Seeing Red (8 page)

In fact, it was a horrid, bitter experience. It was soured utterly by that
News of the World
article and the way some Villa players used the story to try to put me under pressure. During the game, Villa players repeatedly made snide remarks inferring that I was biased. They said things like, ‘There's two teams playing, Pollie. Not one.' They said, ‘Come on, be fair.' They hoped that, subconsciously, I would want to prove that I was not favouring Chelsea. They were hoping that I would react by giving the next marginal decision to Villa. And I am pretty sure that they had been told to use that tactic, because the players who did it the most were the right-back, the central midfielder and the left-forward. Because referees run a diagonal path throughout a match, those were the players I most often found myself near. I believed they had been instructed to target me.

The indignation I felt – the outrage – was because the allegation behind their remarks attacked my basic integrity. I had worked for twenty years to referee the Cup Final. It was
my big occasion. Yet they were saying I was dishonest. Every little comment they made was like a slap in the face.

Then, right at the finish, when the teams were waiting to go up to collect their medals, a member of the Villa backroom staff said to me, ‘You f***ing Chelsea fan. You c***.' That was the last straw. The comment touched a raw nerve. I confronted him and although I have never been someone who hits people, I honestly think I might at least have grabbed him if Joe Guest had not intervened. That would have given the
News of the World
a real story.

Then, as I climbed the famous thirty-nine steps to collect my own medal, the Villa fans booed and repeated the
News
of the World's
false allegation. Peter Jones said the finest moment of his life – of his life! – was at the end of the 1999 Cup Final. In the moment before he left the pitch, he looked back at the scene, with the winning team doing their lap of honour and the fans cheering. He opened the presentation box in his hand, looked down at his medal, and thought, ‘It doesn't get any better than this.' On my big day, the Villa fans were at the tunnel end and so I left the arena to catcalls from people suggesting that I was biased.

I can't leave the subject of that Villa squad without detailing some other exchanges with John Gregory over the years, because one of the things he said has stayed with me.

The first time he spoke to me was during a game against Charlton Athletic when he was Leicester City's assistant manager. As I left the pitch at half-time, Gregory said, ‘You must be from Slough' and shook his carefully coiffured head. I did not have a clue what he was on about. Then, three minutes from the end, I awarded Charlton a penalty. It was not one of my best decisions. Charlton scored from the spot to condemn Leicester to defeat.

Within two minutes of the final whistle, John Gregory came to my changing room. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?' he asked, as he sat down. I never objected to any coach or manager coming to ask any questions in a calm and dignified manner. How they approached me was more important than whether they obeyed the ‘wait thirty minutes' rule.

Gregory stayed there, sitting in the officials' room, while I showered. Eventually, he said, ‘Pollie, I can't face them. I can't face the players. You robbed us.' He, too, did not think the penalty was one of the best decisions I had ever made. There was no point in us having a long discussion, so I wanted to get rid of him. But I was still intrigued. ‘Before you go,' I said, ‘I've got a question for you. What was all that “You must come from Slough” business?'

He explained, ‘I was born in Windsor and I hate everyone from Slough.' That cleared that one up then. He continued, ‘You're a really good referee but you want to be popular. You want to be liked as well as being a good referee. Good referees aren't liked. We respect you. Don't try to be popular.'

He was spot-on. I remembered that remark. It helped me to be brave in decision-making later in my career and I have used the sentiment when talking to other referees. As I said in an interview with the
Daily Telegraph
before that 2000 FA Cup Final, referees are the Aunt Sallies of football. We are not there to be liked. We are there to try to make the right decisions.

So John Gregory gave me food for thought that day when his team lost to Charlton. He probably did not need to add, as he left the officials' dressing room, ‘It was never a f***ing penalty.' But then I probably did not help by replying, ‘I think we all know that.'

Because I like John Gregory, I was saddened that his players made snide remarks to me during the 2000 FA Cup Final. When I refereed Villa again, on Boxing Day 2000 against Manchester United at Villa Park, they were at it again. United won 1–0 and a number of Villa players made references to me being a Chelsea fan. This time, so did Gregory himself. I put it down to the fact they were all still disappointed about losing the Cup Final.

Then, in April 2001, I was in charge when Gregory took his Villa team to play Charlton at The Valley. I sent off Charlton defender Richard Rufus but awarded the home side a penalty. It was an exciting game which ended 3–3. Gregory again ribbed me about being a Chelsea supporter. I did not think I should have to keep putting up with that, so I asked the FA whether Gregory's continued sniping amounted to some sort of offence. They told me to rise above it so I decided that I needed to tackle it myself.

