Seeing Red

GRAHAM POLL

CHAPTER ONE

Alone in the Middle

I stood in the centre-circle of the almost empty stadium in Stuttgart, fearful and very tearful. It was an hour and a quarter after the game and I craved a private moment at the scene of my public humiliation. The only place where I could be sure of being alone was out there on the pitch, where, in one sense, a referee is always alone.

The Gottlieb-Daimler Stadion had been revamped for the World Cup. It held 52,000 spectators and boasted the two biggest video screens in Europe, apparently. Cleaners were threading their way along the rows of seats and there were some lights on desks high up in one stand where journalists were still working on their reports. They were writing about the shocking mistake I had made but were probably too preoccupied to look at the forlorn figure in the middle of the pitch.

I was certainly preoccupied. I was in turmoil.

It was Thursday, 22 June 2006, the day I went from being the bloke who had a good chance of refereeing the World Cup Final to the clown who would always be remembered for a cock-up.

Billions of people around the world know that a football referee shows a player a yellow card when he cautions him. If he has to caution him a second time, and has to show him a second yellow card, then he must also show him a red card and send him off. Two yellows equal a red – simple. Most of those billions around the planet also know that I got it wrong. Mistakenly, unforgivably, I cautioned Croatia defender Josip Simunic three times, and showed him three yellow cards, before producing the red.

As I looked up, unseeingly, into the nearly deserted stands, and through the halo of the roof into the night sky of Germany, I thought about the magnitude of my mistake. Its implications kept going around in my head. I was too upset to think about the future but I did conclude that my twenty-six-year career was ending there and then. I worked out later that the game in Stuttgart was my 1,500th match, exactly. At that moment, I assumed it would be my last.

I became aware that there were other people out on the pitch area and saw that assistant referee Glenn Turner was standing, appropriately enough, by the touchline. I walked over and he gave me a hug. Neither of us said anything. Neither of us could. Finally, I left the pitch to make my way to the official car which would take me back to the hotel. But I took one last, lingering look back at the stands, the roof, the lights and the scoreboards. I was convinced I would never referee in a top stadium again.

There were even lower ebbs to come. In the days that immediately followed, I was in a dark, black cave. And for a long time afterwards there were bleak moments when the harrowing events of that night in Stuttgart came back to overwhelm me. I don’t suppose I shall ever stop having nights when I lose sleep. I have a life sentence of asking myself, ‘Why?’

But I did not let my career end there. I did not want to be defined by Stuttgart. It is only part of my story.

Yet I know that other people do define me by Stuttgart and the biggest mistake I made. It became clear, in the season that followed, that the wound my career suffered that night was, indeed, mortal. So we shall return to the Gottlieb-Daimler Stadion in this account, just as I return there in my mind all too often. And I shall explain what happened – even though I cannot explain why.

But first I want to tell you how, in the season that followed the 2006 World Cup, some very good folk, like David Beckham, tried to heal that wound. I also need to tell you how others, like John Terry, made the pain impossible to ignore.

CHAPTER TWO

Beckham Calling

The first telephone call I received when I arrived home from the World Cup was from David Beckham.

My wife, Julia, picked me up from Heathrow airport on her own, without our three children. Neither of us wanted pictures of the kids in the newspapers. She thought, as well, that I would need a bit of time alone with her, a bit of support, before being strong in front of our two daughters and our son.

Then, about an hour after I had arrived back, at last, to my home in Tring, my mobile rang. I did not want to talk to anyone but I answered it and a voice said, ‘Graham? It’s David. David Beckham. Becks.’

I thought it was a joker or a hoaxer. But he said, ‘Remember I got that shirt for your daughter, Gemma?’

So I knew it was him. It was the England captain. He was in a hotel in Gelsenkirchen and the next day he was going to lead his country in a World Cup quarter-final. Yet he had taken time to telephone me. I had already received one message of support from him. The England squad had watched my own World Cup implode and several had sent messages to me via another referee who visited their base camp. I was told that Beckham, the captain, had made a special point of saying, ‘Tell him to keep his chin up.’

Now Beckham was on the telephone; a man and a father who could empathize with me and who wanted to reach out in friendship to me and my family. He knew all about making a mistake at a World Cup – and more than anyone about being vilified for it. People in England had hanged effigies of Beckham after he was sent off in 1998 against Argentina.

