Whistleblower

WHISTLEBLOWER

“Thank God,” I think as I glance at my watch. Seventy-eight minutes gone and twelve to go. Well, maybe fourteen with a bit of extra time thrown in. “Come on, Dave, you can do this.”

The late summer sun blasted down over the Process Academic Stadium, its rays unwantedly smothering his bald head. It had been a long one, all right. It had dragged far more than any other game of the season, that was for sure. It certainly didn’t help that there was nothing to play for. Cobridge Academia and Manor Heights Rovers were both sitting comfortably in mid-table. No promotion possibilities, no relegation possibilities, with only one more game to go after this to complete the season. Thankfully, there had been an absence of drama this season—well, on the end of the officials, that was. Some of the teams were a different story. Four managers got the chop early on in the season, one team was docked six points for financial anomalies, and a relegation battle was still in full swing. But for Dave Kemp and the team of officials—referees and assistant referees—it had thankfully been a quiet season.

Which made Wednesday’s meeting and the proposition given to him there even more tempting. And Dave knew, as much as everyone else—hell, more than anybody else—that a quiet season made suspicion a non-entity. With the politics and money in any professional or semi-professional sport, what was four hundred quid? Nothing, that’s what it was. And with two teams battling for nothing, there was no victim. Yup, zero chance of being caught and zero chance of any comeuppance. Yup, zero, nothing, nada, none. No harm done.

He had been a referee for twelve years. Twelve years. He had worked his way up the divisions, made a few bad decisions in that time (naturally), but overall, he knew he was perceived as one of the fairest and most consistent referees in the league. And, as Dave well knew, that was the best compliment a ref could ever receive. And completely justified too. An impeccable record.

So when the four hundred-pound offer came a-knocking, Dave felt he had to open the door.

It was the third pint when Stephen Merchant, senior partner of McMillan Tiles—sponsor of the away kits and pillar of the community and local scout leader —mentioned to Dave, quietly, that if he awarded a penalty between the 80th and 90th minute, he would be four hundred pounds richer.

“And,” he said in a whisper, “there will be no jeopardy. No relegation, no promotion. No harm done. Think about it. If there’s a spot kick after the 80th minute, there will be an envelope in your pigeonhole in the office. Open it when you get home. If not, no harm done, right?”

That night, when Angie and he sat in the living room—him in his armchair and her on the sofa, feet under her legs, both drinking a mug of tea—he ignored the unravelling drama on the television between an old-school copper and his young, sensible female partner and thought about the offer.

Four hundred pounds.

A weekend away to the Lake District, a nice meal with Angie at Miller and Carter—a steak each and a bottle of nice wine. It had been a long time since they had been out for a nice meal. She had been looking after their daughter, Ellie, during her pregnancy, especially after Ellie’s fiancé ran off with his red-haired receptionist, and it had taken a toll on her. He glanced her way, through the steam of his mug, and sighed. She was still beautiful but looking tired. Maybe with that money, she could take Ellie somewhere nice. Some quality mother-and-daughter time. The phrase “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” came to Dave’s mind as the coppers swung their car into a housing estate, their sirens wailing over the dramatic music. He decided there and then he would take the offer.

He glanced at his watch. 4:36 p.m. Less than ten minutes to go. The football game had been messy, many high balls, and much of it broken up with goal kicks and throw-ins, but in defence of the fans, both sets—the thousand or so Cobridge home fans and the eighty or so Manor Heights Rovers away fans—were singing their hearts out. Peppered with a few cheers, a few jeers, and a few bellows of “Keep it on the grass” and “Shoot!”

He ran across the centre circle as a Cobridge player sat on the ground, cramp taking hold. As the ball was kicked out and two medics ran onto the pitch, the players temporarily relaxed as Number 34 had gloved hands rubbing at his leg.

Standing next to the players, Dave overheard a snippet of conversation between the two strikers of Cobridge. “Is Morag okay?” asked one, a tall blond striker with a 9 on his shirt.

“Good man,” the other player panted. “She’s struggled with everything, you know. The… she was so looking forward to having a brother for Alberto. But you know, she’s coming through the other side. In fact, if she’s here today and if we win, she’s taking me out for a meal. She even said if I score, I will score twice. Know what I mean?”

They laughed and ran off.

Dave recalled that Number 10, Dave Copeland, was out for a few weeks due to personal reasons. Well, that would explain that.

Within minutes, 34 clambered to his feet, pulled up his socks, and Dave blew his whistle to restart the game. It only took a matter of seconds for opportunity to knock.

The Manor Heights forward ran straight into the box, the ball clumsily at his feet. A run from the home side’s left back blocked the ball, and as the ball ricocheted from the striker’s foot to the defender’s shin and back to the striker’s leg, Dave realised this would be the best chance he’d get.

He looked around, and all of a sudden, the world seemed to stand still. He observed the crowd, an old lady in the front row of seats behind the goal. He had noticed her throughout the game; her Cobridge scarf hung around her scrawny neck. Dave knew games like this were her lifeblood. She might not be around to see many more wins.

His eyes glanced at a young family, both parents in their late twenties, two children between them, all sporting Cobridge football tops, both staring wide-eyed at the game in front of them. If Cobridge lost today, their day would be ruined, no doubt. Perhaps there would be even tears.

He thought of Cobridge’s Number 10 getting lucky tonight. And them trying again, finding joy and hope in unfortunate circumstances.

The sun continued to beat down as Dave asked himself if four hundred pounds was worth affecting the daily lives of so many fans who paid their money and their dues to the club they loved. He glanced again at the young family, knowing how a defeat could effect their day.

The decision came to him in a heartbeat, and immediately he blew his whistle and pointed to the penalty spot.

These steaks and chips will be lovely.