I’ve found another way of ruining sport for myself. I thought I’d explored every means of turning the stress dial up to 11, but now I’ve chanced on a new method. I must need the anxiety to feel alive.
I go back a long way with this kind of thing. I’ve never been able to watch a sporting contest without picking a team or a person to root for. It started when I was about five. I idolised my grandad and because he wanted West Brom to win, I wanted it too. This kind of thing is habit-forming, and perhaps not entirely healthy. I thought I’d grow out of it, but it’s getting worse. And it has gone far beyond my own football team.
When I was a kid, it was about looking up to adults in awe. Back then they were old enough to be my parents. I so wanted the best for them. Now the athletes are young enough to be my children or even grandchildren, and it’s even worse – because I feel protective towards them. I was at Wimbledon this week and witnessed the return of the great Serena Williams, which was quite something. But as soon as I saw her opponent, pale and slight with a fearful air about her, I knew I was in trouble.
I’d never heard of Maya Joint until she walked out on court, but as soon as I read that she had lost 15 of her last 18 matches, I wanted her to win more than anything else in the world. When she took the first set, I went home because I couldn’t bear to see her throw the lead away, only to then watch the rest of the match on my phone on the train. And she won. If I’d stuck around, she probably wouldn’t have done. I hope she appreciates the part I played in her triumph.
But there’s something even more stressful than picking a side – following an individual within a side. I first experienced this with rugby, watching my friends’ son play for England against South Africa at Twickenham. This was the winger Dan Luger. Rugby union is a 15 v 15 sport, except when you’re sitting with the parents of one of the players, in which case it turns into a 29 v 1 contest. That is, all 15 members of the opposition plus all 14 of your player’s teammates, who you feel might let them down at any moment. The stress is unbelievable.
Same with football. Sam Field, the son of very close friends of mine, was in the West Brom youth system when he was at primary school. After around a decade of ceaseless commitment from all concerned, he finally made his debut for the first team. I can’t speak for his mum and dad but on that day, West Brom fan or not, the match went from 11 v 11 to 21 v 1.
Which brings me to where I am now, with certain World Cup football matches being not 11 v 11 for me, nor even 21 v 1 but, believe it or not, 22 v 1. How? Well, incredible even to me, I find myself supporting a referee.
Last summer I was in Sarajevo, working with a charity that brings together children from all over the former Yugoslavia to play sport. The finals event attracts support from huge names in sport.
Among the superstars in attendance was a cheerful Italian chap whom I couldn’t quite place. He turned out to be there to referee the showpiece event – a match between the superstars and the winning kids’ team. This was Maurizio Mariani, a delightful, wise, gentle man, who referees in Italy’s elite league Serie A.
We’d kept vaguely in touch all year, with the odd text going back and forth, before I spotted that he’d been picked as one of the referees at the World Cup. I congratulated him and he replied how grateful and proud he was to have the opportunity. A dream come true. For sure, this was going to change my World Cup.
I began scanning every match looking for his name. Then, there he was, making his debut as a World Cup referee in charge of Saudi Arabia v Uruguay. Oof, tricky one that. The Uruguayans can be a bit, erm, spirited. Why, at the 2014 World Cup one of them bit an Italian player! They’d better keep their gnashers off my Maurizio.
As far as I know, he survived unbitten. I couldn’t even tell you what the score was – I’ve forgotten already – but I don’t think the ref put a foot wrong. And I punched the air when a commentator said: “Referee Mariani’s done a good job keeping the game flowing here!” Get in! As good as a goal! Next up, another group game, Colombia v DR Congo. Once again my man’s performance seemed to attract no attention – something for which every good official strives.
Then, this week, a big one. Just like the teams themselves, referees hope to progress from the group games and be selected for the knockout stages. I was in my local watching Brazil v Japan and who should pop up refereeing but Maurizio? I nearly dropped my pint. I’d been thoroughly enjoying a great match. Not any more. My Italian v 22 Brazilians and Japanese? How was that fair?
I now had eyes only for him, watching his every move. I noted with satisfaction how coolly he indicated that a goal had been scored when Japan went ahead. I flinched with every tackle, every foul, every decision he had to make. All good. Then Brazil equalised. Shit! There could be extra time, ie more chances for something to go wrong, some controversy in which he could become embroiled. At this point, ordinarily I’d be rooting for the underdogs, Japan. But now I was just wanting a goal, any goal, to get it over with. And up I leapt when Brazil scored at the death. No extra time. Excellent.
The poor Japanese players and fans wept salt tears. But I was celebrating. I bought another pint to toast another fine refereeing performance. And I hope to follow him all the way to the final. I might even knit myself a scarf with his name on it.
