It goes without saying that top refs rely on great wingmen, and for that reason I’d always counted myself lucky that my career collided with Darren Cann’s and Mike Mullarkey’s. They were simply the best assistant referees in the business, and I’d never have achieved my ambitions without their presence on the touchline. To put their expertise in context, in six games spanning two World Cups, Darren and Mike didn’t get a single decision wrong. Not one. Their judgement was impeccable.
When I was in the Select Group, Mike was well on his way to becoming the most decorated UK match official of all time (he’d attended more top tournaments than any of his colleagues) and Darren, as many refs would testify, was probably the finest specialist linesman in Europe, if not the world.
Over a seven-year period I worked with Darren on over 200 occasions, and he rarely made a bad call. He had a great understanding of the game – he’d been on Crystal Palace’s books as a young player – and I always valued his opinion above anyone else’s. Along with his prowess on the line, he had this instinctive understanding of a footballer’s psyche, too; he just seemed to know how they ticked, what they thought and why they reacted.
I relished working with assistants whose judgement you could trust implicitly, and whose degree of certainty was so high. It was Darren who gave me the impetus to send off Emmanuel Adebayor in a 2012 north London derby, ordering me to flash the red card instead of dithering over the extent of contact.
During a Champions League game between AC Milan and Ajax, it was Canny’s brilliant awareness, not mine, that pinpointed a leg-breaker of a challenge from Ricardo Montolivo that led to his rightful dismissal. Prior to my assistant’s timely intervention, I wouldn’t have even been reaching for the yellow.
It was also Darren who alerted me to the fact that I’d forgotten to dismiss Manchester United’s Nemanja Vidić after two cautions, the kind of catastrophic mistake that would not only get you laughed off a football pitch, but could also have serious consequences for your career.
‘Second yellow, second yellow, Howard, GET HIM OFF!’ he yelled in his Norfolk twang, saving my bacon for the umpteenth time. While he panicked down the radio, I maintained a poker face, feigned an air of control, and brandished the red as if I knew exactly what I was doing.
I used to compare our working relationship to the old 1970s cartoon, Hong Kong Phooey. The canine lead character would often get the credit for solving a crime when, in reality, it was his trusty sidekick, Spot the Cat, who’d actually cracked the case.
Darren wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, though. He could be a very intense, single-minded person – both on and off the pitch – and wasn’t afraid of intervening when he felt his input would help. No matter which referee he worked with, he liked to play his part, speaking over the communication system where necessary, alerting his team to hazards and assisting in their decisions.
To some, like me, this was a huge bonus, but to others it was seen as interference. The more orthodox referees frowned upon this level of intervention. They liked to take full control of their games, preferring their linesmen to be seen and not heard. ‘Assist, don’t insist,’ one former ref would often say. However, I took a different view. When top quality assistants like Darren or Mike had seen with certainty what needed to be done, I’d be quite happy for them to insist I make a particular decision, as this would often save my skin.
In fact, the newer breed of officials took the view that modern-day refereeing required a full team effort. Most were delighted to have Darren by their side: ‘If anyone can, Darren Cann!’ Mike Dean would grin when yet another razor-sharp offside decision was flagged up during a Select Group video session.
However, for reasons which I still find hard to fathom, senior figures took umbrage with Darren and did their utmost to undermine him. He’d be strategically placed at the far end of our annual international match officials team photo, for instance, whereas Mike and I would be afforded prime spots near the centre. At FA lunches, Darren would be shoved towards the end of the table with the more junior officials, while we’d be placed among the VIPs. All this blatant sidelining – verging on bullying, if you ask me – must have left Darren feeling hurt and humiliated, although he retained his professionalism throughout and continued to deliver consistently brilliant performances both domestically and internationally.
Things came to a dramatic head in December 2011, when Darren was abruptly withdrawn from my team for the 2012 European Championships. Despite his high level of performance the FA had opted to replace him with Peter ‘Rev’ Kirkup, who was to join Mike as my assistant, alongside Mark Clattenburg and Martin Atkinson as my goal-line additional assistant referees.
