It was the fourth game of the day for thirteen year old referee Andrew Davis,  that meant fourth hour in the hot sun, fourth angry mass of people to deal with, and fourth little trip to hell and back. His throat felt sore, his lips were dry and cracked, and his legs quivered underneath him. It seemed his frustration was the only thing giving him the extra jolt of energy to keep going. At any moment he could pass out but also lose his mind at the next person to give him crap. Maybe one then the other.

Andrew took a deep breath as he walked up to the field. He found his two sideline refs sitting beside an old oak tree, which served as a nice barrier between them and the approaching crowd. He swiftly placed his bag down, and laid back against the bark as both the sideline refs introduced themselves as Thomas and Meghan. He did the same, and the three proceeded to sit there quietly. Technically they were supposed to have a pre-game meet and greet, which was as unnecessary and stupid as it sounds. It was really just one of those things the stuffy old refs did, who were there for fun. For everyone else it was customary to sit there and enjoy the silence while you can. 

 He sat there for a minute, and after failing to avoid thinking about the game, Andrew peeked behind the tree to get a glimpse over at the ever growing crowd of people gathering by the sidelines. It was an especially big group this game, parents, grandparents, siblings, even dogs. They came from the parking lot, with each person hauling up wagons full of enough supplies to comfortably suit everyone there. Once the wagon loads were carried in they set up camp for the next hour, which was around a 10 minutes process. When finished they sat down in their foldable chairs, eager smiles across their faces. To any anonymous person unfamiliar with the tendencies of these parents it would look like there were some sort of week-long camping trip occurring on the field. 

Andrew cursed to himself quietly. There was only a minute left before he needed to do check-in. He was exhausted, and check-in was one of the worst parts of the game. Mostly due to his having to shake hands with and be nice to the coaches, while also knowing that at least one of them would throw him under the bus when things started to head south for their team. He could see it in their eyes too, when he was shaking hands with them, a look that sort of read, I’m happy now, but I can be a real prick when I’m not, so you better keep me this way. 

He told Thomas and Meghan it was time to get going, much to their disappointment. The three then walked up to the blue team for check-in. The coach greeted them with a standard hand shake. Andrew gave him the standard stare, and came to the standard conclusion that he’d probably lose it if the other team started winning. Well hopefully I’m wrong, Andrew thought. Though he probably wasn’t. 

Then came the white team. Andrew extended his arm to the coach who very begrudgingly shook it, and proceeded to greet Thomas with the same sort of hostility. When it came Meghan’s turn for a hand shake the coach simply kept walking, leaving her arm hanging awkwardly in the air like it was diseased, and moving on like nothing had happened. 

The check-in proceeded with great unease thanks to the coach. He started by asking Andrew how old he was. 

“Thirteen,” Andrew answered. 

The coach shook his head disapprovingly, “Why do you think you might be qualified to ref at such an important age level?”

Andrew explained how the program manager had assigned him to this game, and the coach gave him another disapproving head shake. 

Just to keep the uneasiness going, during check-in the coach stood beside Andrew with crossed arms examining carefully as Andrew checked the players’ gear, then scoffed whenever he thought Andrew had done something wrong. Both Thomas and Meghan stayed a good distance away from him as he did this.

Andrew tried his hardest to finish with the check-in quickly, and then scampered away to the center determined to do the coin toss and get the game started and over with as quickly as possible. Especially now that he knew what the white team’s coach was going to be like. Andrew blew his whistle for attention and called for each team’s captains. The blue coach sent over two players right away. Meanwhile the white coach continued with his team’s warm ups. Andrew called again, nothing. He groaned, way too tired to put up with this coach, and knowing that every minute of this nonsense was another minute later he would have to be here and not at home.

“Coach, we need captains,” explained Andrew.

“We’re warming up,” replied the coach stubbornly.

“I only need one player.”

“I need all my players to be warmed up,” the coach demanded.

“It’ll be real quick, and we need to start soon,” insisted Andrew

“Why don’t you  just wait,” snarled the coach, “jeez.” 

“Coach, this is cutting into playing time,” Andrew tried to explain, “we were supposed to start a few minutes ago.”    

“Wait wait wait,” the coach suddenly became angry, “it’s our game not yours. You don’t have the power to just shorten it! Especially not at your age!”

“You’re the one that’s shortening it,” replied Andrew, frustrated.

“Jesus, fine,” the coach exhaled, finally giving in, “We can cut the warm ups. But this would be completely unacceptable in older age levels.” 

