member, for other reasons, mainly the cost of it all in these difficult, difficult days.
Tonight though, I remembered another scenario in which I felt patronisingly young in a sea of older beings. Tonight was the County Cup Final Referee's evening. An evening in which a number of selected referees find out which cup final they have been given. An evening full of surprise, gossip and social outlook. After a hiccup, I got given the Under-18 Floodlit Final as an Assistant, exactly what I was expecting and much better than the other possibility! Ask me for details, I can't be bothered to go into it here and now. However, after the distribution of the finals, I went across to a face I knew, who I play cricket with. I didn't even know he was a referee, and sure enough this was his first season. I congratuled him on his appointment and then said 2 things I instantly regretted.
"I got a final in my first season aswell, it's a great achievement buddy!" and ... worst of all, "It's good to see so many younger referees getting finals!"
Why did I say that?! Ok, I'm only 19, but this was my 4th cup final evening in 5 years, I sort of felt a bit of a veteran of the event, (without trying to brag!) Yet, I felt it necessary to say exactly the same things I hated when I was his age. Even now, I'm saying things like, "When I was his age". What is wrong with me!? When I walked away from the conversation, after one of those awkward silences, I regretted it instantly. Why am I patronising him!? Bloody idiot!
I remember my first cup final evening. I was spoken to by a lot of senior officials who said a lot of the same sort of things. They couldn't have been intentionally patronising, but it felt like it. I only knew a few people, and I was getting youth cup finals whilst watching others get big, adult finals. I felt like a small fish in the Pacific Ocean. It wasn't entirely comfortable and I suppose it was the same for many of the newer referees there tonight. It didn't help that the dress code said, "smart casual". Every other year, the dress code has been, "strictly smart", so most people took the same attitude. I went in a shirt and trousers, (but, importantly, no tie!) The older heads, the heads that had been there before, went much the same way, some even further. I felt a little bit sorry for the people who were coming to their first final and saw the words, "smart casual", so thought it meant shirt and jeans. What I would consider the usual, "smart casual". They looked a little out of place, and inferior, and I'm sure they were nervous, as I was for my first ever evening, and this didn't help them. One guy even turned up wearing a pink polo shirt and a beanie hat. He looked a little sheepish!
You see. I'm STILL being patronising. Even now.
Well, I do turn 20 in about 2 months. 20? What happened to the time? It didn't feel so long ago I was playing on the green, playing Knockout and climbing over people's garden walls innocently to collect a football, or going to parties and getting a "party bag" or ... going to school! Simple old school... seems so long ago... (sorry!)
I'm not that old yet though, where I can get away with being a normal age. Your average adult will still say something along the lines of, "Corrr, I remember when I was 20... long time ago...", but I'm not young enough anymore to be innocent and be on the learning curve for what is right and wrong. I'm at that age, as are many others, where I haven't got the experience to tell interesting stories or be considered important in society, but I am old enough to take responsibilty for myself and take charge of my own life. It's a difficult age.
Still being patronised, but also doing the patronising...
But when I was a few years younger than I am now, I always thought there was no need for older people, around 30+, to comment on how us, "younger lot", were taking over. Or how good it is that us, "younger generation", were getting opportunities and the like. At that age, I found it quite demeaning for some reason. I remember a couple of distinct examples. A golf tournament, when I was 15, there were a lot of juniors playing in a tournament and a couple of old heads claimed how good it was that their sport was so popular amongst younger people. It was good, but by the tone of their voice, it sounded like they thought they were being taken over. They thought their traditional club was being modernised into something they were not used to. I used to think we were looked down upon by older members. These days, I am no longer a member, for other reasons, mainly the cost of it all in these difficult, difficult days.
Tonight though, I remembered another scenario in which I felt patronisingly young in a sea of older beings. Tonight was the County Cup Final Referee's evening. An evening in which a number of selected referees find out which cup final they have been given. An evening full of surprise, gossip and social outlook. After a hiccup, I got given the Under-18 Floodlit Final as an Assistant, exactly what I was expecting and much better than the other possibility! Ask me for details, I can't be bothered to go into it here and now. However, after the distribution of the finals, I went across to a face I knew, who I play cricket with. I didn't even know he was a referee, and sure enough this was his first season. I congratuled him on his appointment and then said 2 things I instantly regretted.
"I got a final in my first season aswell, it's a great achievement buddy!" and ... worst of all, "It's good to see so many younger referees getting finals!"
Why did I say that?! Ok, I'm only 19, but this was my 4th cup final evening in 5 years, I sort of felt a bit of a veteran of the event, (without trying to brag!) Yet, I felt it necessary to say exactly the same things I hated when I was his age. Even now, I'm saying things like, "When I was his age". What is wrong with me!? When I walked away from the conversation, after one of those awkward silences, I regretted it instantly. Why am I patronising him!? Bloody idiot!