Darren was devastated – we spoke for hours on the phone afterwards – and I suddenly found myself in a quandary. Pete was a great bloke, and an excellent assistant, and had every right to be assigned to a prestigious tournament. However, my long-time pal and confidant – and a key member of my officiating team – had been unfairly dumped on.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I didn’t know whether to kick up a stink and demand Darren’s reinstatement, or to let things stand and allow Pete his day in the sun. After giving it some serious thought, I decided to go with the flow.
In hindsight, I made the wrong call. My loyalties should have lain with Darren, who’d helped propel my career to the top and who’d covered my backside on so many occasions. I should have stuck my head above the parapet and confronted the FA, delivering an ‘all for one, and one for all’ ultimatum. But, fearful that they’d see me as a troublemaker and make things difficult for me, I selfishly kept my trap shut. In the world of refereeing, you were very much in the hands of others in terms of appointments and opportunities, and I was acutely aware of that.
Looking back, it was an odd state of affairs. Here was I, an elite referee with a World Cup final medal to my name, yet I still lacked the confidence and conviction to challenge the big cheeses and stick up for my mate. It was something I’d always regret.
Jointly hosted by Poland and Ukraine, the 2012 European Championships proved to be one of the least controversial and most enjoyable tournaments of my career. No racism claims. No death threats. No armed guards. No bomb scares. And no karate kicks.
Also, of the twelve referees who’d been selected for Euro 2008, I was the only one making a return, as all the others had all since retired. In the space of four years I’d gone from inexperienced rookie to elder statesman.
Mindful of my controversy-mired experience at the previous Championships, I was pretty apprehensive about showing my face in Poland again. Unsure as to whether Howard ‘English Bastard’ Webb was still Wanted, Dead or Alive, I donned a cap-and-shades disguise when I paid my first visit to Warsaw city centre. I soon realised it was unwarranted, though, since the Polish supporters who recognised me were charming and magnanimous. The grudges had faded away, the water had passed under the bridge, and I was able to breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Mike, Pete and I were delighted to be handed a high-profile game on the opening day of the tournament. Russia v Czech Republic, in Wrocław’s Stadion Miejski, turned out to be an even-tempered, trouble-free match without a single caution. UEFA’s top dogs were delighted, apparently. Our game had come hot on the heels of a fiery Poland v Greece curtain-raiser which, following two red cards, had made everyone a bit twitchy.
I received some nice texts from friends and family back home, too, including one from former Glasgow Rangers and Birmingham City boss Alex McLeish.
‘Now that’s the way to referee a game, big man,’ he said.
Our next appointment, Italy v Croatia in Poznań, wasn’t so mellow. A volatile game, played in a full-blooded, southern European style, eventually finished one apiece. Martin Atkinson and Mark Clattenburg were fantastic behind the goals that day, and I remember feeling so lucky to have two such amazingly experienced officials in my corner.
Naysayers often moaned that these wand-bearing ‘additionals’ were surplus to requirements (‘they’re just freeloaders on city breaks’, I once overheard), but I personally found them invaluable. Their extra support gave me an added safety net and allowed my officiating team to share the responsibility, particularly in and around the penalty area.
‘Don’t watch the ball; leave that to your additional,’ UEFA referee coaches would implore. ‘You can’t afford to miss a push or an elbow if you’re all ball-watching. Utilise your team. Spread your eyes around.’
Clattenburg’s performance that day was so good – he’d made an excellent call for a defensive free kick – that UEFA would use the video footage to highlight the value of these newly created but much-maligned roles.
In contrast, however, Pete’s performance on the touchline hadn’t been without error. Back in the dressing room, I’d noticed him checking his phone, whispering to Mike and looking downcast. Later that evening, when we reviewed the game, the reasons behind Pete’s demeanour became apparent. In the space of ten minutes, he’d mistakenly flagged for three offsides, all of which had gone against the Italians. They were tight, and they were marginal, but they were wrong.
Our collective spirit sagged as we watched all this unfold. UEFA weren’t going to be impressed and, as a result, the likelihood of us being sent home early had probably increased.
‘Mate, it happens to us all,’ I assured my dejected linesman. As much as I liked and respected Pete, though, I couldn’t help but think that Darren wouldn’t have slipped up in that manner.
On the morning of the quarter-final announcement – which coincided with the first round of referee eliminations – I was summoned to see David Elleray in his guise as a UEFA committee member. I’d braced myself for the old heave-ho, so was utterly taken aback when he instead shook my hand and congratulated me on being retained.
