Seeing Red (19 page)

Unexpectedly, the airport reopened the following day and we were able to fly home more or less as planned. I still have the commemorative pennant from the game in Rome, dated ‘11-09-2001'. It is among the most evocative items of my football memorabilia.

The following month I headed to France for Olympique Lyonnaise against Barcelona. If Lyon lost, they were out of the Champions League. It was an important match – and I believed it was particularly important for me because my assessor was to be Volker Roth, chair of UEFA's referees'
committee and a member of FIFA's refs' committee. He is a German with a great sense of humour and I always got on well with him, but I calculated that he was coming to see whether I was good enough to referee in the World Cup. In my head, I thought he was coming because I had made that penalty decision in the Slovenia–Russia game. I thought, the top man in European refereeing wanted to see how I handled pressure in a big Champions League game and to consider whether I should go to the 2002 World Cup.

That was how I was. I believed I had to get the key matches right. I can think right back to refereeing the Hertfordshire Centenary Trophy Final match at Boreham Wood in 1985. All the Herts FA dignitaries were there in the blazers and badges. It was Pirton against Welwyn Garden City, and I had just become a Class I ref. I knew that if I refereed well, the people who mattered in my county Football Association would stop thinking of me as ‘that young man' and consider me to be a good ref. Incidentally, Mark Halsey, who went on to be a Premiership ref, was in goal for Welwyn – and did not concede a goal. Welwyn won 2–0.

I'll be honest and admit that I had to look up that result on my sheet for that season but I remember very, very well without any prompting that Freddie Reid, one of the referees who had used a Subbuteo table football game to examine me five years earlier, came up to me after the game. He was with his wife, while I was with my mum and dad. Fred said to my parents, ‘He is very, very good and he could go all the way, but he has got to keep his feet on the ground.' His wife added, ‘And his cloth cap on.' She meant that I should not get any airs and graces.

Fast forward again to October 2001 and Olympique Lyonnaise against Barcelona. For European games, we were
not notified of the actual match we were doing until the week before the fixture and we were told it was confidential. UEFA said that if the news got out before they announced the appointments, we would be taken off the fixture. This was to ensure that we could not be ‘got at' and could not have pressure heaped on us by the media. Final confirmation, with flight details and so on, arrived on the Monday of the week of the match. That was when I noted the name of the assessor: Volker Roth.

We flew out on the following day, Tuesday, and I trained in the stadium as I always did – to run off the effects of the flight and get a feel for the place. That evening we were all taken out for a meal in a very good restaurant with views over the city of Lyon. That was when Herr Roth told me, in an off-hand way, that I was going to be given a World Cup qualifying match in South America. He said, ‘I can't remember which one, but it doesn't matter at this stage.'

Doesn't matter?! I couldn't believe the news or the way it had been delivered. The reason he said what he did, and in that manner, was to indicate that he was not at the Olympique Lyonnaise game to see whether I was good enough for the World Cup. That decision had been taken: I was good enough; I was going to the World Cup.

On the day of the match, as was the routine at European matches, I performed a 9.30 am pitch inspection and, although you would not think it was necessary, checked the pitch markings, the goals and so on. It's not as daft as it sounds. In 1997 a tie was replayed because Sion of Switzerland successfully appealed that the goals had been the wrong height at Spartak Moscow. So now, after the referee's pitch inspection, he meets representatives of each team at 10 am and says to the away team, ‘You have trained on the pitch.
Do you have any complaints?' That is the last opportunity they have to challenge anything. Then the referee checks that the two kits do not clash and so on.

The remainder of the morning was taken up by sightseeing. I had a pasta lunch and then, as always, went back to my hotel room for a sleep. With the travel and the training, I did not tend to sleep well the first night of a European trip, and so found it easy to nod off for a nap of up to two hours on the afternoon of the fixture. Then I used to have a relaxing bath before meeting up with the assistants and fourth official at the hotel to get my instructions to them out of the way.

Then it was time to travel to the stadium – at a stupid speed. It was always ridiculous on the continent. For the police on motorbikes escorting you to the game it was an opportunity and an excuse to drive as quickly as they could. You flew through the streets, going on the wrong side of the road, screeching round corners and generally being terrified. The police were trying to beat their personal bests and if they set a new record, they all gave each other high-fives. It was crazy. In England we would just have left a quarter of an hour earlier from the hotel.