I remember my first cup final evening. I was spoken to by a lot of senior officials who said a lot of the same sort of things. They couldn't have been intentionally patronising, but it felt like it. I only knew a few people, and I was getting youth cup finals whilst watching others get big, adult finals. I felt like a small fish in the Pacific Ocean. It wasn't entirely comfortable and I suppose it was the same for many of the newer referees there tonight. It didn't help that the dress code said, "smart casual". Every other year, the dress code has been, "strictly smart", so most people took the same attitude. I went in a shirt and trousers, (but, importantly, no tie!) The older heads, the heads that had been there before, went much the same way, some even further. I felt a little bit sorry for the people who were coming to their first final and saw the words, "smart casual", so thought it meant shirt and jeans. What I would consider the usual, "smart casual". They looked a little out of place, and inferior, and I'm sure they were nervous, as I was for my first ever evening, and this didn't help them. One guy even turned up wearing a pink polo shirt and a beanie hat. He looked a little sheepish!
You see. I'm STILL being patronising. Even now.
Well, I do turn 20 in about 2 months. 20? What happened to the time? It didn't feel so long ago I was playing on the green, playing Knockout and climbing over people's garden walls innocently to collect a football, or going to parties and getting a "party bag" or ... going to school! Simple old school... seems so long ago... (sorry!)
I'm not that old yet though, where I can get away with being a normal age. Your average adult will still say something along the lines of, "Corrr, I remember when I was 20... long time ago...", but I'm not young enough anymore to be innocent and be on the learning curve for what is right and wrong. I'm at that age, as are many others, where I haven't got the experience to tell interesting stories or be considered important in society, but I am old enough to take responsibilty for myself and take charge of my own life. It's a difficult age.
Still being patronised, but also doing the patronising...
Monday 7 March 2011
Big Time Weekends
This weekend has been fairly huge. They don't come along very often, but when they do, I like to call them a, "big time weekend!", most probably due to massive sporting events all in the space of 2 days. This was certainly one of them.
We'll start on the Friday night, and training. I didn't want to go, as I had had a crap day generally for reasons you may well know or not know. And it's fair to say, the session went badly, with people just not bothered or messing around or a bit of both. I was in the, 'not bothered' camp, mainly because I didn't want to be there, but it doesn't help when you haven't got a lot to do as a goalkeeper. Take this, plus the slightly more aggressive gaffer, who attempted, (and failed), to make the session more structured, claiming we have a massive game on Sunday. No one listened. Same old story, really. As you have probably worked out, I didn't care. I was more bothered about Saturday than Sunday really.
When I got home, I was tired. This is a good thing, as I could have a good night's sleep before the big refereeing assessment on Saturday afternoon. I went to bed at about 10, waking up 12 hours later, giving me enough time to pack my bag and generally relax before I left for the dizzy heights of Clifton. I was beyond nervous. I hadn't felt so nervous in a long, long time and driving there seemed to take forever. I couldn't work out whether I was looking forward to it or not, and me being Mitten, I started thinking about whether I actually wanted to do this or not. What's the point in doing it if you're not going to enjoy it? This was the point where I thought, "You're practically there now. It's not life and death, it's an assessment. Enjoy yo'self!"
Yes, I did say that last bit in the style of Rick James. This made me chuckle.
So, I got there and for reasons unknown, I completely relaxed. The worst that could happen was that I get a crap mark and so what? It's not as if it's the end of my life and I do have 2 more assessments to make up for it, (one of which is this coming Saturday! No rest for the wicked!) I met John, the assessor, an old man who looked like he knew his stuff and he simply said, "I'll just walk around", which made it sound less of an assessment, more a walk in the park. Which, for him, it essentially was.
The game itself went fine. I could of done my pre-match routine a bit better, but when it came down to the nitty gritty of the 90 minutes, I was pleased with my overall performance. I made a couple of mistakes, but no-ones perfect and John pointed out a couple of things I could have done better but his general consensus was, "you did well kiddo"! He didn't say kiddo...
So, I drove home a happy enough man, and I am still waiting upon the results of the assessment, which I was expecting today, but will now probably get tomorrow. I spent the rest of Saturday evening simply lazing around, recovering. I had put a lot of physical effort into the match and I was ruined. Despite this, I didn't get to sleep till 5am on Saturday night. And we all know where this is heading...
Yep, I had to be up at 9am for the, "big game". At 9am, I would much rather have chosen bed over football, but given this was a cup semi-final, I figured the adrenaline may kick in when I got there. It did, and I played well. The team we were playing were 2nd in the division above us, and we were strong underdogs. Before the match, we were out there, 30 minutes before kick off, warming-up, looking like pros and by 10.20, they were nowhere in sight. They didn't look up for it at all, although the match itself was very even. 0-0 at half time, after a few handy saves from myself, but we went 1-0 up at the start of the 2nd half. Lovely! A debatable penalty made it 2-0 and the fight of the other team was nowhere to be seen. We maybe relaxed a little, and conceded, but we still won 2-1 and another cup final is on!
Instantly, I pointed out that I wasn't going out on the town if we win this one... Remember last time? Oh dear.
Still, Friday 15th April is the new date to remember, as the old date to remember, is today. Yep, this evening, I find out which County Cup Final I've been put on and I've been told it's a cracker. As long as it doesn't fall on the same date as MAFC's final, I'm happy. I leave in 45 minutes and despite a bit of a struggle with the meaning of 'Smart Casual', I'm looking forward to it!
As for the rest of the week, it's same old. Nothing happens in the week, worth bloggling about, usually. This makes me more normal than I think. Given I live for the weekends.
