6. Bearsden

 Meanwhile back at the ranch, well the suburb of north Glasgow in which Tiny resided at any rate, summer was advancing. He had departed Departures hospitality at Edinburgh Airport at ten bells, closing time, the day of the return from North America. Now he was back home among the denizens of Bearsden. Here, male and female alike tended to be partial to rugby, not football, a phenomenon subject to much concerned inquiry by pathologists. What was wrong with these people? Footballers were known for their palaver and common touch whereas the language of rugby was esoteric, indecipherable even. Tiny, not part of the herd mentality, therefore stood out from the crowd on his pleasant street. Saturday afternoons usually found him assigned to adjudicate vulgar footballing infractions across the length and breadth of Scotland, yet relaxing in his garden on Sunday mornings when the majority of his neighbours walked their pooches to the local municipal park to watch genteel rugby encounters. Were they all Welsh immigrants or something? On this day Tiny was to be found checking out his floppy disk to see which fixture he would officiate at the upcoming season opener. He hoped central office had not relegated him to Division Two since the affirmative meant endless visits to Coatbridge, Airdrie and Cumbernauld when by far his preference was to referee at Gretna, Motherwell or Biggar, venues where he inevitably got a middle finger welcome, not the dreaded shaken fist acknowledgement. He liked the friendly communities where “she pours a real fine beer” was a valid claim for any pub in the vicinity of the game day ground. And the allure of Biggar was a fact. After all London is big but Biggar is Biggar. Before he got into the grind of the protracted league schedule Tiny hoped to make it up to a butt and ben on Loch Lomondside for some rays. He consulted Maureen his wife to get her input. Her opinion was as good as any linesman’s he knew (or should we say referee’s assistant to accommodate political correctness) although just as in important games, the only judgment to which he would defer was his own! They skedaddled for a couple of days.

 

Thursday morning prior to his first week-end assignment of the season was grey and overcast with the threat of hail. No solar radiation seemed in the cards and so the sunscreen tube remained shelved in the bathroom cabinet for the 79th day in a row since the commencement of summer. Tiny ensconced himself in the bay window of his Interwar Arts and Crafts bungalow and browsed FIFA’s new rule book which had been issued just weeks before, relying on his quick eye to pick out any new stipulations. There was the Golden Rule of course by whose tenets he conducted himself, but what was this, the Bronze Rule? In bold type was printed “Do Unto Others Then Scarper” which had a real Anglo-Saxon ring to it. Tiny conjured up a hypothetical and saw Big Daryl cynically scything down a Jersey Boy centre forward then running off innocently, furtively checking over his shoulder and hoping to avoid the referee’s wrath. Tiny chuckled as the lyrics of a favourite country and western song came to him;

 

There I was, looking back to see

If you were looking back to see

If I was looking back to see

If you were looking back at me

 

It didn’t pay to take one’s eye of the ball, whether player or official, he was reminded. Snap decisions went hand in hand with visual vigilance. He sauntered over to his closet and rummaged around. He retrieved his Puma boots (Adidas were out of fashion amongst officials this season) and as with each start to the season decided he need sharpen his studs. Refereeing was not for the faint of heart and sharp studs gave him traction and an edge. To be sure he did not get stuck in during a game the way a player would but nevertheless there was much to be said for well prepared kit. He gave a blast on his whistle and was satisfied it was not gummed up with desiccated saliva. He was assured it could be heard from one end of Kelvin Hall to the other.

 

Tiny was aware he was not in tip top form and so he pledged to himself to pull up his socks by his boot straps (alright, I hear you, the metaphor needs some massaging). Back in the day he had been in good shape, the nostalgic halcyon years when he would referee the young louts of the Boy Scouts league. Participants basically belted the ball up the field at every opportunity, so Tiny had to be prepared to run significant distances. He quickly became quite svelte. Now that he refereed the top echelons of Scottish football he had to play the part. So he decided to put a fine point on his physical fitness by kicking the can down the road, around the corner, around the next and back home by means of the back lane. He did that twice. Now he was raring to go, just like the Ferraris in the nearby motor trade showroom window. First engagement, he was off to Peterhead. This would be no fishing expedition but a genuine First Division encounter! Aberdeenshire was an acknowledged viper’s nest of scammers, hackers and many others in the gig economy taking economic advantage of the masses. The mainstay of the locals’ sustenance these days was proceeds from physhing the net, not the bounty formerly hauled up from the deep. The eminence of educational institutions in the shire’s Granite City had been the catalyst of this happenstance. The physhers of men, corrupt though they might be, did love their football however. Saturday their beloved Trawlermen were playing Haddington Pinks. The Pinks had evolved from a pity pile to a contender over the last few seasons and were not to be trifled with. Tiny expected to enjoy the joust and as always to remain invisible in his official’s role, always an indication of a job well done. Be heard but not seen. Don’t decide the game for them. 

 

Twenty minutes into the game a distinct hubbub emanating from the crowd made Tiny look over to the terraces. Sure enough the cause of the commotion was self evident. A child in the children’s enclosure behind the visitor’s goal had lost control of a balloon. It was fluttering about in the breeze inducing pandemonium. Tiny whistled a halt to proceedings. Meanwhile two or three Pinks flitted about clumsily doing all they could to stamp on the deleterious object. Little did they realize how debasing the hunt would be, and tiring too. The balloon ran amok for a considerable time. One fullback had to be substituted off, puckered out from his exertions. Things went from the sublime to the ridiculous when stewards intervened only to bat the balloon about as if it were surfing the crowd at a rock concert. Spectators were enthralled and disappointed when play amongst the adults resumed. The one enduring highlight of the half was when a shot from ten yards out stopped freakishly one yard short of the Trawlermens’ net. When button holed by a journalist at halftime “how come,” the shooter said the manager had encouraged them all to go the whole nine yards in the pre-game pep talk and he had unleashed the shot doing his best to comply. Pulling off a zinger like that shot was a marvelous feat under any circumstances, but in this game just three or four of them too short.