Jesus Christ, Andrew thought as he walked away.

He continued with the coin toss hastily. By the time Andrew was done it was five past twelve meaning they needed to start. He placed the ball in the center of the field, and then when everyone was where they were supposed to be he blew his whistle and started the game.                                                                                                                      

From his short experience reffing ten year olds at a recreational level, Andrew assumed that the game would start with the ball just sort of getting kicked around until somebody finally brought it deep into the attacking zone to take a shot that either the goalie would save, or just completely miss the net, and maybe if they were lucky it would go in. That was pretty much the whole game as far as the players go. 

But this game was different. The ball was first kicked by the white team, then immediately stolen by a blue jersey. Who basically strolled towards the goal while one of her opponents tried stopping her but soon grew tired and gave up. Within ten seconds the ball rolled right between the unwary goalie’s legs, and slowly into the net.

An immediate silence followed what was probably the quickest goal Andrew had seen in his career as a referee. Usually the parents would be screaming their heads off after an event like this. Instead they sat dumbstruck, just sort of looking around. Finally the white team’s coach opened his mouth…

“Hey! That was offside!”

The crowd began to scream in a roar of agreement.

“That was like five feet offside!” one man shouted.

“If that!” an older woman agreed.

“Come on ref, where's the call!?” yelled one man in sunglasses who was walking up and down the field like he was a coach, the kind of parent Andrew always called a pretend coach, “This could cost us the game!”

“What’re three kids doing reffing a soccer game anyway!?” a woman under a blanket asked.

“I know! It’s so irresponsible! We should report this to the board, and have all three of these refs demoted!” another woman agreed.

Andrew snickered at the last comment as he placed the ball back at the center for another kickoff. Parents loved to make threats like that, though they never made good on them. He especially loved the use of the word demoted. As if there were some position lower than this he could possibly be demoted to.

For the second kickoff the white team did slightly better. Lasting a full two minutes before one of the blue team girls was able to take a fairly hard shot on the goalie, who proceeded to literally dive out of the way. This time the coach began to complain about a foul, not any specific kind of foul, just a foul. The parents once again began to back him up strongly on his claims. 

At one point Andrew did call an offside for the white team. Immediately almost all the white team parents threw their hands up satisfied.

“Well it’s about time,” at least three people proclaimed.

“Can we maybe get a few more of those ref?” the pretend coach from earlier requested.

The game went on with goal, after goal, after goal for the blue team, accompanied by continuous yelling and accusations of missed fouls. Ironically this might have been the cleanest game Andrew had ever reffed. After all you do have to put in some effort to commit a foul, which the white team just wasn’t doing. At one point Andrew called a white jersey for shoving another player, which the parents did not take too well at all. 

“You can’t call that,” the coach whined, “she was defending herself.”

“She’s just looking out for her team!” the pretend coach insisted. 

“It’s that number seven from the blue team that should get a foul!” one woman accused, “she was asking to get pushed, this’ll teach her a lesson!”

“Oh definitely,” agreed the man sitting next to her, “if anything our player was the victim.”

 “Give number seven a red!” the pretend coach insisted.

Andrew sighed, it was going to be a long game.

Over on the sidelines Meghan faced her own troubles in the form of the coaches, or more specifically the white team’s coach. It was usually best for a sideline ref when all the playing was on the other side of the field, and you were just alone with your thoughts. Even better when the parents were out of harassment range. Of course there were still the coaches to deal with who half the time were angry at you, but there were less of them which is always a plus. Then there were the cases where they were really, really angry. Like the white team’s coach. Even worse, he was Meghan’s dad.

“Hey! You tell that center ref he better start calling those fouls, or else I’ll get the league manager down here!” her father howled furiously behind her, “and don’t think I won’t.”

Meghan groaned. The coach was a nightmare to ref no matter who you were, but his being her dad just made it a thousand times worse. She remembered when she had first started as a ref and found out how atrocious the majority of coaches and parents could be. But as it turned out her dad was one of the worst ones. If not the worst. Making the falsest and stupidest of accusations, refusing to shake her hand, yelling at her for not paying attention to the game, and starting fights with the other teams. 

But the worst part was that he couldn’t even leave it on the field. The nagging would follow her in the car ride home. At the dinner table he’d complain to her about her missed calls. When she was watching TV he’d claim all the Yellow Jacket youth soccer referees were out to get him. This continued all throughout the week until he lost his next game. There was never a more crude awakening for her than to find out what a loser her dad was. 