We'll start on the Friday night, and training. I didn't want to go, as I had had a crap day generally for reasons you may well know or not know. And it's fair to say, the session went badly, with people just not bothered or messing around or a bit of both. I was in the, 'not bothered' camp, mainly because I didn't want to be there, but it doesn't help when you haven't got a lot to do as a goalkeeper. Take this, plus the slightly more aggressive gaffer, who attempted, (and failed), to make the session more structured, claiming we have a massive game on Sunday. No one listened. Same old story, really. As you have probably worked out, I didn't care. I was more bothered about Saturday than Sunday really.
When I got home, I was tired. This is a good thing, as I could have a good night's sleep before the big refereeing assessment on Saturday afternoon. I went to bed at about 10, waking up 12 hours later, giving me enough time to pack my bag and generally relax before I left for the dizzy heights of Clifton. I was beyond nervous. I hadn't felt so nervous in a long, long time and driving there seemed to take forever. I couldn't work out whether I was looking forward to it or not, and me being Mitten, I started thinking about whether I actually wanted to do this or not. What's the point in doing it if you're not going to enjoy it? This was the point where I thought, "You're practically there now. It's not life and death, it's an assessment. Enjoy yo'self!"
Yes, I did say that last bit in the style of Rick James. This made me chuckle.
So, I got there and for reasons unknown, I completely relaxed. The worst that could happen was that I get a crap mark and so what? It's not as if it's the end of my life and I do have 2 more assessments to make up for it, (one of which is this coming Saturday! No rest for the wicked!) I met John, the assessor, an old man who looked like he knew his stuff and he simply said, "I'll just walk around", which made it sound less of an assessment, more a walk in the park. Which, for him, it essentially was.
The game itself went fine. I could of done my pre-match routine a bit better, but when it came down to the nitty gritty of the 90 minutes, I was pleased with my overall performance. I made a couple of mistakes, but no-ones perfect and John pointed out a couple of things I could have done better but his general consensus was, "you did well kiddo"! He didn't say kiddo...
So, I drove home a happy enough man, and I am still waiting upon the results of the assessment, which I was expecting today, but will now probably get tomorrow. I spent the rest of Saturday evening simply lazing around, recovering. I had put a lot of physical effort into the match and I was ruined. Despite this, I didn't get to sleep till 5am on Saturday night. And we all know where this is heading...
Yep, I had to be up at 9am for the, "big game". At 9am, I would much rather have chosen bed over football, but given this was a cup semi-final, I figured the adrenaline may kick in when I got there. It did, and I played well. The team we were playing were 2nd in the division above us, and we were strong underdogs. Before the match, we were out there, 30 minutes before kick off, warming-up, looking like pros and by 10.20, they were nowhere in sight. They didn't look up for it at all, although the match itself was very even. 0-0 at half time, after a few handy saves from myself, but we went 1-0 up at the start of the 2nd half. Lovely! A debatable penalty made it 2-0 and the fight of the other team was nowhere to be seen. We maybe relaxed a little, and conceded, but we still won 2-1 and another cup final is on!
Instantly, I pointed out that I wasn't going out on the town if we win this one... Remember last time? Oh dear.
Still, Friday 15th April is the new date to remember, as the old date to remember, is today. Yep, this evening, I find out which County Cup Final I've been put on and I've been told it's a cracker. As long as it doesn't fall on the same date as MAFC's final, I'm happy. I leave in 45 minutes and despite a bit of a struggle with the meaning of 'Smart Casual', I'm looking forward to it!
As for the rest of the week, it's same old. Nothing happens in the week, worth bloggling about, usually. This makes me more normal than I think. Given I live for the weekends.
Friday 4 March 2011
The Day of Ache
Officiating was fun last night. An interesting game, finishing 2-2 and a few important decisions for me including the awarding of a marginal goal, that recieved no complaints. As I sprinted towards the halfway line, (not for the first time in the evening), I sensed a lot of testosterone-filled gents running towards me, complaining. Not a word though. Mixed in with the occasional offside decision and a complete turnaround in roles at half time due to an injury, it sure turned out to be a night full of incident.
But this morning, (I'll get there...), I am aching, so much. I feel like I've just run a marathon. Dealing with substitutions in the 2nd half, involves many sprints from corner flag to halfway line, and I mean, sprints. Ended up doing 6, including the 90 minutes of fast-paced action, mostly going through the Kempston Rovers Number 10. Who is the junior Usain Bolt. Although it hasn't helped that I've been sat here for the last 7 hours catching up on Waterloo Road and generally jamming. And yes, it is the morning. Proper morning. Half 6. And it's that time of day where I think we're gonna go back to the days of being half-baked and not quite with it as I battle the need for sleep for as long as possible.
This is good. And also bad. Good, because I will probably give up at around 5-6pm, meaning a fantastic nights sleep before the big assessment, of which I have only just found out about today. Bad, because I will most probably miss training before the big semi-final, and probably won't be forgiven by the team-mates and gaffer. However, I am less concerned with the attitudes of the team I play for these days. My interest in playing is waning horribly, while all of my power is going towards the refereeing and getting ready for a summer of cricket.