I used to give little FA pin badges to the police at the ground, to thank them for not killing me. Once, in Belgium, a motorcycle cop lost it in the wet on the way to the ground. He put his bike over on its side and skidded along the road, but our vehicle just ignored him and kept going at this crazy speed. The officer left behind on the floor didn't get his pin badge.

In Lyon, the score was 2–2 with a few minutes left when the home side had a corner. They sent their goalkeeper up in search of the winner, but the ball was cleared, Barcelona broke upfield and there was a big appeal for offside. Glenn Turner kept his flag down, Barcelona continued and scored.

The French team refused to kick-off. They were staging a formal protest – and I was thinking, ‘Not with Volker Roth watching, please!' I cautioned their captain. I said, ‘You are the captain. You are delaying the restart. I am showing you the yellow card.' And by my mannerisms I was saying, ‘Who is next?' We kicked off. The match finished with Barcelona winning 3–2 and we went off.

There was a steep ramp in the tunnel away from the pitch and as Jacques Santini, the Lyon coach, approached me aggressively, I stepped back suddenly, as if startled by him. It was a technique I had used before. It made it clear to everyone that Santini's belligerent demeanour was wrong. He looked horrified, realized he could be in trouble and calmed down.

In the dressing room, Volker Roth told us he had seen a video replay. There was no offside, Glenn Turner had been absolutely correct not to flag and Roth was delighted with the way I had quelled the protests. The top man in European refereeing finished by saying to me, ‘Enjoy South America.'

Ah, but by the time I went to Paraguay for their World Cup qualifier against Colombia on 14 November, I was thinking, ‘I have got to do this game well or I might lose my place at the World Cup.' Again, that was how I was – I could never just enjoy individual matches on their own merits.

Before leaving for the game (with assistants Tony Green and Phil Sharp plus fourth official Graham Barber) I did as much research as I could about South America in general, Paraguay and Asunción, where the match was being played. I telephoned Hugh Dallas and Pierluigi Collina for advice but nothing could have prepared me for the experience.

For a start, on the first leg of the flight we flew Business Class with British Airways to Sao Paulo in Brazil. Now,
when I was a kid, my mum and dad had never been able to afford to take the Poll family on foreign holidays. We'd gone to Mablethorpe, Cleethorpes, or Skegness. So when I received the travel documents to South America for the four officials, and spotted that the cost of the return air tickets was £22,500, it struck me as extraordinary.

On the flight, I kept playing with the buttons on my reclining seat, like a naive kid. We travelled in tracksuits for comfort but changed into suits on the plane to make a good impression on arrival. Yet once we had made the second flight, from Brazil to Asunción, the protocols and procedures were bewilderingly different. For instance, the referee was not expected to speak at any of the meetings, which was just as well, because they were conducted entirely in Spanish.

The grinding, abject poverty we witnessed travelling through Asunción was a jolt. I had seen some poor conditions in the former Soviet Union and other countries in Europe, but here people were living – just about – in shanties and shacks.

We visited the national stadium, where we trained in stifling heat and oppressive humidity. We ate alone in our hotel and, having been advised not to go out unaccompanied, all had an early night.

The next morning we woke to find a ferocious storm turning the streets into rivers. On the way to a meeting at the brand new offices of CONMEBOL (Confederación Sudamericana de Fútbol), the South American equivalent of UEFA, Tony Green opened the window of our vehicle to take a photograph of the incredible scenes – and a four-by-four went past, sent up a wave of water and deluged him.

With Tony's clothes still soggy, we had an audience with Nicholas Laoz, the president of CONMEBOL. He struck us
as a remarkable, impressive man. It was an honour to be there. We were 6,500 miles from England and felt we were representing our country.

Later, as we were warming up at the stadium, I was taken aback to hear someone shout, ‘Good luck, Pollie.' I looked round and there was a flag of St George with ‘AVFC' on it. No, it was not John Gregory. A knot of Aston Villa fans had travelled, hoping Juan Pablo Angel would play for Colombia. He had not been selected, so I suppose I was a very poor second in terms of someone to cheer.

Neither national anthem was played because there had been too many previous disrespectful incidents at games between the two countries. The match itself began accompanied by a stunning and deafening display of fireworks and firecrackers let off by supporters. I couldn't see Barbs in the technical area and did not know he was being harangued by the television producer who wanted the match delayed until the smoke cleared. Too late.

Paraguay had qualified already for the World Cup while Colombia needed to win 5–0 to earn a play-off against a country from Oceania. I thought that was an unrealistic target and so expected that the game would not be all that tense. I was wrong on both counts.