‘You’ve been allocated to Portugal versus Czech Republic in Warsaw, Howard, so well done,’ he smiled. ‘But it’s not all good news, I’m afraid,’ he continued. ‘Unfortunately, Peter won’t be working with you. After what happened in Poznań, we’ve decided it would be best to send him home.’
Shit.
I sprinted back to my hotel room, whereupon Mike and I discussed how we were going to tell our colleague. The officials’ appointments were due to be announced within the hour, and we knew we had to inform him personally before UEFA did so publicly. I broke the news to him as gently as I could, but he was completely distraught. I felt awful. We’d all made mistakes in our careers – me more than most, perhaps – and maybe I should have argued Rev’s case more forcefully with David. That said, I knew it was a foregone conclusion, and I knew that nothing I’d have said would have changed matters. And, unpalatable though it may sound, I was desperate for our team to remain in the tournament. In years gone by, one false move and we’d have all been going home so, as sad as it was to see him leave, the rest of us had been given a reprieve.
Pete departed for the airport shortly after the announcement, in such an emotional state that he could barely say goodbye as he clambered into the taxi. I felt for him, I really did. Here was a thoroughly decent guy and a top-quality assistant paying the price for some marginal errors.
But the show went on. Joining us for the game in Warsaw’s state-of-the-art National Stadium was Pete’s replacement, Dutchman Sander van Roekel. Apart from the intensely humid conditions (the retractable roof had been closed following a slight drizzle) everything went like clockwork. The game ended in a 1-0 Portugal victory – Cristiano Ronaldo had popped up with a late winner – and I was chuffed to bits with my makeshift team’s performance.
Three days later we were sitting in a local bistro, gazing up at the big-screen TV, as Italy booted England out of the tournament via the dreaded penalty shoot-out. While I was crestfallen – my heart sank when Andrea Pirlo audaciously chipped Joe Hart – at the back of my mind I also knew that England’s exit might boost our chances of progression.
As things panned out, we weren’t assigned to either of the Spain v Portugal or Italy v Germany semi-finals. However, shortly before they’d taken place I’d been called into a meeting with Pierluigi Collina (whose good books I appeared to be firmly back in) along with two other refs: Pedro Proença from Portugal and the Italian Nicola Rizzoli.
‘One of you three will be given the final,’ he declared, before explaining that certain permutations would favour each one of us.
‘Pedro, Nicola, you can’t referee your own countries, naturally. And Howard, we won’t appoint you if Spain get through, because of all the negativity after the World Cup final.’
Cheers for the reminder, Pierluigi.
It transpired that Portugal would be key to my progression; if they were to overcome their neighbours, it looked like I’d have a good chance of overseeing the final. On the night of their semi, I left the hotel restaurant to head back to my room where I’d watch the match, purposely passing Pedro and Nicola on my way out.
‘Just off to watch the game, guys,’ I grinned, before whipping off my FIFA tracksuit top to reveal a pristine Portugal shirt, which had been gifted to me by their football federation following the quarter-final.
As I witnessed the game going to penalties I remember thinking wow, this could affect my life so much. If things were to go my way, I’d become the first ref to officiate the triumvirate of the Champions League final, the World Cup final and the European Championships final.
My hopes were soon dashed, sadly. Portugal made a total dog’s breakfast of the shoot-out, so much so that Ronaldo didn’t even get the chance to take a fifth, grandstanding spot-kick.
I had one more slice of match action to go, though. The next evening, in Warsaw, I was Stéphane Lannoy’s fourth official for the semi-final between Germany v Italy, a tie in which two-goal hero Mario Balotelli gave the performance of his life, enacting his famous shirtless, musclebound pose. The Italians would go on to be crushed 4-0 by Spain in the final, however, a game refereed beautifully by my friend Pedro.
All things considered, Poland-Ukraine 2012 proved to be a roaring success, not just for me, but for officiating in general. Only three red cards were issued during a tournament vaunted as much for its high standards of refereeing as for its exemplary player behaviour.
I flew out of Warsaw on cloud nine. I think I’d managed to restore some of the reputation that had been tarnished in 2010, and I dearly hoped my career was firmly back on track.