As for these assessments. Well, going for promotion in refereeing takes a whole calendar year, starting on 1st March. So I wasn't expecting a phone call saying I was being assessed 4 days in, plus finding out I have another one the week after. So, my 3rd adult match of the season is being taken over by doing everything horribly properly in the hope of getting a good mark from a probable traditionalist who wants to see everything done right. The nerves are already visible, taking me back to my amateur acting days. The butterflies nesting in my stomach are already multiplying, and the fact that it's only just turned Friday means that they may just get the better of me come 2.30 on Saturday.
I tried to get to sleep at around midnight, but the optimism was soon shattered by the thoughts drifting round my head, as if they were involved in a twister of some sort. The conversation earlier with Mother Mitten, the impending thoughts of a huge weekend of football, letting down Ridgway who I had promised to spend time with for some of the weekend, seeing as he is home from Sheffield for 3 days only. Problems.
And to compound my misery, that stupid French song just popped up in my headphones again... I really should delete it, but the barking-like sound of the bassline is just mesmorising..
But these minor problems are just shadowing the bigger picture at the moment. As I was thinking earlier, in the pitch black silence of the night, I thought about what I need to do. Have I been putting in enough effort to end these long days? Have I been helping myself as much as possible? Have I been looking after myself as best I can? No. I haven't. I can accept that opening up and talking of these problems will take time, but looking after myself is something I can do instantly. It's just laziness not doing it. Gaining a promotion in refereeing is a good thing to aim for, but I think my happiness and sanity are more important.
The BBC need to stop making such good, thought-provoking programmes that relate to my thoughts at the moment. It's making me think.
But this morning, (I'll get there...), I am aching, so much. I feel like I've just run a marathon. Dealing with substitutions in the 2nd half, involves many sprints from corner flag to halfway line, and I mean, sprints. Ended up doing 6, including the 90 minutes of fast-paced action, mostly going through the Kempston Rovers Number 10. Who is the junior Usain Bolt. Although it hasn't helped that I've been sat here for the last 7 hours catching up on Waterloo Road and generally jamming. And yes, it is the morning. Proper morning. Half 6. And it's that time of day where I think we're gonna go back to the days of being half-baked and not quite with it as I battle the need for sleep for as long as possible.
This is good. And also bad. Good, because I will probably give up at around 5-6pm, meaning a fantastic nights sleep before the big assessment, of which I have only just found out about today. Bad, because I will most probably miss training before the big semi-final, and probably won't be forgiven by the team-mates and gaffer. However, I am less concerned with the attitudes of the team I play for these days. My interest in playing is waning horribly, while all of my power is going towards the refereeing and getting ready for a summer of cricket.
As for these assessments. Well, going for promotion in refereeing takes a whole calendar year, starting on 1st March. So I wasn't expecting a phone call saying I was being assessed 4 days in, plus finding out I have another one the week after. So, my 3rd adult match of the season is being taken over by doing everything horribly properly in the hope of getting a good mark from a probable traditionalist who wants to see everything done right. The nerves are already visible, taking me back to my amateur acting days. The butterflies nesting in my stomach are already multiplying, and the fact that it's only just turned Friday means that they may just get the better of me come 2.30 on Saturday.
I tried to get to sleep at around midnight, but the optimism was soon shattered by the thoughts drifting round my head, as if they were involved in a twister of some sort. The conversation earlier with Mother Mitten, the impending thoughts of a huge weekend of football, letting down Ridgway who I had promised to spend time with for some of the weekend, seeing as he is home from Sheffield for 3 days only. Problems.
And to compound my misery, that stupid French song just popped up in my headphones again... I really should delete it, but the barking-like sound of the bassline is just mesmorising..
But these minor problems are just shadowing the bigger picture at the moment. As I was thinking earlier, in the pitch black silence of the night, I thought about what I need to do. Have I been putting in enough effort to end these long days? Have I been helping myself as much as possible? Have I been looking after myself as best I can? No. I haven't. I can accept that opening up and talking of these problems will take time, but looking after myself is something I can do instantly. It's just laziness not doing it. Gaining a promotion in refereeing is a good thing to aim for, but I think my happiness and sanity are more important.
The BBC need to stop making such good, thought-provoking programmes that relate to my thoughts at the moment. It's making me think.
Thursday 3 March 2011
Opening Up
Ever since that interesting, eye-opening, gut-wrenching, tear-inducing, body-weakening, some would say, "disastrous", weekend in Manchester over a month ago, I have worked on opening up more. It's been difficult at times and I still don't trust that people understand.
I have talked to people a bit more, I think. Tried to convey how I'm feeling with things and issues, but all I seem to get is generic cheering up techniques. The same old sentences over and over again. There are 2 people who I think understand me a little bit. AK, who is trying his hardest to try and fathom what is going on in my head, even at this moment, despite me still trying to unravel it all myself. And there's CC, who has been through a fair share himself, and works on me trying to accept who I am, and was probably the person who first worked on me trying to accept who I was and getting it all out there.
Everyone else, despite being kind and having good intentions, I feel, just don't understand what I'm trying to do or say. I get the feeling they're listening to what I'm saying, but instead of taking their time and thinking of advice they could tell me, they veer off and change subjects or say the same old generic sentences that always comes to mind in these situations.
"Things will all be good soon, you've got Uni in September!"
Yeah. I know that. But what about the here and now? Let me tell you what I think the current situation is.
