At about this time on a Saturday morning during the football season Connie St Louis, like many other parents, is driving her 15 year old daughter Kate to her match.
My daughter has been playing for Arsenal for over 4 years. The commitment that is required of these girls is tremendous; twice a week training as well as playing matches at the weekend. The dedication of these players is equalled only by that of their families.
Amongst the parents there seems to be many levels of responsibility, some (and I must confess to being in this category), are just mere taxi drivers and kit managers. Whilst others, worship at the altar of their daughters talent and even go so far as to declare their allegiance by purchasing personalised number plates emblazoned with the names of their particular young star.
A large portion of the team have parents who sacrificially drive hundreds and hundreds of miles each week so that they attend training and matches. I live very close to Arsenal and so apart from away matches its pretty convenient geographically but still very demanding on my time. I can only imagine the difficulties they must experience trying to juggle other siblings or perhaps they too are offered up as living sacrifices of footballing excellence.
Before kick off, there's the weekly initiation ritual of team selection as there are 18 players in the squad. This has become a moment of trepidation whilst we all wait for the news of which girls will or will not be named for the match. The two unnamed players have to take on the role of 'assistant coaches'.
The announcements are made and the two unlucky parents and girls swallow their disappointment and we the other parents try to deflect their "what a complete waste of a journey" demeanours with apologetic smile, whilst silently exhaling with relief.
Before I am aware that the game has started, wild cheering suddenly interrupts my thoughts. Southampton have scored in the first minute. 'Ref-fer-ree' the Arsenal parents cry. "Get a life. You can't allow that, it was blatantly off side!" As my eyes scan the pitch trying to locate my daughter. I'm suddenly distracted by what appears to be a, thin, nervous, knobbly knee boy in fancy dress, a vision of someone who wants to be a referee when he grows up. He's even blowing a whistle. This is quickly followed by one of those "you can't be a policeman, you are far too young?" moments that I so frequently experience these days, when I'm walking the streets of London.
Seconds later his gaunt pimply young face crumples in despair as he realises that the fancy dress party is going horribly wrong. The Southampton striking duo has performed another surprise counter attack amongst yells of Arsenal parents screaming "criminal offside". Suddenly he blows a long venomously sustained blast on his whistle. He marches over to the edge of the pitch and confronts the parents with "Its my game!, I'm in charge! I can't see things unless they are right under my nose!"
My heart goes out to him and I placate "Perhaps we can help him. He has no linesmen!" and instantly with a commitment that only these dedicated parents can muster, linesman flags are found, fathers volunteer and offside judgements are made easier and perhaps a little fairer. Fortunately I'm not required, as to this day, I'm still struggling with the intricacies of what is and is not deemed offside.
Instead of playing two 45-minute halves the FA rules that the girls should play three halves of 30 minutes. The second half begins and Arsenal finally equalise and then draw ahead. This is the teams best half or should I say third. But while the team settles down to play some good football there is a new rumbling on the touchline. One of the top strikers has been substituted to allow a less experienced player an opportunity to develop. The mother is livid she marches down the other end of the pitch away from the coach and begins to curse him loudly. How dare her daughter be taken off! She is quite clearly a better player, recently scouted for England, she has a right to her place on the pitch and anyway, she declares, not caring who is in earshot, the girl that she has been substituted for is rubbish!
The father of the daughter overhears and suddenly family honour is at stake. The mother of the footballing genius and the father of the "promising but still in need of development" striker, confront one another. Eyeballs meet. The price is high, for a terrible moment I fear violence on the touchline. Fortunately, two more balanced parents decide to intervene and separate them. Their behaviour is in stark contrast to excellent sporting conduct displayed by their daughters on the pitch.
At the end of the third half the whistle blows, the final score 3-2 to Arsenal. The two assistant coaches are nowhere to be seen having been whisked away by tired parents long before the end. As we wend our way back to the car park I look around to survey the closing scenes. Physios, returning ice packs to cool-boxes, girls limping, football boot under one arm, parent under the other, updates being offered on the one girl who went to hospital. But I'm touched by a sight that nobody else sees. A lady in peach tracksuit wanders up to the exhausted boy referee, puts her arm around him and says "Well done son, I was so proud of you".
漏 Connie St Louis
More Information
