First published in Column 8 on the 18th August, 1993
Whenever I watch a game of rugby – you’ll note that I’ve
finally learnt how to spell the
word – my heart goes out to one particular person on the field.
In my rugby days it used to be the hooker – me – sandwiched between
two great hulking props, my ears mangled, my shoulders wrenched and my head
forced – Crrrunch! – up against an opposing wall of bull terriers. However,
after I retired (round the age of 10) my sympathies diverted to a person who
acts in a sense always as the bridesmaid, never the bride – if I can use such
an expression in this context.
That person is the referee. He’s never the star – he’s only
noticed when he does something wrong. He has to be in the action at all points,
yet he can’t be part of the action.
He’s like a child in a field of raging bulls, and woe betide
if he’s careless enough to get in the way of a footballer making his way like a
diesel engine (converted to lpg) towards
touchdown. Not only would the ref’s name be mud, he might be buried face down
in it.
On my walk to work I often come across a huge mastiff
looking over a fence – a tall fence, thank goodness. His eyes are red and the
expression on his black face is ambiguous enough for me to think twice about
going close to him.
A ref often finds himself in a similar situation: he’s
supposed to stand up to the equivalent of several mastiffs and state his case
for claiming they’re in the wrong. If necessary he has to send one of them,
like a schoolboy caught making stinkbombs behind the loos,
off the field.
Refs have to have the stamina to keep up with a ball kicked
from one 22m line to the other, and still somehow be in the right place at the
right time – always. I don’t know how they do it.
The reason I mention rugby is that during the last week I was
in a somewhat similar position to that occupied by your average ref. (Note, I said
somewhat similar.) I was one of several stamina-requiring bodies who
acted as accompanist to singers in a musical mini-version of the BleedUsSlow Cup: The Dunedin Performing Art Competitions.
(Singers, by the way, are not equatable with mastiffs. Singers
come in all sizes: Chihuahuas, St Bernards, Pomeranians.)
Accompanists have to
have many of the qualities of the average ref. They must somehow be at
all times invisible and subtle; in control but not pushing; as musical as the
singer, but patently not more so.
They should never be seen to be nervous, lest they put the
singer off; and they should make no mistakes…lest they put the singer off (in
other words, when the singer misses a page out, so does the accompanist).
Accompanists must ignore trickling itches in inaccessible spots,
as well as the ones they could reach but can’t afford to because they’re just
about to turn a page over. (As refs must get on and blow the whistle when they’d
prefer to blow their nose.)
They must at all times act as though they hadn’t a care in
the world, and that performing in front of a crowd is an everyday occurrence to
be taken in their stride. Just like refs.
Football and musical crowds are both very discerning. The ears
of the latter are more acute, but the former know all the rules – better than
the ref.
Accompanist can pour out their emotions through their
fingernails. But what does a ref do when he’s feeling all churned up? At the
end of the game, no one ever swaps his shirt with the ref.
Because my week was musical, I’ve had an idea. Next Saturday,
let’s all give the ref a treat, and nominate him for Most Valuable Player.
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2024 Six Nations Championship, ITALY vs ENGLAND, 3 February 2024, Stadio Olimpico, Rome photo courtesy Stefano Delfrate |
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