Manchester happened. There is no way I can change what happened, and to be honest, I'm not sure I would want to. Probably the alcohol and hospital bit, but the rest, I think, has done me well. In the immediate aftermath, there were a couple of chats, that progressed and I told Mum especially, what was going through my mind. Despite this, and my promises that I would tell her things more often, just go and moan at her, it hasn't happened. I don't like moaning, it just makes me think I'm shifting my problems on to someone else's shoulders and I know for a fact that these people have their own problems to deal with. In these original chats, Mum was sat on the edge of my bed and told me that being bisexual was "my own choice". She also said that, "everyone feels down occasionally, that's just life."
She doesn't get it. She doesn't understand. So how are you supposed to talk with someone who doesn't understand? This isn't a "They Don't Understand What I'm Going Through" lecture, I mean, I genuinely don't think they understand. They've never had to go through anything like this before, and I suppose it's as daunting for them as it is for me.
There is only one solution. As AK pointed out, I need to tell them they don't understand, but, as he also pointed out and I damn well know, it's easier said than done. As someone once said to me, I think I need to imagine I'm jumping off a high diving board. Just go for it.
But, I'm getting distracted. I'm doing a generic subject change. Maybe a subject change is needed. Too much talking equals too much thinking and these days, too much thinking is bad. Apparently.
Right, I'll move on. Time for some generic, boring stuff. How many times can I use the word generic in a post? Today has been largely un-interesting, with the promise of a net session in the evening, that I looked forward to a lot during the humdrum of the daytime, because of the simple fact that there was nothing else to look forward to. It turned out to be very average and rather cold, despite the banter over our South African prodigy. So not a good day all-round really.
Tomorrow brings another football match to officiate, albeit as an assistant, which will bring in some much needed money and a distraction from the generic life I lead. Damn it... Stupid word.. As for the weekend, the return of Ridgway is imminent which means a couple of visits t'pub for a pint of t'ale or 7 and the usual quota of football, including an important cup semi-final, which I won't be too bothered about as usual. Sigh...
Apologies also for not being more sarcastic and "punny" in my post, as requested, but this post was more aimed towards my wellbeing than others, humour. Understood I hope!
I have talked to people a bit more, I think. Tried to convey how I'm feeling with things and issues, but all I seem to get is generic cheering up techniques. The same old sentences over and over again. There are 2 people who I think understand me a little bit. AK, who is trying his hardest to try and fathom what is going on in my head, even at this moment, despite me still trying to unravel it all myself. And there's CC, who has been through a fair share himself, and works on me trying to accept who I am, and was probably the person who first worked on me trying to accept who I was and getting it all out there.
Everyone else, despite being kind and having good intentions, I feel, just don't understand what I'm trying to do or say. I get the feeling they're listening to what I'm saying, but instead of taking their time and thinking of advice they could tell me, they veer off and change subjects or say the same old generic sentences that always comes to mind in these situations.
"Things will all be good soon, you've got Uni in September!"
Yeah. I know that. But what about the here and now? Let me tell you what I think the current situation is.
Manchester happened. There is no way I can change what happened, and to be honest, I'm not sure I would want to. Probably the alcohol and hospital bit, but the rest, I think, has done me well. In the immediate aftermath, there were a couple of chats, that progressed and I told Mum especially, what was going through my mind. Despite this, and my promises that I would tell her things more often, just go and moan at her, it hasn't happened. I don't like moaning, it just makes me think I'm shifting my problems on to someone else's shoulders and I know for a fact that these people have their own problems to deal with. In these original chats, Mum was sat on the edge of my bed and told me that being bisexual was "my own choice". She also said that, "everyone feels down occasionally, that's just life."
She doesn't get it. She doesn't understand. So how are you supposed to talk with someone who doesn't understand? This isn't a "They Don't Understand What I'm Going Through" lecture, I mean, I genuinely don't think they understand. They've never had to go through anything like this before, and I suppose it's as daunting for them as it is for me.
There is only one solution. As AK pointed out, I need to tell them they don't understand, but, as he also pointed out and I damn well know, it's easier said than done. As someone once said to me, I think I need to imagine I'm jumping off a high diving board. Just go for it.
But, I'm getting distracted. I'm doing a generic subject change. Maybe a subject change is needed. Too much talking equals too much thinking and these days, too much thinking is bad. Apparently.
Right, I'll move on. Time for some generic, boring stuff. How many times can I use the word generic in a post? Today has been largely un-interesting, with the promise of a net session in the evening, that I looked forward to a lot during the humdrum of the daytime, because of the simple fact that there was nothing else to look forward to. It turned out to be very average and rather cold, despite the banter over our South African prodigy. So not a good day all-round really.
Tomorrow brings another football match to officiate, albeit as an assistant, which will bring in some much needed money and a distraction from the generic life I lead. Damn it... Stupid word.. As for the weekend, the return of Ridgway is imminent which means a couple of visits t'pub for a pint of t'ale or 7 and the usual quota of football, including an important cup semi-final, which I won't be too bothered about as usual. Sigh...
Apologies also for not being more sarcastic and "punny" in my post, as requested, but this post was more aimed towards my wellbeing than others, humour. Understood I hope!
Tuesday 1 March 2011
Memories of an Amateur Sportsman
If you have no interest in sport or my memories, this post probably isn't for you. If you want to hear about my best and worst sporting moments, this post probably is for you. Simple really. And let's face it, it's 2am. My desire to go to sleep should be poignent yet it just isn't.