Gregory moved on and became manager of Derby. I next took charge of one of his matches in February 2002. It was at Pride Park, and Sunderland won 1–0. After the game, I went into the manager's office and gave Gregory a Chelsea hat and scarf I had bought especially for the occasion. I stood in front of his desk and sang, ‘
Chelsea, Chelsea
'. It was my way of saying, ‘Look, I am not really a Chelsea fan, and we both know it, so let's laugh about it.' He did laugh. One–nil to Pollie.

A few weeks later I refereed Charlton v Chelsea and Gregory sent a package to The Valley marked ‘for the attention of match referee Graham Poll'. It was brought to me by the Charlton secretary and I opened it in front of him. Inside were the same Chelsea hat and scarf. One–all.

Then I refereed Derby v Leeds close to the end of the 2001/02 season. In my dressing room awaiting my arrival
was a number 9 Chelsea shirt with ‘POLL' printed on the back. Two–one to Gregory.

Finally, just before I left for the 2002 World Cup, an envelope bearing Derby County's badge arrived at my home. Inside were four photographs of that Chelsea shirt with my name on the back and each photo had a message scrawled on it – things like, ‘you wish' and ‘in your dreams'. On the last one in the pile was the message ‘Really good luck in the World Cup, Pollie'. Final score: 3–1 to Gregory. Game over.

Gregory lost his job at Derby sixteen months later and had a long period out of the game. When he did return to football management, in September 2006, it was at Queens Park Rangers, funnily enough. In one of our discussions about the daft allegation that I had been a Chelsea supporter I told him that my dad and I had watched him in his days as an outstanding player for QPR. We both liked him then. We both still do.

Pierluigi Collina, the bald Italian, was probably the best referee anywhere in the world in the last thirty or so years. At the start of the 2002 World Cup, when all the referees sat in a room and were told, ‘Aim for the highest. One of you thirty-six here will referee the World Cup Final,' we all looked at Pierluigi. It was at that same World Cup that I learned how astonishingly meticulous his briefings were to his assistants.

I was his fourth official for the game between Japan and Turkey. In the hotel room in which he told the assistants what he wanted from them, there was a whiteboard and he drew a pitch on it. I expected him to explain something straightforward – such as which areas of the field he wanted the assistants to make decisions. But on that whiteboard he wrote the names of both teams in their correct formations. He used the names he was going to call them if he needed to speak to them, rather than their formal names. Then he went on to explain, in fastidious detail, what would happen if Japan went a goal up or if Turkey took the lead. He
explained how the losing side would change their tactics, or formation, or whether they would make a substitution. He detailed how the other team would probably respond. Then he indicated players who might get involved in incidents behind his back. He told the assistants who and what to look for and in what circumstances.

On another occasion, at a UEFA training session for referees, we were shown a video which included an incident when two players jumped for the ball. One elbowed the other in the face. UEFA said it was a red card offence. Collina thought otherwise. I asked him why, and his answer resonated with me. He said, ‘Look at the player's hands. They are open. His fingers are extended. To elbow someone deliberately, you want to exert the force behind you, and to do that you clench your fist.'

I thought, ‘Brilliant! Thank you very much, Pierluigi.'

I think he was spot on with his analysis, and that shows how he used to scrutinize the minutiae of everything associated with football to gain the knowledge he felt would benefit his refereeing.

Then there was Anders Frisk, of Sweden, another friend of mine and a top, top referee. He was the man who was struck on the head by a lighter hurled at him as he left the field at Roma. He was left hurt and bloodied. He was also the man hounded into retirement by threats to his family, allegedly by Chelsea fans. So he certainly suffered for his art. Yet he was entirely natural as a referee. His briefings to his assistants were extremely succinct. He used to say, ‘Expect the unexpected and enjoy yourself.' That was it.

There are two broad categories of referee, I believe: manufactured and natural. The manufactured referee makes himself a ref. He thinks about where he should be and what
he should do during a game. Everything he does is carefully considered. A natural referee goes with the flow a lot more. Both types have their virtues and their flaws.

In England, the top referees of recent years certainly fall into the two categories. Philip Don, who was appointed to take charge of the Select Group when referees became professional, was a manufactured referee. Keith Hackett, by contrast, who replaced Don as the Select Group supremo, was a natural referee.

David Elleray was manufactured. Paul Durkin was natural. Steve Dunn? Natural. Steve Bennett? Manufactured. Graham Barber? Natural. Graham Poll? Natural.

