Seeing Red

by Graham Poll

  Then, at 11 am, I’d do my training. Monday’s workout, which involved proper warm-ups, stretching and warm-downs, usually took about two hours. Then, at about lunchtime, I would receive the email telling me my fixture for the next weekend and I would exchange emails with the two assistant referees to make arrangements.

  On Tuesdays, the training was usually a harder session. By the time I returned home from it, the post had normally arrived, including a ProZone disc with the computerized analysis of my match the previous Saturday. ProZone had up to twelve cameras positioned around every top stadium, capturing the action on the pitch. A computer programme plotted the coordinates and movements of every player every tenth of a second. All the top clubs used the data to investigate their own performances and get details of opponents.

  I was one of the refs who found ProZone really useful. For example, there were videos clips of specific incidents, shown from four different angles at three different speeds. They gave me the definitive answer to whether I had made the right decision. If I’d got it wrong, why did I get it wrong? Could I have improved my positioning to get a better view? Should I be working on getting more width to provide a better angle. Tuesday’s emails included a copy of the report on my performance compiled by the assessor. I would read that carefully – although it was sometimes contradicted by ProZone.

  Wednesday was normally a rest day. Thursday would involve a reasonably high-intensity training session. Friday’s was a light session, concentrating on speed work – short, sharp stuff. Then on Friday afternoon you would leave for the game.

  Match weekends were very different once we had become full-time pros. On one occasion before we were professional, we had a meeting and were addressed by a psychologist. He asked us what was our biggest fear – and you might be surprised by the answer. It was not that we would make a big mistake, not that we would get abused horribly and not that we would be beaten up in the car park. Of the twenty refs in the room, eighteen said that their biggest fear was that they might not get to the game on time – that they might get caught in traffic and be too late. I was one of the eighteen who put my hand up and owned up to that fear.

  For midweek games before we were professional, for instance, I would be working in the morning and say to myself, ‘Right, Pollie, you have got to leave the office by one o’clock.’ Inevitably, it would be a quarter to two before I would run out to the car thinking, ‘If I get a move on I might still have time to stop at a service station for a sandwich.’ Making a journey in that frame of mind, and arriving at the ground flustered, was far from ideal.

  We did stay overnight at hotels before some games when we were amateurs, but, because we only had a £60 allowance, we would stay at a Travelodge, or somewhere equally cheap. And, of course, we had to find our own way to the ground, which was not always straightforward. The first opportunity we had to get together with the assistant referees and the fourth official was in the guests’ lounge at the stadium. They had probably suffered a fraught journey as well.

  My Mum and Dad loved the old system. They came with me, came to the guest lounge and met other mums, dads and family members. It was a nice, social occasion – but it was not the correct way for a referee to prepare to take charge of a major match.

  Once we had become professional, if a game was more than 120 miles from home, we stayed overnight in a decent hotel which was booked for us. I drove everywhere, because public transport meant the chance of being with fans of one of the teams you were refereeing. The two assistants also stayed at the same hotel, and we would meet the night before the game and catch up with news and have a bit of a laugh.

  When I was professional I always planned my routine backwards from kick-off time. In other words, it did not matter whether the match started at 3 pm, at one o’clock or at 5.45. I would always have the same routine.

  But let us assume we are talking about a Saturday game kicking off at 3 pm. In those circumstances, at 11 am I would meet the two assistants in a pre-booked meeting room at the hotel and have another chat. Then, an unmarked people carrier took us to the match in plenty of time. The driver knew all the routes to the ground and so a lot of stress was taken away. The people carriers were introduced for all the Select Group referees as a direct result of the incident when the car I was in with Julia was attacked at Middlesbrough.

  Anyway, I normally liked to leave the hotel at midday. I didn’t have any lunch at the hotel but made sure I’d had a good breakfast. I liked to conduct the pitch inspection at about 12.30 and then sit and watch the first half of that day’s 12.45 match on television. Probably, at that stage, I’d have a sandwich. At 1.30 I would go back out onto the pitch and give my instructions to the two assistant referees. I liked to give my briefing on the pitch because I could refer to specific areas of the field of play and we could all visualize situations we were discussing.

  At a quarter to two it would be the security briefing. The home club’s safety officer and a senior police officer – either the match controller or his deputy – would arrive at the referee’s room together with the police officer who was going to be on duty in the tunnel. The safety officer explained the circumstances in which I should stop the game and get the players off the field. He told me the codes and procedures for bomb scares, fires, crowd evacuation and so on. The senior police officer then announced how many away fans were expected, where they would be in the ground and whether any known troublemakers were among them. Sometimes, the officer would say, ‘The police have no intelligence today.’ I found the best policy was not to make a joke reply, like, ‘That’s why the country is in such a state then.’