Where to begin then? Well, I suppose it makes sense to start with a couple of memories from my first love, football. I was about to start typing of my days in youth football, but we shall go back even further. Under 8's or so, football at Hazeldene Lower School, played on rather small pitches in 5-a-side goals. I remember we had a good team, with the fabulous yet silent Dixon in goal, Adamson and Caffrey at the back, (Caffrey, having grown to 6ft by the age of five was a dominant force), myself, Kelly and Donaldson in midfield with Warner up-front, diving from an early age to gain countless penalties, (probably). We had a good rival in Bromham, who won the league one season on goal difference I seem to remember. I can't remember what competition this particular memory was in, but I was very young. I remember running back to cut out a cross but inadvertantly lobbing my own keeper and scoring my one and only own-goal ever. To lob a goalkeeper in 5-a-side goals is some feat! I then burst into tears, thinking the world was going to end, and stomped off the field, only to be calmed down and put back on by Mr.Caffrey. I would love to see that in an Under 18 game, would be so funny!
Anyway, back to my original subject and youth football. I was a bit older, 11 to 14. I was captain of a largely successful youth team called Bedford Park Rangers, or if you're lazy and don't want to talk as much, BPR. Most of the Hazeldene team had transferred to BPR, so we all knew each other. The crowning glory however, was the U12 County Cup final victory against Barnfield. I was captain that day, and was really up for it. Maybe a little too up for it.. 2 minutes in, I dived in with a crunching tackle, and would probably have been sent off if I were any older. Instead, I was substituted to "get my head in gear". We went 2-0 down by half-time, but won the game 3-2 thanks to a last minute winner from the same Warner, (he didn't dive this time!), via his knee and we went beserk. I never even made it back on to the pitch, but I didn't really care because I got to live my dream and lift the FA Cup at Wembley. Or as close as I was ever going to get.
A few good years later however, my interest in the game had severely waned. After one game of the U15 season, in which I was an unused substitute, (despite it being rolling subs), for the entire game, much to Father Mitten's disgust, I gave up playing. At least until I got back into it as a goalkeeper 4 years later. I remember crying on the way home, (I cried a lot as a youngster!), and Dad asked me the million-pound question.
"Do you want to carry on playing or not?!" (in an almost irate tone). I let out a wrangled, "no" and that was that. Dad rang the manager when we got home and got angry with him and I was no longer a player.
I, as you probably well know, then became a referee, but I'm not here to talk about me controlling 22 hormone-filled footballers. That comes at a later date!
What with not playing football anymore, I felt I needed to broaden my sporting horizons. I joined the local tennis club, Riverside, and got extensive coaching. I played in different competitions, and even became Under 17's County Doubles runner-up, despite my playing partner dominating most matches due to his uncanny ability to use a tennis racket, but the title is still next to my name aswell! I got fed up with it quickly though. I played in a fair few tournaments and I came across a few cheats who called balls 'out' when they were 'in'. The amateur games of this sport could easily be corrupted and although I could have done the same, what's the point in winning knowing you've cheated? Hollow.
So I gave it up. And joined my local golf club instead! I had played all these sports along with football, but just for fun. I didn't join clubs as a complete novice and built my way up to champion status! The best moment for me in this sport was by far the Junior Club Championship of 2005. 2 rounds of the famous Mowsbury GC. After the 1st round, I was doing rather well in 3rd place, but a fair few shots off the front 2, who had stormed ahead. Bear in mind, this was the handicap event. The gross event, (which I've always thought is a strange word to use), was already won by Kettle's brother before we had even started. Anyway, at the start of the 2nd round, I sliced my 1st tee shot into the woods and from then on realised it wasn't going to be my day. So, relaxed. It clearly worked, because I holed a par putt on the 18th to win by one shot and take home the massive bowl. It was fantastic! I had succeeded at another sport!
Something else I will always treasure in golf was the infamous hole-in-one. Playing with Kettle's brother at the age of 12. 5th hole, 134 yards(ish), 4 iron... I was 12! I didn't hit it very well, but it scuttled over the edge of the bunker and I saw it drop in the hole. I shouted, but Bolger Snr. didn't believe me, until the person on the 6th hole told me. Incredible scenes ensued! I vowed to keep the ball forever, possibly framing it in my bedroom for all eternity. What did I do? Hooked it into the woods on the very next hole. Oops. I went on to hit a very, very modest 110. But, a hole-in-one... You can never take that away from me. I believe, even playing off a handicap of 4 these days, Bolger Snr. has yet to match my feat!
But since then, the cost of playing golf regularly has become sky-high seeing as I'm now over 18 and another sport had to be found, which is where cricket came along. Considered by most as the most boring sport on the planet, I completely disagree. I think it is actually the best, above football.
It didn't start off too amazing though. I spent my first season feeling like an extra, batting low down the order for a midweek team, Aspen. I did enjoy it, but I didn't bat a lot and I was amazed when I even reached double figures. I had built up a good reputation of being a good fielder though, hence the nickname, 'Mitten', and I continued to play because I enjoyed it. I played in a couple of 40-over matches that season and the next, but never really got the opportunity to bat a lot. And these matches never seemed to last very long.. We weren't the best of teams. I distinctly remember playing a team called GNG, which provided me with a rare opportunity to bat at 3. We got bowled out for 36, with me getting a first-ball duck. Ouch.
