by Graham Poll
So, despite the best efforts of Nick Whitehead and the News of the World, I enjoyed the build-up to the big day. I wallowed in it. Neither am I ashamed to say that I enjoyed all the media attention involved. It made me feel special, but then, to my mind, the FA Cup Final was special and I was going to have a role in it.
Tradition dictates that the Wembley match officials and their wives are honoured by the London Society of Referees at an ‘Eve of the Final Rally’ – a social gathering which referees of all levels attend. As a young referee, I had gone to the Rally to gawp at icons like Neil Midgley and George Courtney. I was far too much in awe of them to actually approach them, but lots of the other refs wanted their moment with the Wembley officials, and so the Rally always went into extra-time.
The fact that I had been so many times to the Rally as a callow kid was another reason for me to savour the fact that I was going to referee the 2000 Final. Now it was my turn to be the principal guest at the Rally, but I was concerned it would end too late.
Peter Jones – we shall meet him again during my story – had been the Cup Final ref in 1999 and told me that he did not get back to his hotel from the Rally until just before midnight. He had to deal with a queue of people wanting autographs. He admitted that it was not ideal preparation for his big day.
So I asked to change a couple of things. I said that I’d arrange for the four match officials to autograph all the 200 or so programmes for the event in advance. Nobody would have to queue up at the end for signatures. And I said that I wanted to speak at the beginning of the function, rather than at the conclusion, so that I could leave in time for a proper night’s rest.
Some of the blazer brigade thought it was sacrilege to alter the schedule. They concluded – like many before and since – that Graham Poll was arrogant. I could argue that my need to prepare properly was the opposite of arrogance. But most people have already made up their mind about me.
Something else made the chaps in blazers splutter with indignation. Darren Drysdale, one of the assistant referees, had recently become engaged. He and his fiancée, Wendy, couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Eventually I had to say, ‘Can you give it a rest please? Or get a room.’
He replied, ‘We can’t help it. We’re in love.’ Obviously, I did not tell the other match officials about that at the first opportunity or take the mickey out of him in any way at all. I returned to the Hendon Hall Hotel at a respectable hour and had a good sleep. I can’t tell you whether I dreamed or not – but then I had been dreaming of refereeing the FA Cup Final for nearly twenty years.
On the big day, I was determined to follow the advice of previous Final refs and seep myself in the atmosphere. They said they had enjoyed standing on the balcony, between Wembley’s old twin towers, watching both sets of supporters walking towards the stadium along Empire Way. But when I stood there in 2000, Villa supporters who spotted me started to sing vile songs about my alleged allegiance to Chelsea. Joe Guest advised us to leave the balcony. I was grievously disappointed. Thanks, News of the World.
Then, in the dressing rooms, I did something else to outrage the blazer blokes – another break with tradition. FA official Adrian Titcombe always led the two teams out. The referee, assistants and fourth official brought up the rear. Over the years, when I had watched this, I felt it was wrong. I thought that it undervalued the referee and his team. So I asked that the FA follow their own regulation, which stipulated that the referee should lead out the teams. For the sake of every ref who has taken charge of Finals since, I am glad that I won that little amendment to the protocol.
The last FA Cup Final at the old Wembley was the seventy-second, and was decided by a goal in the seventy-second minute. Neither the game nor the goal was memorable. Gianfranco Zola took a free-kick for Chelsea, Villa goalkeeper David James fumbled the ball, knocking it against the chest of defender Gareth Southgate, and Roberto Di Matteo thumped the lose ball into the roof of the net. Di Matteo had scored the quickest goal in an FA Cup Final (forty-two seconds) three years earlier when Chelsea beat Middlesbrough 2–0. This time, in 2000, his goal was suitably scrappy for a poor game, and the most prestigious appointment of my domestic career was not a great occasion for me either.