My style was a lot closer to Anders Frisk than to Pierluigi Collina. My style was a bit like pulling the cord to start the outboard motor and just letting the engine take me. I did not ponder where I needed to run. I did not think where I needed to stand. But I did have twenty-six years' experience which provided a subconscious structure to what I was doing.

Now, this doesn't mean that I think ‘natural' is better than ‘manufactured', because, although I say Steve Bennett is manufactured, I don't think he would ever have made the mistake I did in Germany. He is too considered in what he does to have made that sort of mistake.

My dad was more like Collina than Frisk (and not just because Dad was bald). Dad was also a very different referee to me. My memories of Dad, when I was a kid in our four-bedroomed, terraced house in Stevenage, are of a big man who was always working really hard; not for success for its own sake, but to earn more money to support his family.

Dad had been an electrical engineer for the Post Office (the GPO, as it was then) but I only remember him working for Kodak, the cameras, photography and photocopying
company. I recall that Mum used to take us children with her to pick Dad up from Kodak after 7.15 pm on some nights, when he had been working overtime. I can also remember us driving over to collect him from Hitchin College, where he studied in evening classes to improve himself – again, to have a chance to earn more money to support us.

When the children were little, Mum was at home with us, but then she too took jobs. First she started part-time in the local greengrocers, then she worked for a photo-processors, next she also had a spell at Kodak and finally she worked for the local council.

Dad had a great quest for knowledge and a good memory to retain that knowledge. He had all the answers and was very clear about right and wrong. The rule he gave us was, ‘Whatever you have done, if you tell me the truth, I'll support you. There may be some punishment if you have done something bad, but the punishment will be worse if you don't tell me and I find out later.' That is not a bad rule in my opinion. My wife and I have said the same thing to our three children.

Dad refereed to get more money to support his family. He never got higher than Class II (the middle of the three grades that existed then) but, during every season, he went out refereeing each Saturday afternoon and then Sunday morning and Sunday afternoon as well. Mum was football mad and so she and I used to go and watch Dad referee. My sisters came sometimes, but as they got bigger, they used to stay at home and watch an old film on TV.

If it did not clash with Dad's refereeing, we'd go and support Gonville Rovers – the boys' team which had originally started with lads from our road, Gonville Crescent. They were ‘our' team. So it was football, football, football,
all weekend. Meal times, and everything else, were dictated by the football.

Also, on a Wednesday night, from the age of eight, I would go to bed at a normal time (between half past seven and eight o'clock), but then my mum would come and get me up at five to ten to watch
Sportsnight with Coleman
. I was allowed to sit up and watch the highlights of big European football matches, and they were magical.

I was Dad's linesman once when I was eight or nine. He said, ‘Just ball in and out of play, son. I'll do the rest.' He refereed as he aimed to live his life – with a very firm, clear view of right and wrong. For him, the Laws of the Game, like the rules of life, were absolutely black and white. There were no grey areas at all. He was six foot three and sixteen or seventeen stone, had a military bearing because he had done his national service, and so looked very impressive. There are referees who command respect and those who demand it. Dad did both. His physical presence commanded respect. His no-nonsense approach meant that it was demanded.

When I was watching my dad all those years ago, I had no notion of becoming a referee myself. But I certainly adored football. I played for my primary school (at left-back, since you ask) but my secondary school did not play football. It was a rugby, hockey and cricket school. By the time I got there I was hooked on football and, as far as I was concerned, other sports could not compete. I could not compete very well in them, either, if I am honest. I did play basketball for the school and I did take up golf later with some success, but I joined football teams outside school to pursue the sport about which I was passionate.

My first club was Bedwell Rangers in the Stevenage Minor League and, probably because of my height, I was selected in
goal. We lost the first game 8–0, the second 12–3 and the third 9–0. The defence must have been rubbish.

I was moved out of goal, played centre-half for a while and eventually ended up at centre-forward. But while my positions were going forward, I was going backwards in terms of the teams for whom I was playing – they were getting worse and worse. Nonetheless, I did make one-and-a-bit representative appearances at the age of thirteen.

My mum was social secretary of the Stevenage Minor League. Dad was the referees' secretary and fixtures secretary. I went with them when the squad representing the League toured Lancashire. I would not have been selected on footballing ability, but I went as a kid whose parents were going and who could play a bit. Then, as often happens, different boys were ill or injured and I was substitute in one game without getting on, then sub in another and went on. Finally, I played an entire match and performed well. I played at full-back and thought to myself, ‘When you play with better players, you are a better player yourself.'