But then came a crisis. We were playing at The Bury, the home ground of Bedford CC, and our usual opening batsman had, "called in sick", so to speak. So we were left without an opening batsman. The captain spoke, asking if anyone wanted to. Surprisingly, it's not that popular a position, given the possibility you may get out to the very first ball of the match. I thought, "Well, here's my chance", so spoke up, a rare thing for me, and went out to open, and face the first ball, which I edged for 4. Risky! I made a solid enough 35 though and haven't looked back since.
Which brings me on to, what I think, is my best sporting achievement. My 100 last season. I did dedicate a whole post on here to this, but it really is my best achievement as a playing sportsman. It wasn't a bad ton either. No false shots at all, 72 of those runs coming from boundaries and hit in 76 balls. The reason why I think it is my best achievement is the amount of concentration that went into it. I struggle with concentration, usually getting out to a lack of it and playing a stupid shot. I wanted it so much. And I don't want a lot of things. I was God. It wasn't bad bowling either. They just bowled it to the areas I like and I cashed in. It was a rare game in which I got a whole night's sleep beforehand, (remember the nights?), and I took full opportunity. I remember some of my boundaries. 2nd over of the match, against a quick-ish left armer. 3 consecutive cover drives, all out of the middle of the bat and all finished off with a perfect follow-through and a pose for the cameras. I played all around the wicket, even lofting some shots purposefully, (which just isn't my style usually), and when I pulled a short ball for my 18th boundary... And hearing the shouts and applause telling me I'd got my 100. Amazing. Just amazing.
I think that innings proved to myself that some confidence and believing you can do it, makes a whole lot of difference. I have been netting pre-season with that team from last season, and facing some of the bowlers I did that day and I feel good doing so. I know I've hit these guys all around the park, which gives me confidence, and makes me look and feel good. I am wanted by a few clubs for Saturdays and Sundays this year, although I am staying put at Bedford because I enjoy it there a lot.
And I will remember one comment I heard in the immediate aftermath of hitting that 100, for the rest of my life. It wasn't a comment I was supposed to hear, but I did.
"I've been playing for many years, and that's the best innings I think I've ever seen. That can't be his first ton, he's too good for that".
Best. Feeling. Ever.
Sport, in a sentence, has saved my life. If I wasn't a sportsman, I probably wouldn't have become a football referee, developing some backbone, and wouldn't have these memories and achievements to look back on. And although I might fail in other aspects of life, I most certainly am not a failure in the world of sport. It won't get me much money over the years, but boy... it gives me sanity.
Where to begin then? Well, I suppose it makes sense to start with a couple of memories from my first love, football. I was about to start typing of my days in youth football, but we shall go back even further. Under 8's or so, football at Hazeldene Lower School, played on rather small pitches in 5-a-side goals. I remember we had a good team, with the fabulous yet silent Dixon in goal, Adamson and Caffrey at the back, (Caffrey, having grown to 6ft by the age of five was a dominant force), myself, Kelly and Donaldson in midfield with Warner up-front, diving from an early age to gain countless penalties, (probably). We had a good rival in Bromham, who won the league one season on goal difference I seem to remember. I can't remember what competition this particular memory was in, but I was very young. I remember running back to cut out a cross but inadvertantly lobbing my own keeper and scoring my one and only own-goal ever. To lob a goalkeeper in 5-a-side goals is some feat! I then burst into tears, thinking the world was going to end, and stomped off the field, only to be calmed down and put back on by Mr.Caffrey. I would love to see that in an Under 18 game, would be so funny!
Anyway, back to my original subject and youth football. I was a bit older, 11 to 14. I was captain of a largely successful youth team called Bedford Park Rangers, or if you're lazy and don't want to talk as much, BPR. Most of the Hazeldene team had transferred to BPR, so we all knew each other. The crowning glory however, was the U12 County Cup final victory against Barnfield. I was captain that day, and was really up for it. Maybe a little too up for it.. 2 minutes in, I dived in with a crunching tackle, and would probably have been sent off if I were any older. Instead, I was substituted to "get my head in gear". We went 2-0 down by half-time, but won the game 3-2 thanks to a last minute winner from the same Warner, (he didn't dive this time!), via his knee and we went beserk. I never even made it back on to the pitch, but I didn't really care because I got to live my dream and lift the FA Cup at Wembley. Or as close as I was ever going to get.
A few good years later however, my interest in the game had severely waned. After one game of the U15 season, in which I was an unused substitute, (despite it being rolling subs), for the entire game, much to Father Mitten's disgust, I gave up playing. At least until I got back into it as a goalkeeper 4 years later. I remember crying on the way home, (I cried a lot as a youngster!), and Dad asked me the million-pound question.
"Do you want to carry on playing or not?!" (in an almost irate tone). I let out a wrangled, "no" and that was that. Dad rang the manager when we got home and got angry with him and I was no longer a player.
I, as you probably well know, then became a referee, but I'm not here to talk about me controlling 22 hormone-filled footballers. That comes at a later date!
