The first half had been pretty even but Stamford had scored a slightly lucky goal from a corner and had held on. And if Frank, the centre-back of the team, had been guilty of a mistake, a missed tackle, a bad clearance that had led to the other team scoring, then it was like walking on eggshells. If they had lost it was delicate and tricky, at least until a day or two had passed. If it had been a win that was fine and great fun. And then, after the other lads had all been dropped off, he and Frank would discuss the match. Dave was too time-stretched to get involved with coaching, but driving the boys out on a Sunday, running the line and taking them home was something he could do. He had got involved with Stamford Celtic because his son started playing for them. It was in the fresh air, it got him out of the house, it was about something he loved and, most importantly, it was something he did with his son. It wasn’t fool-proof, and he wasn’t so car-proud that he cared very much, but it helped.ĭespite all this, Dave enjoyed his Sundays running the line. He had a bit of a routine on days like this – lay out a big bit of plastic over the back seat with old supermarket bags at their feet. So that meant four muddy and pretty big lads in his car. Instead, they would pile into the cars of those few parents who were prepared to give up the time to drive the hour or so to this away fixture. This wasn’t fancy football – there weren’t even any changing rooms for the boys to get out of their muddy clothes after the game. So the danger of falling straight onto his backside was ever present, adding its own particular ingredient of stress to this gloomy scenario.Įven when it was over, thought Dave, there would be the nightmare of the car journey back. He should have worn studs but it seemed a bit over the top for an under-sixteens game on a Sunday morning. Not only were his shoes wet but they had pretty much no grip on this mud.
#Mudlet line wrapping professional#
And who was trying to interpret the very hard and complex offside rules? Not a real linesman with a mic to link him up to a professional ref, but Dave, a dad, who sort of knew the rules, and then did his best. Because thanks to new – well, a decade or so old – rules decided by some people who had clearly never done this or at least not at this level, the new offside laws for football meant you had to focus on exactly where people were when the ball was played.Īll very well, all very nice for Match of the Day and great when the World Cup was beamed into your sitting room on HD TV, but pretty ridiculous when you were standing in what was really just a muddy field with a few white lines plonked down on it and a couple of goalposts at each end. And at the same time, he had to keep a half eye on where the ball was and what was going on. Dave had to keep up with the play, keep his eyes peeled at a right angle with the touch line, so that he could judge where the players were in relation to one another. Still, at least with running up and down, that water might warm up to create a sort of ‘feet wetsuit’.īut there was no time to worry about all that. And it also crept deviously into his shoes starting at the toe, it felt like it was starting to absorb his whole foot. Sometimes the rain also went down his back, somehow having got inside the inadequate anorak he was wearing. The rain ran down Dave’s nose slowly and then dripped, noiselessly, on to the mud he was moving about on.
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