In fact, it was a horrid, bitter experience. It was soured utterly by that News of the World article and the way some Villa players used the story to try to put me under pressure. During the game, Villa players repeatedly made snide remarks inferring that I was biased. They said things like, ‘There’s two teams playing, Pollie. Not one.’ They said, ‘Come on, be fair.’ They hoped that, subconsciously, I would want to prove that I was not favouring Chelsea. They were hoping that I would react by giving the next marginal decision to Villa. And I am pretty sure that they had been told to use that tactic, because the players who did it the most were the right-back, the central midfielder and the left-forward. Because referees run a diagonal path throughout a match, those were the players I most often found myself near. I believed they had been instructed to target me.
The indignation I felt – the outrage – was because the allegation behind their remarks attacked my basic integrity. I had worked for twenty years to referee the Cup Final. It was my big occasion. Yet they were saying I was dishonest. Every little comment they made was like a slap in the face.
Then, right at the finish, when the teams were waiting to go up to collect their medals, a member of the Villa backroom staff said to me, ‘You f***ing Chelsea fan. You c***.’ That was the last straw. The comment touched a raw nerve. I confronted him and although I have never been someone who hits people, I honestly think I might at least have grabbed him if Joe Guest had not intervened. That would have given the News of the World a real story.
Then, as I climbed the famous thirty-nine steps to collect my own medal, the Villa fans booed and repeated the News of the World’s false allegation. Peter Jones said the finest moment of his life – of his life! – was at the end of the 1999 Cup Final. In the moment before he left the pitch, he looked back at the scene, with the winning team doing their lap of honour and the fans cheering. He opened the presentation box in his hand, looked down at his medal, and thought, ‘It doesn’t get any better than this.’ On my big day, the Villa fans were at the tunnel end and so I left the arena to catcalls from people suggesting that I was biased.
I can’t leave the subject of that Villa squad without detailing some other exchanges with John Gregory over the years, because one of the things he said has stayed with me.
The first time he spoke to me was during a game against Charlton Athletic when he was Leicester City’s assistant manager. As I left the pitch at half-time, Gregory said, ‘You must be from Slough’ and shook his carefully coiffured head. I did not have a clue what he was on about. Then, three minutes from the end, I awarded Charlton a penalty. It was not one of my best decisions. Charlton scored from the spot to condemn Leicester to defeat.
Within two minutes of the final whistle, John Gregory came to my changing room. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ he asked, as he sat down. I never objected to any coach or manager coming to ask any questions in a calm and dignified manner. How they approached me was more important than whether they obeyed the ‘wait thirty minutes’ rule.
Gregory stayed there, sitting in the officials’ room, while I showered. Eventually, he said, ‘Pollie, I can’t face them. I can’t face the players. You robbed us.’ He, too, did not think the penalty was one of the best decisions I had ever made. There was no point in us having a long discussion, so I wanted to get rid of him. But I was still intrigued. ‘Before you go,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a question for you. What was all that “You must come from Slough” business?’
He explained, ‘I was born in Windsor and I hate everyone from Slough.’ That cleared that one up then. He continued, ‘You’re a really good referee but you want to be popular. You want to be liked as well as being a good referee. Good referees aren’t liked. We respect you. Don’t try to be popular.’
He was spot-on. I remembered that remark. It helped me to be brave in decision-making later in my career and I have used the sentiment when talking to other referees. As I said in an interview with the Daily Telegraph before that 2000 FA Cup Final, referees are the Aunt Sallies of football. We are not there to be liked. We are there to try to make the right decisions.
So John Gregory gave me food for thought that day when his team lost to Charlton. He probably did not need to add, as he left the officials’ dressing room, ‘It was never a f***ing penalty.’ But then I probably did not help by replying, ‘I think we all know that.’
Because I like John Gregory, I was saddened that his players made snide remarks to me during the 2000 FA Cup Final. When I refereed Villa again, on Boxing Day 2000 against Manchester United at Villa Park, they were at it again. United won 1–0 and a number of Villa players made references to me being a Chelsea fan. This time, so did Gregory himself. I put it down to the fact they were all still disappointed about losing the Cup Final.