“Hey sideline ref!” the coach called despite his being directly behind her, “stop slouching with your flag! You should be ready for when something happens! You’ve missed enough calls as it is!”

Meghan turned around, looking her father squarely in the eyes. She didn’t speak, just stared at him coldly, hoping he’d get the message and shut up. 

“Now look at what you did! The other team just scored!” the coach whined like a toddler throwing a fit, “you should have been focusing on the game!”

It made no sense to Meghan how her not focusing on the game could allow the blue team to score, especially with the ball way over on the other side of the field, and no chance that there was a foul, or the ball rolled out of play. But hardly anything the coach said ever made sense. 

“Dad,” she turned around to face him again, “be quiet…please.”

It was a small request, but had bubbled up great rage in the coach, his cheeks reddened, and he pointed his finger furiously at Meghan as he spoke.

“It’s coach to you as long as there’s a soccer game going on! And who are you to tell me to be quiet? You should be focusing on the game! Same with that head ref of your’s who doesn’t know what a foul is!”

The coach went on, and she proceeded to turn away and ignore him. At this point he would go on ranting, and there would be no stopping him. 

“Hey! You can’t just turn away and pretend you can’t hear me!”

“Just focusing on the game,” she answered.

About fifteen minutes later it was halftime. The score was twelve nothing. Twenty five minutes of playing, and the white team had already let in twelve goals. Back at the center Andrew was amazed. Not only by the score, but by the fact that it had only been twenty five minutes. All the nonstop goals, and complaints, and goals, and complaints. It felt as if years had passed since he first blew his starting whistle. Standing there listening to the parents whine about the same nonsense had seemed to stretch time. Just hearing a word come out of the coach's mouth turned one second into two. Resulting in a seemingly endless twenty five minute half. And there was still another one of these to come. 

Silently, he walked back to the shady haven behind the old oak tree, trying his best to avoid parents along the way. Of course such a scheme was nearly impossible to pull off. 

“Hey ref!” one woman holding a chihuahua in her lap called, “maybe start calling some of those offsides.”

“Or in other words start doing your job!” a man added.

Within a few seconds the parents were all up in his face, complaining of the score or missed calls, something stupid. The pretend coach who had insisted Andrew give out a red was probably the worst among them. He tried stopping Andrew on his way to the oak tree supposedly to “give him some advice” but really just to gripe about the same nonsense as everyone else. 

“Now just hear me out ref,” the pretend coach proposed, “you might just think we’re a bunch of annoying parents, but we’ve actually got some good advice. I think we both know the score should not be what it is right now. Now there’s a few things I think you could change…”

While he was talking Andrew could see he had on one of those shirts that said I’M A SOCCER DAD. WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER? Which perfectly suited this pretend coach. He probably saw it in a store, and went into hysterics laughing. And he definitely pointed it out to his fellow soccer dads too, who went into similar hysterics. Andrew pictured this while nodding along with what the pretend coach said before slowly walking away. Eventually the pretend coach was just talking to himself, and Andrew was finally able to sit down by the oak tree.

Thomas was already resting in the shade when Andrew got there. Meghan was just finishing an argument with the white team’s coach, Andrew saw her walking away from the coach as he yelled a few complaints, and when she didn’t respond he proceeded to throw his notepad on the ground, and stamp on it similar to a six year old. Which to his credit, made Andrew laugh.

Meghan walked back in a huff and sat down, beads of sweat dripping from her forehead. Drinking in angry gulps from her water bottle.

“What were you and the coach arguing about back there?” asked Thomas.

Meagan stopped her drinking and looked at Thomas seriously, “I couldn’t even explain to you what we were arguing about,” she told him, “that’s how stupid it was.”

Thomas and Andrew giggled, both knowing exactly what she meant. 

“This is a very bad game to end the day,” Andrew pointed out.

“I still have another one after this,” groaned Thomas, “but I’m thinking of just skipping it,” he added seriously. 

 Over on the field a few parents had taken the half time to quickly grab some more supplies. This in addition to their multiple foldable wagons full of clutter. Andrew saw one couple scurry off the field and return with the woman carrying an entire wagon full of various sports drinks, and the man carrying another wagon exclusively filled with buckets of ice. Another man came from the parking lot carrying two four foot tall fans. Both of which had cords attached to them. Cords! Cords that needed outlets! And it was a soccer field, need that be reminded. Andrew was beginning to think the heat was making him hallucinate. 