  One hour before kick-off, the team sheets arrived. Some were brought by managers, some by assistant managers. Both were fine by me. For instance, Pat Rice, the assistant manager at Arsenal, always brought their team list and so if there was any point Arsenal wanted to make, or any remark I needed to deliver, then we could do so. Chelsea always sent Gary Staker, their player liaison officer and administrative manager. He was a nice guy but he didn’t go into the players’ dressing room, and so referees could not make any point to the players or manager via him. I think, as well, that the issue of who takes the team sheet to the referee involves the question of respecting each other. The Premier League should insist that it is the manager or assistant who brings in the team sheet.

  Once you have the teams, you check the colours and decide what kit you will wear. We used to have three different shirts in our bag – a black one, a green and a yellow. I preferred the black (because it helped me look slimmer!) and I loathed the yellow one. In fact, I only wore yellow once. If you have a yellow car, the insurance premium is lower because it is so highly visible that other vehicles are unlikely to drive into it. A yellow shirt on a referee makes him too visible. When you look at the pitch from the stand, your eye is drawn to the bright yellow ref, but the ref should merge into the background and only emerge when he has to take some action.

  Refs had twenty-five minutes to put on their kit and needed all that time once we became professional, because of the microphones, earpieces, heart monitors and so on. The heart monitor was introduced in the year 2000. It was on a strap which the ref put around his chest. The monitor fed information to a special wrist watch which the ref could look at during the game and from which data was downloaded later for Matt Weston, the Premier League’s fitness expert. By looking at how the heart performed during a game, Matt could devise training programmes which replicated the physical demands of a match.

  The microphones and ear pieces were connected to a battery pack which was on a neoprene strap which went around the waste. I am not entirely sure the mikes and earpieces were a good idea. Before we got the mikes, I had always gone and talked to an assistant or a fourth official when I had needed to anyway. If an assistant wanted me, he got me. Introducing the communications system changed the dynamic of the way people refereed, because they were talking to assistants and the fourth official more than they needed to. Sometim
es being miked up inhibited the banter between the referee and players. That banter was part of a referee’s management technique, but players were sometimes wary of saying much once the mikes were introduced.

  Another piece of kit a ref had to put on was an armband which vibrated when an assistant pressed a button on the handle of his flag. The idea behind that was that the assistant pressed the button when he raised his flag for a foul or offside – or pressed the button if the ref did not respond to his raised flag. So referees had so many straps and wires to put on before a match there was no time to sit about. I always found that the time flew by.

  I would put the players’ numbers in my notebook and then I was ready, half an hour before kick-off, to go out onto the pitch to warm-up. I had a set, fixed routine which lasted eighteen minutes. As well as working all the appropriate muscles, the routine was part of my process of focusing on the job ahead.

  In the years in which I was professional, I was completely calm in the final moments before a match. There were no nerves – not because I was professional but because of the years of experience I had banked. Some referees like to pump themselves up. The match ball was usually in the ref’s dressing room when he arrived for the match and some got ready for the game by repeatedly bouncing the ball up and down. Some said things to psyche themselves up. I was the opposite. My mantra before and during the game was, ‘Cool, calm, collected’. And the other ‘c’ was ‘concentrate’. I knew that, during a game, if I was watching a throw-in and someone in the crowd behind the player started to do something noticeable, I needed to ignore the fan and focus completely on the football.

  After finishing the warm up, we’d return to the dressing room with twelve minutes to go before kick-off and I would give a few last words of encouragement to the assistants.

  Then, in the tunnel before kick-off – once the assistants had finally persuaded the teams to come out, and they were invariably late – I would turn and face both teams and exchange a few smiles and nods. I wanted to appear completely at ease and in a good mood, so that the players knew I was confident.

  And I was confident. I always knew I would not referee badly. That is not saying I would not make mistakes – that is not the same thing – but I would not give a poor performance in terms of being afraid to make big decisions or failing to keep control. I expected and accepted that I might make mistakes – human errors which I hoped would not affect the match – but I was not afraid that I would referee badly.

  Over the years I learned not to say stupid things to players in the tunnel – not to be the old class clown from Thomas Alleyne’s School – but I only learned that from making the mistake of doing it. I once said to Roy Keane in the tunnel, ‘I’ve already got your name, Roy. I just need the time.’ So during the game, when he committed a bad foul and I went over to him, he snarled, ‘Well, you’ve got your time for me now.’ My stupid aside had given him reason to believe I already had it in for him, that my mind was made up before the start that he would be cautioned. I stopped saying daft things after that.

  The referee goes out ahead of the players from the tunnel onto the pitch and, for me, that was a special, magical moment. In the Premiership, the stadiums were nearly all magnificent and often jammed completely full. The colours, the noise, the intensity of the occasion made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know that is a well-worn expression, but that is precisely what happened. So, I repeat: when people ask me why I refereed my answer was, ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  A major change once we became professional was the introduction of our fortnightly group get-togethers. We went to Staverton Park, a conference and training centre in Northamptonshire, about ten miles away from the M1 motorway. The centre had a hotel, a swimming pool, a gym and a golf course. It did not have a football pitch, however. At first we did most of our training on a public park, with fairly Spartan facilities. There were a few grass pitches, which we used to ruin, and an Astroturf area. It was like being back at Ridlins Wood Playing Fields in Stevenage. Later Staverton Park took over a cricket ground and put a couple of football pitches there.