Then, in April 2001, I was in charge when Gregory took his Villa team to play Charlton at The Valley. I sent off Charlton defender Richard Rufus but awarded the home side a penalty. It was an exciting game which ended 3–3. Gregory again ribbed me about being a Chelsea supporter. I did not think I should have to keep putting up with that, so I asked the FA whether Gregory’s continued sniping amounted to some sort of offence. They told me to rise above it so I decided that I needed to tackle it myself.
Gregory moved on and became manager of Derby. I next took charge of one of his matches in February 2002. It was at Pride Park, and Sunderland won 1–0. After the game, I went into the manager’s office and gave Gregory a Chelsea hat and scarf I had bought especially for the occasion. I stood in front of his desk and sang, ‘Chelsea, Chelsea’. It was my way of saying, ‘Look, I am not really a Chelsea fan, and we both know it, so let’s laugh about it.’ He did laugh. One–nil to Pollie.
A few weeks later I refereed Charlton v Chelsea and Gregory sent a package to The Valley marked ‘for the attention of match referee Graham Poll’. It was brought to me by the Charlton secretary and I opened it in front of him. Inside were the same Chelsea hat and scarf. One–all.
Then I refereed Derby v Leeds close to the end of the 2001/02 season. In my dressing room awaiting my arrival was a number 9 Chelsea shirt with ‘POLL’ printed on the back. Two–one to Gregory.
Finally, just before I left for the 2002 World Cup, an envelope bearing Derby County’s badge arrived at my home. Inside were four photographs of that Chelsea shirt with my name on the back and each photo had a message scrawled on it – things like, ‘you wish’ and ‘in your dreams’. On the last one in the pile was the message ‘Really good luck in the World Cup, Pollie’. Final score: 3–1 to Gregory. Game over.
Gregory lost his job at Derby sixteen months later and had a long period out of the game. When he did return to football management, in September 2006, it was at Queens Park Rangers, funnily enough. In one of our discussions about the daft allegation that I had been a Chelsea supporter I told him that my dad and I had watched him in his days as an outstanding player for QPR. We both liked him then. We both still do.
CHAPTER TEN
Collina, Dad and Me
Pierluigi Collina, the bald Italian, was probably the best referee anywhere in the world in the last thirty or so years. At the start of the 2002 World Cup, when all the referees sat in a room and were told, ‘Aim for the highest. One of you thirty-six here will referee the World Cup Final,’ we all looked at Pierluigi. It was at that same World Cup that I learned how astonishingly meticulous his briefings were to his assistants.
I was his fourth official for the game between Japan and Turkey. In the hotel room in which he told the assistants what he wanted from them, there was a whiteboard and he drew a pitch on it. I expected him to explain something straightforward – such as which areas of the field he wanted the assistants to make decisions. But on that whiteboard he wrote the names of both teams in their correct formations. He used the names he was going to call them if he needed to speak to them, rather than their formal names. Then he went on to explain, in fastidious detail, what would happen if Japan went a goal up or if Turkey took the lead. He explained how the losing side would change their tactics, or formation, or whether they would make a substitution. He detailed how the other team would probably respond. Then he indicated players who might get involved in incidents behind his back. He told the assistants who and what to look for and in what circumstances.
On another occasion, at a UEFA training session for referees, we were shown a video which included an incident when two players jumped for the ball. One elbowed the other in the face. UEFA said it was a red card offence. Collina thought otherwise. I asked him why, and his answer resonated with me. He said, ‘Look at the player’s hands. They are open. His fingers are extended. To elbow someone deliberately, you want to exert the force behind you, and to do that you clench your fist.’
I thought, ‘Brilliant! Thank you very much, Pierluigi.’
I think he was spot on with his analysis, and that shows how he used to scrutinize the minutiae of everything associated with football to gain the knowledge he felt would benefit his refereeing.
Then there was Anders Frisk, of Sweden, another friend of mine and a top, top referee. He was the man who was struck on the head by a lighter hurled at him as he left the field at Roma. He was left hurt and bloodied. He was also the man hounded into retirement by threats to his family, allegedly by Chelsea fans. So he certainly suffered for his art. Yet he was entirely natural as a referee. His briefings to his assistants were extremely succinct. He used to say, ‘Expect the unexpected and enjoy yourself.’ That was it.