“You know it’s always good to have these just in case,” the man explained to a woman next to him.

“Oh of course!” she agreed

What?!

Soon it was once again time to start playing. The parents were more than ready, having found their way back to the sideline where most of them waited urgently in their foldable chairs for Andrew to blow his whistle. Meanwhile the players were quite the opposite. The entirety of the white team had groaned when their coach told them it was time to begin playing again. Even the blue players walked onto the field a little begrudgingly, having basically won the game already and feeling no need to continue.

“We’re not gonna win anyway. Why can’t we just go home?” Andrew heard one girl on the white team complain.

“Yah! It's too hot!” her teammate agreed.

The half began, and as expected the white jerseys were incredibly reluctant to start. Nobody ran faster than a jog. And a very mild jog at that. Which of course allowed one of the blue jerseys to go right in for the goal. With nothing but a bunch of walking defense, and a very careless goalie to stop her. This stimulated an immediate outrage in the parents

“Oh come on,” one lady yelled, “you can’t blow the whistle yet, they weren’t ready!”

“Yah!” another parent agreed, “They barely had time to get on the field!”

“And it was offside!”

“Oh definitely offside!”

“Can you believe this ref?”

Andrew looked at his watch, there were still twenty four minutes left, so he’d just have to hold out until then.

As the game wore on, Thomas stood way over on the opposite side of the field where the blue team was dominating. He hadn’t had to make a single call in the first ten minutes of this second half, and probably wouldn’t for the remainder of the game. Which was nice, though it also meant he had no distraction from the bickering parents behind him. 

Though he often tried not to, Thomas couldn’t help but overhear these parents’ nonsensical conversations. They were never shy with their volume, and the levels of absurdity they could get to was just too good to miss. He understood they cared about their kids and whatnot. But still he couldn’t help to wonder if it ever occurred to them that their daughters didn’t seem to care all that much about soccer. He always wanted to ask them this, though he was pretty sure their response would be to start screaming at him.

Right now two men were having a private discussion behind him, except not so private with all these parents so used to yelling they’d worked it into their casual conversations. 

“It’s just so ridiculous,” one of the men complained, “three kids reffing our game, and not even good ones. But look over at that other field. They have three adults. I mean, the guys who assigned these games could have at least tried to even it out. It’s just so unfair.”

“Yah!” the other man agreed, “I mean maybe the players are a few years older, but that doesn’t make them any better than our’s.”

Thomas looked over at the U16 game that went on at the field beside them wondering whether the man had meant a different field or if he actually thought that any of these ten year olds were just as good as those high schoolers with shots strong enough to knock the goalie off her feet, that was if she didn’t dive out of the way first, which she proved to be a pro at this game. 

“These idiots running the program don’t know what they’re doing,” the first man accused.

“You got that right,” the second man added, “maybe if they knew that my Gemma’s gonna go pro they’d take their job more seriously.”

“Oh they don’t care about that. All they want is money. That’s why they hire all these terrible refs, it doesn’t cost as much as hiring good ones.”

Suddenly a goal was scored on the other side of the field. All the parents, including the two men, began to roar in outrage over a missed call. Though there was no way they could have seen it with all their talking. Thomas didn’t care enough to try to listen and see what it was. As he was quite sure it was just as ridiculous as the rest of them had been. 

Once the commotion settled the men resumed the conversation as if nothing had happened.

“What we ought to do is start our own league, us parents,” the first man suggested.

A lady sitting next to them chimed in, “now there’s an idea I like.”

“No one understands our kids better than we do,” explained the second man.

“If my daughter’s going to play professionally or in at least college-”

“At least!” agreed the woman.

“She’s going to need a better soccer league,” finished the first man, “at the bare minimum better refs. I mean what is this kid, twelve?”

“You know if it weren’t for these refs, we’d be undefeated,” the woman added.

Thomas tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t help himself. The three parents paused and stared coldly at him.

“What’s so funny?” asked the first man.

“Nothing,” Thomas lied.

“You know you really should be focusing on the game,” the first man advised, “you’re center ref sure isn’t.”

“Well-”

“Oh don’t even bother with these refs,” the woman interrupted, “they’re never helpful.”

The parents continued like Thomas wasn’t there.

