Tiny Wharton negotiated his considerable six foot
three frame out of his compact Mini Minor with difficulty. It had seemed like
piloting a bumper car the challenge of getting his jalopy parked between a
battered Hillman Minx behind and the “Parks of Hamilton” visitors’ team bus in
front. Only three minutes remained until kick-off. He headed for the officials’
entrance with some dispatch but unluckily was accosted by an officious looking
gate keeper who barred his route. “Referee here” Tiny piped up in dulcet tones,
expecting quick passage. “Lets see yer pass, grey skies” (this was Scotland
remember) was the rapid fire response. “Authorized personnel only”. Tiny patted
his shirt and shorts’ pockets in growing desperation, failing to recall if he
had collected his official’s pass when exiting his Bearsden home at the double
an hour before. All he could feel through the fabric were the yellow and red
cards he hoped to dispense with relish later in the day. Exasperated, he was
about to plead with the gentleman to allow him to proceed through (despite the
non-production of his permit) when inspiration struck. “Look, my referee’s
uniform” he said, confident the striped outfit he pointed to would be proof
enough of his status. Tiny was non-plussed at the retort. “No black and white
minstrels in here the day. Efter what we yuns seen last Seterday at Love Street I’ll be
a monkeys uncle afare I’ll let ony of ye zebras in tae this ground.” The
reference, Tiny realized, was to the relegation battle that he had officiated in
Paisley on St Patrick’s Day the week before.
He felt a lump develop in his throat. That on field love affair had ended in a
donnybrook worthy of the Battle of the Boyne. West Bromide Albion had put a drubbing on their
visitors Motherwellwishers, but had only garnered the winning points in the
dying moments. As full time loomed Tiny had saddled Wellwishers with two red
cards on the trot. The sendings off were understandably controversial and to
boot, in his infinite wisdom, he had sanctioned Bromide with only one yellow
card. The Alka Seltzers certainly were no saints but they had not demonstrated
the blatant animosity of their opponents. Wellwishers failed to weather the
inevitable final barrage, ultimately allowing Bromide to burst the old onion
bag on consecutive attacks which lifted them to victory.
Tiny, in his discomfiture at being prevented from entering, felt only
two feet tall. He had become aware of the fanatics on the terraces inside the
ground beginning to whistle in impatience. Fir Park
was a national historic site owing to its storied history of histrionics, but a
venue also renowned for its fractious home following. This support was composed
in great part of Strathclyde’s infamous YOBS (youth obsessed with bothering
somebody). Many had spent weeks on end learning their craft down south at
Millwall. The natives, it now appeared, were restless yet again and hostility
at this stage of the proceedings was the last thing Tiny needed. From his
vantage point the ground at the Ravenscrag End appeared to be packed.
Wellwishers had cut prices for this the penultimate game of the season. They
needed to snatch just one point to avoid the drop. It did not augur well if
even before kick-off the home crowd was this antsy. Presumably unforgiving too,
just like the wee gate (house of fleet) keeper confronting him now. Tiny was
all too well aware that any late start to the game caused by his no show might
cost him his career. The tussle was being televised across the United Kingdom and Ireland by SkyBlue Sports and a
delay in commencement risked knock-on network scheduling chaos. It would surely
result in him losing his boondoggle stint to referee Andalusia vs Azerbaijan in the upcoming top of the alphabet
Euros qualifier, set for the Costa del Sol two
weeks hence. He could not risk that.
Like manna from heaven, inspiration struck for a second time. Tiny
recalled when as a wee bairn his dad would regularly hoist him over the
turnstile allowing free entrance to the fitba, no questions asked. Could such a
manoeuvre still work this many years down the (Belshill) road? Cursing his
tormentor, Tiny wished a heaping helping of vagaries and vicissitudes on him
then approached a knot of junior supporters, aspiring YOBS. In his most
guttural north west Glasgow accent possible (he had spent five of his teenage
wasteland years at Mill Hill Public School in London, so he had to dig deep)
Tiny singled out one of the gleekit creatures, the evident leader of the pack,
and whispered a thirty second bribe in his right lug. It seemed to do the trick
for no sooner could he have exclaimed “Bells Scotch Whisky – One for the Road”
than half a dozen young toughs were lifting and squeezing and bundling his
restored six foot three frame over the turnstile and into the pantheon of
Scottish football. Tiny picked himself up, brushed off his tarnished ego and
strode forward to take charge of the anticipated Saturday afternoon score draw
(as predicted by the punters, to the chagrin of Littlewoods no doubt).
Tiny launched himself up the steps to a point where the claret and
amber tinted grass field was laid out in all its splendour below. As he took in
the scene it dawned on him that the game, to his surprise already under way,
was being managed by a crew of yellow jacketed men brandishing tricolour flags,
one periodically blowing a whistle. Tiny pushed his way past some truculent
fellows to the retaining wall at field’s edge and found himself alongside a
referee’s assistant. Above the ooing and awing of the crowd enraptured with the
play of Wellwishers, he happened to overhear French being spoken between
officials. Also he caught a whiff of garlic emanating from the linesman’s
direction. Could it be that the officiating crew from Murrayfield’s “Calcutta
Cup” the day before had been recruited for this round ball classic? Had the SFA
failed to notify him that he had been reassigned another game, perhaps to
Brechin which was paired up with Anstruther that day? “Ya balloon ye” he
muttered to himself, now certain he had failed to interpret yesterday’s incoming
e-mails correctly. It was evident he should be the man in the middle at Esk View Park, Brechin, not here in the Clyde Valley.
What to do?
Certain that there was a provision in the “Entente Cordiale” to cover
such eventualities, Tiny determined he had to clamber over the wall, high five
the French officials (the Galls) as if they were a tag team then diplomatically
banish them to the oubliettes (a Fransortie, French Brexit of sorts). It was
too late to high tail it to responsibilities in Perthshire. His place this
afternoon was Lanarkshire which he knew was miles better. However just as he
was about to stomp onto the hallowed pitch with authority, a marching band
emerged from the tunnel and proceeded to file past, their McLean tartan kilts
all aswirl. This pipe band frae Aberdeen
(known as the Dons) got so caught up in the excitement of the occasion that
they refused to yield, even at half time when you would think they might have
ceased their non-compliance and headed off for a Lucozade or a Bovril. Flummoxed
by the spectacle, Tiny had little option but to ride out the game entrapped as
a spectator (like many a Wellwisher fan had been over this, a season to
forget). Finally, when the torrid match reached its conclusion after an amazing
mazy run by Joe Wark, he retraced his steps to his Austin Mini, knowing he
would have to fight his way out of his parking spot. He headed up the motorway
in the direction of Bearsden, his ears ringing with the triumphalism of
Wellwishers celebrating survival for another season. The goalie they had signed
from Hibs, Levona Yashinova who Hibs in turn had acquired from Championship
also rans Stranraer, was proclaimed hero(ine) of the day.
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