I did not kid myself that I would be anything other than a parks player but I certainly wanted to keep playing, so when I left school and began work for Prudential Insurance, in High Holborn, London, I played for the company. They had a team called Ibis, who played in the Southern Amateur League, which is a very good standard. All right, I did not actually play for the first team. They ran seven sides and I started in the sixth team, but I did work my way up to the second team. They played in Hammersmith, by the Thames, which was a long journey from Stevenage, involving a train, an underground trip and a bus ride.

I stopped being a man from the Pru after just under a year. The Prudential were using me as a pensions clerk and I
wanted to do something less dull for more money. I went for a couple of jobs and landed a position with Shell Oil, based near Waterloo. That was an even longer journey and I decided not to join their football club. I could not travel all that weary way to and from work all week and then make the same tedious and tiring journey on Saturdays.

I was not quite seventeen at the time. Many of my school-friends were still at school and none of those who had left had done anything about playing football. This meant that I couldn't find a team in Stevenage who had players that I knew. Then fate, or happenstance, took a hand. Steve Coffill, who was then my brother-in-law, was a referee. He had been on a course learning how to teach others to become refs. He wanted to get his course notes in order and so he asked if he could practise teaching me. I persuaded a friend, Dave Ridgeon, to come along with me, and we let Steve teach us refereeing.

There was still no intention on my part to actually become a referee. Steve worked at Stevenage leisure centre and that was where we did the course. We were just having a laugh and knew that Steve could get us cheap beer in the leisure centre bar and perhaps a free game on the snooker table.

I took the course and, because I had done so, I also took the refs' test, although the exam itself was odd. There were two old refs, Fred Reid and Jock Munro – sorry fellas, but you seemed old to me at the time – who started playing Subbuteo, the table football game. I had no idea what was going on. Then they stopped. Jock asked, ‘What was wrong with that, lad?' Unusually for me, I was speechless. I was supposed to have spotted some foul, or an offside or something, and that there was a corner flag missing. Their point was that a referee always has to keep alert and observe
everything. It was a good point, except that I didn't want to take charge of Subbuteo matches.

One of the other questions they fired at me was: how would I check the pressure of a football? With youthful enthusiasm, I replied, quoting part of Law Two, ‘I'd use a pressure gauge to ensure a pressure of between 0.6 and 1.1 atmospheres.'

The two old referees – let's call them experienced – shook their heads. ‘Have you got a pressure gauge?' one asked. It was my turn to shake my head. Jock, I think it was, supplied the correct and commonsense answer: ‘You press the ball with your thumbs, lad.'

Back then, that was how referees were examined. These days referees sit a written exam and an oral test. But young Graham Poll managed to survive the old-style grilling by the experienced refs. They told me I had passed. As I left the exam room, all the secretaries of the various leagues were sitting outside desperate to sign up referees. As a teenager, whose façade of self-assurance was a fairly thin veneer, it was very appealing to be wanted like that. So I thought, ‘Why not?'

It was the summer of 1980. My journey from parks to the Premiership, from Stevenage to Stuttgart, had begun, but, of course, I had no inkling that I was embarking on anything of any significance. I was just going to do a bit of refereeing for some beer money.

My very first match, as a Class III referee, in my new black kit with a Herts FA badge sewn on by Mum, was on 6 September 1980, in Division Five of the North Herts League. Woolmer Green Rangers Reserves, the home team, beat the Anchor pub 6–0.

I still have those details recorded, neatly, along with the bare facts from every game I refereed. That, I dare say, makes
me seem like an anal retentive, train-spotting, anorak of the first order. But so many referees have said to me, over the years, ‘I wish I'd done that.' And my record-keeping started, like my refereeing itself, because of my dad.

When Dad was notified of a fixture, he would write it down, with a row of boxes for him to tick when the game was confirmed with the fixture secretary, when the kick-off time was confirmed with the home team and so on. He told me it was a really useful way of making sure you'd made and received all the necessary telephone calls. So, from the very start, I began doing the same and then, when I had refereed the game concerned, I just made a note of the score and jotted down if I had booked anyone.

I kept the list of games on one sheet of paper and, once I'd done it for half a season, it seemed sensible to keep going for the rest of the season. Then, in the summer, I had a full record of all my matches. So I did it for the second season – and continued to do so for every game and every season until I blew my whistle for full-time for the last time. They are all there: every game from Woolmer Green Rangers Reserves to Wembley.