Tino Asprilla, who had a spell at Newcastle, was playing for Colombia and was utterly outstanding. With the help of a penalty for a foul on Asprilla – correctly awarded, of course, but hugely unpopular with the home crowd – Colombia managed to grab four goals. Then they hit the bar. They hit the post. They did everything except collect goal number five.

Everything was happening off the pitch as well. There was a baton charge by police at one point and, at the finish,
police with riot shields formed a phalanx around the officials as we left the field. In the dressing room the Argentine assessor's debrief consisted of giving me a hug, and I took that as confirmation that we had done well.

That evening we were taken to the Paraguayan referees' centre – a facility the referees had paid for themselves. They held a barbecue in our honour and you have never seen so much meat in one place. After that, the four amigos went to a salsa bar because we did not want to go to bed. We did not want the evening to end.

Refereeing? Why did I do it? Because of occasions like the trip to Asunción.

That first season as a professional referee, 2001/02, saw one other unforgettable event – and I do not mean my refereeing of the Worthington Cup Final at the Millennium Stadium, Cardiff, between Blackburn and Tottenham, although that was the last big, domestic appointment I needed to complete my set. It was Harry's birthday, and a great occasion for the Poll family. The actual football also went well enough. The only contentious issue, as Blackburn won 2–1, was when Tottenham's Teddy Sheringham tumbled in the area after a tackle by Nils-Eric Johansson – I waved ‘play on'. As I was leaving the stadium, Spurs manager Glenn Hoddle got into the lift with me. I like Glenn. He was always prepared to listen to referees and discuss things. We had a jokey exchange in that lift. He said, ‘It was a nailed-on penalty, Pollie. You'll be embarrassed when you see it.'

I said, ‘I have seen it. I am not embarrassed. It was not a penalty.'

He said, ‘So you've seen it on TV?'

I said, ‘No. I was there.'

Unfortunately I was also there, at Filbert Street, on 20 April 2002. That was when Robbie Savage visited the referees' toilet and earned himself a fine. I know there are some who still think that it was officious to report him, so here, for the first time, is the full account. It is not for the squeamish, because although reports summarized his offence as using the referee's toilet, ‘using' does not tell the story of what he did.

Robbie's team, Leicester City, were already doomed to relegation from the Premiership. This was their penultimate game at their old Filbert Street stadium where they were playing Aston Villa. I had finished my warm-up and so had the players. It was the final period before we all went out again for the match. Suddenly, Savage burst into the officials' dressing room. I asked him to leave but he said, ‘I've got to use your loo. I'm busting for a shit.' With that, he went into our toilet, sat down and, with the door wide open, he gave a running commentary as he defecated.

We could not believe what was happening. I saw his teammate Matt Elliott in the corridor and asked, ‘Are the toilets in your dressing room working okay?' He thought it was a weird question but confirmed that the plumbing was functioning normally.

While Robbie was in the cubicle, Dennis Hedges, the match observer, entered the dressing room and according to Robbie's account of events I said, ‘You'll never guess who is in our loo' as if it was all a hoot. I might well have said that, but if I did so, it was in appalled astonishment and when Robbie finished, I told him his behaviour was unacceptable. He laughed and said, ‘I'll leave it floating so you can see it for yourself.' And he did.

Now I was almost lost for words but managed to remark that he should at least consider washing his hands. He
replied, ‘No need.' With that, he turned to Dennis Hedges and wiped his hands down the lapels of Dennis's jacket. He said, ‘Mr Hedges won't mind. He can take a joke.'

Now, I am not a prude. I have spent a lot of time in football and around footballers. I am used to language and behaviour which, in other walks of life, would be considered crude. They don't bother me at all, normally, but Robbie Savage's behaviour was just horrible. I wouldn't report a player for using my loo but the moment Robbie wiped his hands down Dennis's jacket meant that he was being deeply disrespectful.

At the subsequent disciplinary hearing, he maintained that he had an upset stomach. But the Leicester dressing room was less than twenty yards away from ours. Was what he did an attempt at a joke, as he has always maintained? Was it an attempt to belittle me or destabilize me before the game? I don't know, but I knew I had to report him.

After the match, Micky Adams, the Leicester assistant manager at the time, spoke to me about an incident on the pitch. I told him about what Robbie had done and that I was reporting it. Adams apologized and promised action would be taken against the player. Four days later, Leicester announced that they had fined Robbie two weeks' wages, the maximum financial penalty they could impose.