There are two broad categories of referee, I believe: manufactured and natural. The manufactured referee makes himself a ref. He thinks about where he should be and what he should do during a game. Everything he does is carefully considered. A natural referee goes with the flow a lot more. Both types have their virtues and their flaws.
In England, the top referees of recent years certainly fall into the two categories. Philip Don, who was appointed to take charge of the Select Group when referees became professional, was a manufactured referee. Keith Hackett, by contrast, who replaced Don as the Select Group supremo, was a natural referee.
David Elleray was manufactured. Paul Durkin was natural. Steve Dunn? Natural. Steve Bennett? Manufactured. Graham Barber? Natural. Graham Poll? Natural.
My style was a lot closer to Anders Frisk than to Pierluigi Collina. My style was a bit like pulling the cord to start the outboard motor and just letting the engine take me. I did not ponder where I needed to run. I did not think where I needed to stand. But I did have twenty-six years’ experience which provided a subconscious structure to what I was doing.
Now, this doesn’t mean that I think ‘natural’ is better than ‘manufactured’, because, although I say Steve Bennett is manufactured, I don’t think he would ever have made the mistake I did in Germany. He is too considered in what he does to have made that sort of mistake.
My dad was more like Collina than Frisk (and not just because Dad was bald). Dad was also a very different referee to me. My memories of Dad, when I was a kid in our four-bedroomed, terraced house in Stevenage, are of a big man who was always working really hard; not for success for its own sake, but to earn more money to support his family.
Dad had been an electrical engineer for the Post Office (the GPO, as it was then) but I only remember him working for Kodak, the cameras, photography and photocopying company. I recall that Mum used to take us children with her to pick Dad up from Kodak after 7.15 pm on some nights, when he had been working overtime. I can also remember us driving over to collect him from Hitchin College, where he studied in evening classes to improve himself – again, to have a chance to earn more money to support us.
When the children were little, Mum was at home with us, but then she too took jobs. First she started
part-time in the local greengrocers, then she worked for a photo-processors, next she also had a spell at Kodak and finally she worked for the local council.
Dad had a great quest for knowledge and a good memory to retain that knowledge. He had all the answers and was very clear about right and wrong. The rule he gave us was, ‘Whatever you have done, if you tell me the truth, I’ll support you. There may be some punishment if you have done something bad, but the punishment will be worse if you don’t tell me and I find out later.’ That is not a bad rule in my opinion. My wife and I have said the same thing to our three children.
Dad refereed to get more money to support his family. He never got higher than Class II (the middle of the three grades that existed then) but, during every season, he went out refereeing each Saturday afternoon and then Sunday morning and Sunday afternoon as well. Mum was football mad and so she and I used to go and watch Dad referee. My sisters came sometimes, but as they got bigger, they used to stay at home and watch an old film on TV.
If it did not clash with Dad’s refereeing, we’d go and support Gonville Rovers – the boys’ team which had originally started with lads from our road, Gonville Crescent. They were ‘our’ team. So it was football, football, football, all weekend. Meal times, and everything else, were dictated by the football.
Also, on a Wednesday night, from the age of eight, I would go to bed at a normal time (between half past seven and eight o’clock), but then my mum would come and get me up at five to ten to watch Sportsnight with Coleman. I was allowed to sit up and watch the highlights of big European football matches, and they were magical.
I was Dad’s linesman once when I was eight or nine. He said, ‘Just ball in and out of play, son. I’ll do the rest.’ He refereed as he aimed to live his life – with a very firm, clear view of right and wrong. For him, the Laws of the Game, like the rules of life, were absolutely black and white. There were no grey areas at all. He was six foot three and sixteen or seventeen stone, had a military bearing because he had done his national service, and so looked very impressive. There are referees who command respect and those who demand it. Dad did both. His physical presence commanded respect. His no-nonsense approach meant that it was demanded.