Back in the center of the field, Andrew was spent. The heavy sun never ceased in its beating down on him. Neither did the parents in their incessant whines and complaints. Fortunately, the game was almost over. Just another minute and he could pack up his things and go. The only thing to do now was wait.

Andrew tried to focus on the game, but it was hardly of any use. All he could think of was his timer hitting twenty five minutes. He could hear the coach yelling something, but couldn’t make out what. It didn’t matter either way. Now there were only thirty seconds left, and the score was twenty two to nothing. That was twenty two to nothing when it was uncommon for Andrew to see more than three goals scored per team in a game. 

Finally the twenty five minutes were over. Andrew blew his whistle three times to end the game. 

“What!?” the white team’s coach immediately squealed, “that can’t be the game!”

Andrew didn’t respond. What was the point when the game was done?

“Blue was delaying the game!” the coach accused, “We should have an extra five minutes! You owe us at least that!”

Andrew’s fists clenched at the comment. He hated when someone claimed he owed them something. Even so, he continued to ignore the coach. The game had already ended, and right now nothing was as important as getting away from this soccer field.                                                                                       

   By the time Andrew got to the oak tree to retrieve his backpack Thomas had already left. A wise move on his part. Meghan was still making her way off the field. Which was odd, considering most refs, unless they were there for fun, which Meghan was obviously not, were incredibly eager to escape the field once the game had ended.      

“Hey!” the coach called to Meghan from the sideline, “the car’s parked in front of the basketball courts! Don’t make me wait for you! And you better have a good excuse for your performance today by the time I get there!”

Meghan stared annoyed at the coach for a second before resuming her slow walk to her bag. 

“You know that coach?” Andrew asked, puzzled.

“He’s my dad.”

“Huh,” Andrew muttered. That explained her wanting to kill some time. 

Meghan retrieved her bag and continued with a solemn walk to her car. Andrew felt a little pang of sadness for her. Reffing soccer was a somewhat horrific experience on its own, but if the insanity followed you home and into your daily routine. What a nightmare.

With that he picked up his things and headed for his bike. He always tried to avoid gazes as he left the soccer field, hoping he’d be able to steer clear of any unwanted attention. It took awhile for him to notice the group of people from the white team all headed towards him in a massive swarm led by the coach. He groaned when he saw them. His timer had gone off, he’d blown his whistle, but still the game had somehow not ended. At least not as far as these parents were concerned.

The group all looked upon him with fierce eyes. Andrew could tell in their faces how clever they thought they were for joining together in an effort to get what they wanted from the ref. They thought they were winners now that they had the upper hand. Although it couldn’t be less true. 

“Hey ref!” the coach hollered at Andrew, “I’ve got a word or two for you! Don’t think you can just walk away!”

Andrew faced the coach. He noticed that among this group of people all stirred up over the loss of a recreational soccer game, not one of them were actual players from the game. Shocker. 

“Well, don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Not really.” answered Andrew.

“Oh, not really?” the coach asked sarcastically in a rather irritating tone of voice.

“Yes.”

“Well, you should!” the coach declared.

“You were awful out there!” a parent in the back of the cluster yelled.

“He’s right,” the coach agreed, “There’s no excuse for reffing like that. It just wasn’t fair to our team.”

“Well-”

“Uh Uh!” the coach interrupted, “you don’t get to talk!”

“You just asked if I had anything to say for myself.”

“Look ref,” a mother from the group started ignoring what Andrew said, “Our players need proper officials!”

Andrew chuckled.

The woman gave him an annoyed stare, “Older refs who actually know what they’re doing are important at this age! Maybe not when there are eight or nine, but at ten, that’s where things get serious, and those are the types of games that referees like you should stay away from!”

A roar of agreement came from the cluster of parents.

“Now you better go up to those bosses of your’s who run the league, and you tell them that it was really our team who won the game,” the woman demanded.

“And if you don’t, we can have you fired I hope you know,” a father wearing a fishing hat threatened.

Another roar of agreement, this time louder. Then everyone was suddenly quiet. Andrew stood there. The parents all looked smug at one another. They thought they had him. He could tell.

“Well,” he announced to them, “good luck with that.”

Then he left. The parents continued their outraged yelling behind him. He had them now. Part of him had wanted to yell at them back. Call them out for the idiots they were. But he was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t have changed anyone’s minds either way. And frankly he didn’t care. The four games had worn him out. And he needed rest. For tomorrow he’d have to start looking for other jobs. Andrew was pretty sure he was done reffing.