The FA charged Robbie with improper conduct. Gordon Taylor, chief executive of the Professional Footballers' Association, represented him at the hearing and said the matter should have been dealt with in a more sympathetic, less official way. He added that it was common for players not to wash their hands after using the toilet before games, because they are so focused on the football.

Robbie produced a doctor's certificate to prove he was on antibiotics at the time of the game, and said he had been
overwhelmed by his upset stomach. He conceded, however, that he had managed to play a full ninety minutes and then attend a supporters' club function, but did not seem to notice any inconsistencies in that account. He also said that the mood in my dressing room during his visit was jovial and that I could not have been offended because I had demonstrated a friendly attitude to him during the game. My answer was that, as a professional, I did not let any misconduct before the game affect how I approached a player during the match.

Finally, Barry Bright, chairman of the hearing, asked the player, ‘Do you understand you have been charged with improper conduct? You may want to consult with Mr Taylor before answering this but, having heard all of the evidence and understanding the regulations involved, do you think there is anything you did which could be interpreted as improper?'

Savage replied immediately, without consulting Gordon Taylor, ‘Yes.' With that, although he didn't understand, Robbie had made the entire hearing pointless. He'd admitted his guilt. If he'd done it in a letter, he could have saved all our time. But then paperwork was not his strong point. He was fined £10,000, subsequently appealed but lost and eventually paid up. I believe he successfully appealed against Leicester's club fine, however, and I know that he considered it a bit of fun and still feels hard done by over the incident.

There is another tale to tell about Robbie Savage and this is an appropriate moment to do so. At the end of the 2002/03 season, West Ham went to Birmingham fighting for their Premiership lives. Robbie had moved on to Birmingham and before the game I chatted to him in an effort to let him know that what had happened at Leicester was in the past and we must move on. He felt the only reason the FA
charged him was because of the involvement of the assessor, Dennis Hedges. Robbie thought I should have, ‘stood up to the assessor' about the toilet incident. I was disappointed that he still could not see that what he had done was abominable.

And, during that game against West Ham, I was disappointed again by Mr Savage. He had been in the Leicester side that had suffered relegation and so knew what an empty feeling that is for players and yet he revelled in West Ham's plight. When Birmingham took the lead, he leaned over a West Ham player who was on the floor and said, with real venom, ‘Now you're going down.' What a nasty thing to say and do. I cautioned Savage for adopting an aggressive attitude towards an opponent and he told me I was only doing it because of the past.

When I bumped into him after the game, he asked me why he'd been cautioned. He said, ‘I didn't use foul language. It was just a laugh. People misunderstand me.' I explained why I had booked him, but changed the subject and he gave me a bit of banter about my clothes. He was wearing a long, lightcoloured coat which was covered in creases.

I said, ‘How can you give me stick when you've got this bit of creased old cloth?' And I put my hand on the shoulder of the offending garment.

At that moment, Steve Bruce, the Birmingham manager, appeared from round a corner and said, ‘I saw that, Pollie, You've wiped your hand on my player's jacket.' It was a reference to what Savage had done to the assessor's jacket and, to my mind, it was a lot funnier than any of his player's gags or stunts.

I had one more laugh at Robbie Savage's expense during my career. He had fouled someone, and when I was dealing
with him, I said that I was in charge of the game, not him. He said, ‘Yeah, but I've got more money than you.' After a pause, he added, ‘Loads more money.'

Towards the end of the match Savage asked how much time was left to play. I said, ‘Sorry Robbie, I can only afford a cheap watch and it's broken.'

After Robbie's attempt at toilet humour, season 2001/02, my first as a professional, ended for me at Manchester United versus Charlton. I stayed the night before the game with the assistants and fourth official at the Radisson Hotel in Manchester and we went to breakfast in our tracksuits. An American guest told us we ‘looked sporty'. We fell into conversation. He said, ‘I am here for the United game. Can you tell me what time it starts?'

I said, ‘When I blow my whistle. I am the referee.'

He said, ‘If you are the referee, I'm the King of Spain.'

After the match, Julia and the children joined me at the hotel and we bumped into the same guest. I resisted the temptation to address him as ‘Your Majesty', but he said he felt ‘a Goddam fool'. He had not thought much of the game, which had been goalless, but I enjoyed myself because the Poll family made a weekend of it and stayed in the Lake District. It was good to have some time with them, because the World Cup was looming.