I had played a small part in helping him after 1998, by encouraging him during the Community Shield match which began the next season. He was only twenty-three then. Now, in 2006, Beckham was such a global mega-celebrity that when he phoned me, I was as excited as a star-struck kid.

I had been there, done that and got all the refereeing shirts. I was blasé about celebs. And at that moment, I didn’t care about much at all, because I was so crushed by Stuttgart. Yet when Beckham phoned I fumbled with the buttons, trying to put the mobile on ‘speaker’ so that Julia could hear. I did not manage to find the right buttons. In any case, what the England captain said was a personal message for me.

He told me not to let it get me down. He told me it would pass. He asked if there was anything he could do.

What a man.

Friends and family had helped me when I was in the black cave of my abject despair in Germany. Thinking about the precious people in my life had provided the first pin-pricks of light. Now, back in England, Beckham’s humanity gave me real inspiration.

A lot of good people also helped persuade me to keep going. The saying is that ‘you learn who your friends are’ and that is true. But you also learn that some people you barely know are decent as well. I remember collecting my son, Harry, from school one day in the season that followed the World Cup, when Burnley manager Steve Cotterill telephoned. He said, ‘I hear you’re thinking about packing it in, Pollie. Don’t do it.’ I had only refereed Cotterill’s team once and yet he had made the effort to find my number and contact me. Gestures like that meant a lot, and so did the support of Keith Hackett, the man in charge of England’s professional referees, who said to me, pointedly, ‘Tell me why you should give up?’

So I kept going and the first match I refereed after the World Cup was a friendly between Tring Athletic and Bedmond Social. I had promised my local club that I would do it and I did not want to let them down. There were only about fifty spectators and I could not help thinking, as I warmed up, ‘This is my 1501st match. If things had gone differently, match number 1501 might have been the World Cup Final.’

During the game, one of the players hacked somebody down but, because it was a friendly, I didn’t book him. I said, ‘I’ll tell you what, mate – in the season that would have been a yellow.’

He replied, ‘And two more and I would have been off.’

It was the first joke made to my face about Stuttgart. I managed a wan smile. I felt no antagonism at all towards a player but, in that moment, I saw a future of endless similar jokes.

The next day I refereed another friendly – between Chelsea and Celtic at Stamford Bridge. Uriah Rennie became unavailable and they asked me. It went well enough and on the Friday I went to Chelsea’s training ground to talk to the players about new interpretations of the Laws. José Mourinho, the Chelsea manager, had asked for me. That too, went very well. Everything was sweet.

But then came the first competitive match: Saturday, 12 August 2006 – Football League, Colchester United versus Barnsley. I could not face it.

The plan was to ease me back in. The Football League season kicked off before the Premiership and so it seemed a good idea for me to start at Layer Road, Colchester. But I was not even ready for that. I pulled over and sat in the car in a lay-by on the A12, with the radio off, alone with my thoughts. They were all negative thoughts. For the first time, in a career that had taken me from Division Five of the North Herts League to two World Cups, I did not think I could fulfil an appointment.

But of course I had to and of course I did.

Colchester had been promoted to the top division of the Football League for the first time in their history. Their ground held only 6,000 and there were just 4,249 present for their second home game of the season, the Barnsley match. Yet I knew there would be a big media presence.

Peter Drury of ITV had already telephoned me to ask if I would do a pre-match interview with Robbie Earle. Peter is a good friend and I had admired Robbie when he was a player and had grown to like him as a man. But I declined the invitation to talk to the nation. I had made up my mind that an interview I had given in Germany would be my last public word for a year at least.

An ITV crew was lying in wait as I got to the ground and a camera was trained on me for every step of my walk from the car to the dressing room. Robbie Earle asked for ‘just one comment on the record’ but I said ‘No’ again. Later I ambled out into the middle for the pitch inspection, faking total confidence. The camera followed me again.

In the press box, at the modest occasion of a Football League game, were some big-name, big-hitting newspaper writers: the columnists and opinion-formers. Most of them had formed their own opinion about me years before. They thought I hogged the limelight. But I really did not want any publicity from them, particularly on that day.

When I went out to warm-up I braced myself. At best, I expected merciless mickey-taking from spectators. At worst, I feared scorn and derision. What I received was applause and some encouraging remarks from spectators. I have never been more delighted about the English trait of rallying round someone who has suffered. As the local football paper, The Green Un, remarked, ‘Rarely has a referee been so popular.’