  There were twenty-four pro refs. Most of us reported in at Staverton every other week – and we had a hoot. We were fit, youngish and, for the first time in our lives, were being

  Left Susan, Deborah, Graham and Mary: the four Poll children in our garden in Stevenage in about 1968.

  Right My big moment on stage, playing Fat King Melon (pictured astride horse, inspecting troops) at Ashtree School in 1973.

  Above ‘The comrades’. Alan Crompton and me, right, on stage at Thomas Alleyne School. We are still comrades all these years later.

  Right Mum and dad, Beryl and Jim, at a family wedding in 1992.

  Right My Football League debut as an assistant referee in 1986. The match was Leyton Orient against Peterborough United, the ref was Jeff Lovatt and the other ‘linesman’ was Mike Bullivant. I was just 22.

  Above The Aubrey Cup Final (the Herts Senior County League’s top cup competition) in 1984, with referee Alan Mitchell and the other assistant, Paul Taylor (who later became a Football League referee).

  Right Another cup final, six days later, in 1984 – and this time I was the referee. It was the Stevenage Sunday League Challenge Cup Final at Stevenage Borough’s ground, and a big day for me – although I should have worn the same socks as my assistants.

  Stages (and haircuts) of my career, captured in cuttings. Left The Stevenage Comet marks my promotion to become a Football League linesman in 1986. Below The local Reading paper records my arrival as a Premier League ref in 1993. Bottom left The Daily Telegraph reports my FA Cup Final appointment in 2000.

  Right The pennant commemorating the last FA Cup Final at the old Wembley.

  Above Ruel Fox of Norwich is having the blood wiped off his face, Francis Benali of Southampton is receiving my red card and Dave Beasant is restraining Mickey Adams. It was 1994, in my first Premier League season.

  Left The certificate made and presented to me by my dad. See page 105.

  Above My first Football League ‘middle’, Rotherham United against Burnley, in 1991.

  Above I have to take avoiding action as Manchester United captain Steve Bruce objects to my awarding a penalty for QPR at Loftus Road in 1994. Paul Parker can’t believe it.

  Above The picture Pierluigi Collina sent me for my 40th birthday. It shows us at the 2002 World Cup in Korea.

  Left Holland against Argentina in the Amsterdam Arena in March 1999. It was a friendly – but I had to send off Edgar Davids.

  Left World Cup 2006 fitness test in Frankfurt. I am setting the pace for Lubos Michel (Slovakia), Eric Poulat (France) and Roberto Rosetti (Italy).

  Right Free time at Euro 2000 in Brussels: with Anders Frisk (far left), Hugh Dallas (brown jacket and a pint) and Kim Milton Nielsen (front right).

  Left The 61st minute of Croatia versus Australia and I am cautioning Josip Simunic (for the first time!).

  Right The crucial page from my notebook from the 2006 World Cup: my mistaken recording of Croatia 3’s second caution. The letter C appears, wrongly, against the yellow (Australian) 3.

  Left I stop Patrick Vieira, Sol Campbell and Thierry Henry from making their point.

  Right As Sir Alex Ferguson acknowledges in the Foreword, he did not always agree with my decisions. This dispute is at Stamford Bridge.

  Left Roy Keane is calm enough as I deal with an incident at Highbury but Gary Neville is less so.

  Right Real Madrid have just lost 3-0 to Bayer Leverkusen in the Champions League in 2004. Perhaps I should not have looked so happy, but David Beckham gave me that shirt for my daughter.

  Right Before a match at Portsmouth in the 2003/04 season.

  Below The start of my last match as a professional referee – Derby County v West Bromwich Albion at Wembley in the 2007 Championship play-off final.

  Above My family. Josie, Gemma and Harry with me and Julia in our garden in Tring.

  supplied with proper, coordi
nated training kits and living the lives of professional athletes. It was a magnificent time. Our hobby had become our job and, like any group of blokes doing the same tasks and sharing difficult experiences, we built a camaraderie. The only people who really understood what it was like to referee in the Premiership were others who were doing it, and there we all were together. You didn’t have to explain anything about your world to your peers and contemporaries. There was a special, unspoken understanding and we laughed together at some of the abuse and criticism we received from outsiders as a way of dealing with it. Strong, lasting friendships were formed.

  Philip Don wanted us there on Wednesday evenings for dinner to have a relaxing, sociable time and be ready for serious training on Thursday morning. On Thursday afternoon we had a session with video recordings of match incidents and refereeing talking points. Then we’d train again on Fridays and have a motivational session before lunch. You could either stay for Friday lunch or disperse before lunch.