What with not playing football anymore, I felt I needed to broaden my sporting horizons. I joined the local tennis club, Riverside, and got extensive coaching. I played in different competitions, and even became Under 17's County Doubles runner-up, despite my playing partner dominating most matches due to his uncanny ability to use a tennis racket, but the title is still next to my name aswell! I got fed up with it quickly though. I played in a fair few tournaments and I came across a few cheats who called balls 'out' when they were 'in'. The amateur games of this sport could easily be corrupted and although I could have done the same, what's the point in winning knowing you've cheated? Hollow.
So I gave it up. And joined my local golf club instead! I had played all these sports along with football, but just for fun. I didn't join clubs as a complete novice and built my way up to champion status! The best moment for me in this sport was by far the Junior Club Championship of 2005. 2 rounds of the famous Mowsbury GC. After the 1st round, I was doing rather well in 3rd place, but a fair few shots off the front 2, who had stormed ahead. Bear in mind, this was the handicap event. The gross event, (which I've always thought is a strange word to use), was already won by Kettle's brother before we had even started. Anyway, at the start of the 2nd round, I sliced my 1st tee shot into the woods and from then on realised it wasn't going to be my day. So, relaxed. It clearly worked, because I holed a par putt on the 18th to win by one shot and take home the massive bowl. It was fantastic! I had succeeded at another sport!
Something else I will always treasure in golf was the infamous hole-in-one. Playing with Kettle's brother at the age of 12. 5th hole, 134 yards(ish), 4 iron... I was 12! I didn't hit it very well, but it scuttled over the edge of the bunker and I saw it drop in the hole. I shouted, but Bolger Snr. didn't believe me, until the person on the 6th hole told me. Incredible scenes ensued! I vowed to keep the ball forever, possibly framing it in my bedroom for all eternity. What did I do? Hooked it into the woods on the very next hole. Oops. I went on to hit a very, very modest 110. But, a hole-in-one... You can never take that away from me. I believe, even playing off a handicap of 4 these days, Bolger Snr. has yet to match my feat!
But since then, the cost of playing golf regularly has become sky-high seeing as I'm now over 18 and another sport had to be found, which is where cricket came along. Considered by most as the most boring sport on the planet, I completely disagree. I think it is actually the best, above football.
It didn't start off too amazing though. I spent my first season feeling like an extra, batting low down the order for a midweek team, Aspen. I did enjoy it, but I didn't bat a lot and I was amazed when I even reached double figures. I had built up a good reputation of being a good fielder though, hence the nickname, 'Mitten', and I continued to play because I enjoyed it. I played in a couple of 40-over matches that season and the next, but never really got the opportunity to bat a lot. And these matches never seemed to last very long.. We weren't the best of teams. I distinctly remember playing a team called GNG, which provided me with a rare opportunity to bat at 3. We got bowled out for 36, with me getting a first-ball duck. Ouch.
But then came a crisis. We were playing at The Bury, the home ground of Bedford CC, and our usual opening batsman had, "called in sick", so to speak. So we were left without an opening batsman. The captain spoke, asking if anyone wanted to. Surprisingly, it's not that popular a position, given the possibility you may get out to the very first ball of the match. I thought, "Well, here's my chance", so spoke up, a rare thing for me, and went out to open, and face the first ball, which I edged for 4. Risky! I made a solid enough 35 though and haven't looked back since.
Which brings me on to, what I think, is my best sporting achievement. My 100 last season. I did dedicate a whole post on here to this, but it really is my best achievement as a playing sportsman. It wasn't a bad ton either. No false shots at all, 72 of those runs coming from boundaries and hit in 76 balls. The reason why I think it is my best achievement is the amount of concentration that went into it. I struggle with concentration, usually getting out to a lack of it and playing a stupid shot. I wanted it so much. And I don't want a lot of things. I was God. It wasn't bad bowling either. They just bowled it to the areas I like and I cashed in. It was a rare game in which I got a whole night's sleep beforehand, (remember the nights?), and I took full opportunity. I remember some of my boundaries. 2nd over of the match, against a quick-ish left armer. 3 consecutive cover drives, all out of the middle of the bat and all finished off with a perfect follow-through and a pose for the cameras. I played all around the wicket, even lofting some shots purposefully, (which just isn't my style usually), and when I pulled a short ball for my 18th boundary... And hearing the shouts and applause telling me I'd got my 100. Amazing. Just amazing.
I think that innings proved to myself that some confidence and believing you can do it, makes a whole lot of difference. I have been netting pre-season with that team from last season, and facing some of the bowlers I did that day and I feel good doing so. I know I've hit these guys all around the park, which gives me confidence, and makes me look and feel good. I am wanted by a few clubs for Saturdays and Sundays this year, although I am staying put at Bedford because I enjoy it there a lot.
And I will remember one comment I heard in the immediate aftermath of hitting that 100, for the rest of my life. It wasn't a comment I was supposed to hear, but I did.
"I've been playing for many years, and that's the best innings I think I've ever seen. That can't be his first ton, he's too good for that".
Best. Feeling. Ever.
Sport, in a sentence, has saved my life. If I wasn't a sportsman, I probably wouldn't have become a football referee, developing some backbone, and wouldn't have these memories and achievements to look back on. And although I might fail in other aspects of life, I most certainly am not a failure in the world of sport. It won't get me much money over the years, but boy... it gives me sanity.
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