Of course there was banter. In one area of one stand, a group of supporters had pieces of yellow card with the number three written on them by the same pen and in the same handwriting. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. Perhaps it was a coincidence that an ITV camera was stationed in that part of the ground. Perhaps.

The game kicked off. Eventually and inevitably I had to take a player’s name. Out came my yellow card and I heard the chant that was to provide backing music for my season: ‘Two more … he only needs two more.’

That time the joke brought a genuine smile to my face and I thought, ‘You can cope with this, Pollie.’

So I was up and running. Now what I hoped for was six months of … nothing. No headlines and no controversy. I wanted the only reference to me to be the one at the bottom of reports, under the teams, where it said, ‘Referee: G. Poll (Herts)’.

A week after the Colchester game, the Premiership season kicked off and I took charge of Arsenal’s first match at the stunning new Emirates Stadium, against Aston Villa. It passed without incident and I was less of a story for the media than I had been the week before.

Fulham’s match against Sheffield United at Craven Cottage was my 300th Premier League fixture, and the next time the Select Group of referees gathered together, there was a little presentation to mark what was a significant milestone. However, in my frail state of mind, I took it as a sign that my race was almost run. I knew I would not reach 400. I wasn’t even sure of reaching 350. So instead of celebrating passing the 300 mark, I just thought, ‘That is your last milestone, Pollie.’

The matches kept coming and I was successfully avoiding headlines. I refereed the Merseyside derby at Goodison, which Everton won 3–0. I took charge when Arsenal won 1–0 at Old Trafford. I was back at Old Trafford when Manchester United beat Liverpool 2–0. They all went well; high-profile matches with a low-profile Pollie. Excellent.

I had a European Champions League match involving Real Madrid. Beckham made a point of coming to see me in my dressing room and, again, wishing me well. More encouragement. More positive thoughts.

I took charge of Chelsea’s home game against Aston Villa and should have sent off Chelsea’s Claude Makelele just before the end. But the referee’s assessor did not dock me any points for it. All was going swimmingly.

I was scheduled to referee Tottenham versus Chelsea. It was a Sunday afternoon game, which would be televised live, on 5 November. Inevitably, Sky TV’s pre-publicity asked, ‘Will there be fireworks on Bonfire Day?’ They obviously hoped the answer would be ‘Yes’. I was desperate for a ‘No’. Sky got their wish.

CHAPTER THREE

Chelsea on the Attack

At the start of every season, referees note the fixtures they consider ‘golden games’ – the top matches. In the Premier League they are the fixtures between the top four clubs and the derby games with the fiercest rivalries. Tottenham against Chelsea was not quite up there in that top rank, but it was certainly near the top of the next tier. For me, games at Tottenham’s White Hart Lane were enjoyable for two reasons. Firstly, they were easy for me geographically – the hotel in which officials gather before the match is a shortish drive from my home – and the second reason I enjoyed games at White Hart Lane was that the club looked after officials and their guests particularly hospitably.

The problem is that referees’ guests are seated two rows from the front, in a section next to some of the noisiest, most partisan away supporters. So, although nothing in the buildup led me to think that the game would be in any way out of the ordinary, on that 5 November my wife and children heard a few choice adjectives about me.

Chelsea scored first, after fifteen minutes. Spurs failed to clear a corner and Claude Makelele spanked in a twenty-five-yard, swerving volley. A few moments later, I spotted John Terry pushing and shoving as the ball came over for a corner and so I awarded a free-kick to Spurs. It was a perfectly straightforward decision but, after I had whistled, Didier Drogba headed the ball into the Spurs net. Spurs goalkeeper Paul Robinson had heard my whistle, and made no real attempt to stop the header, but Chelsea supporters thought, briefly, that their team had doubled their lead.

Instead, Tottenham equalized after twenty-four minutes. Jermaine Jenas took a free-kick and Michael Dawson, Tottenham’s six foot two inch defender, scored with a glancing header.

The first refereeing flashpoint was at what should have been a routine free-kick, moments before half-time. It was away on Tottenham’s right wing and should not have perturbed Chelsea at all, yet Makelele and Ashley Cole would not go back ten yards. When Makelele retreated, Cole edged forward, and vice versa. They both knew I was not going to let them get away with that, so perhaps their pantomime was designed to take the mickey and undermine my authority.