With much of my confidence salvaged, I approached the 2012–13 Premier League season feeling upbeat and positive. It would, in fact, become the smoothest campaign of my entire domestic career. The autumn months went particularly well; games at Anfield, Upton Park and the Madjeski Stadium heralded a string of decent assessments as well as a sizeable post-match handshake quota (always a telltale sign that I’d done OK).
My first significant flashpoint occurred in late September, when I sent off Wigan Athletic’s Jordi Gomez for what I’d judged to be a dangerous tackle on Danny Rose (the card would later get rescinded, which really pissed me off – it was the only red card overturned in my whole career). Latics’ boss Roberto Martínez was fizzing with rage and, at full-time, stomped up the tunnel to confront me as I entered my dressing room.
‘You were bought, that’s your problem,’ I heard him shout.
I swung round, furious. Suggesting you’re corrupt is possibly the worst thing a manager can level at a referee.
‘I was bought?’ I replied, bristling with anger. ‘You’d better be careful what you say, Roberto. Sounds like you’re questioning my integrity.’
He looked at me, alarmed, and then the penny dropped.
‘Ah, no, I didn’t say you were bought, Howard. I said you were bored. This game was too boring for you. You were not focused.’
It had all gone a bit Two Ronnies’ ‘Fork Handles’, but he was suggesting, I think, that this fixture was beneath me, that I’d deemed it too low profile, and that I’d lost concentration. I liked Roberto very much – he was one of the Premier League’s more amiable managers – but on this occasion he was talking nonsense. I prided myself on giving every game 100 per cent and, as a passionate supporter of a smaller club, I appreciated the importance of every single game.
A few days later I jetted off to Florida for a family holiday. It was the first mid-season break I’d ever taken and, as soon as I glimpsed Orlando’s azure skies and tree-lined boulevards, I knew I’d made a wise decision.
It was while wandering around the Epcot Centre one Sunday afternoon that I was accosted by a bloke clad in a Stoke City shirt.
‘Hey, your mate’s fucked up, hasn’t he?’
I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
‘Clattenburg,’ he continued. ‘Been accused of racism at Chelsea.’
When we returned to the villa I went online, scrolling down reports alleging that Mark had verbally abused Jon Obi Mikel at Stamford Bridge during the Blues’ game against Manchester United. Shortly afterwards the club had issued a public statement reiterating their player’s claims.
‘No way is Clatts guilty of that,’ I said to Kay, shaking my head. ‘Not in a million years.’
Following an FA-led inquiry – and having been withdrawn from the refereeing roster for four weeks – Mark was exonerated as there was simply no case to answer. A month later, a clear-the-air meeting was convened between the Select Group and the Chelsea chairman, Bruce Buck, along with Mike Riley and Premier League boss Richard Scudamore. As a group – and with the backing of our union, Prospect – we’d requested the opportunity to air our grievances. Mark and his family had gone through hell, in the full glare of the media, and we were keen to have our say.
‘These were career-threatening, reputation-damaging allegations,’ I levelled at Buck, ‘so why did your club publicly air them before any investigation had taken place?’
A fairly lively dialogue ensued, the upshot being that Chelsea had accepted the FA’s verdict, and that Mark would be rightfully restored to the referees’ list later that week.
A joint statement, released after the meeting, agreed that it was ‘time to draw a line under this incident’, adding that Chelsea FC had regretted not giving ‘more consideration before issuing a statement’.
I think Mark appreciated the support he received from his Select Group colleagues. Indeed, following the departure of some of the older refs, and the arrival of a newer, younger breed, the mood in our camp had improved markedly. Among the influx of more laid-back and easy-going referees were the likes of Michael Oliver, Anthony Taylor and Craig Pawson.
Helping to keep our spirits high was Lee Mason, our resident class joker, who entertained us with his brilliantly observed impressions of players, managers and officials. In cahoots with Jon Moss – another lively addition to our troupe – Lee would also organise the annual Christmas party at our new base at St George’s Park in Staffordshire. He’d choose a different theme each year, usually opting for a quiz show format so that he could mimic Bruce Play Your Cards Right Forsyth or Leslie Price Is Right Crowther.
‘Er, g-g-good game, Howard, g-g-good game,’ he’d say, jutting out his chin, wielding his over-sized playing cards and reducing us all to hysterics.
My 2013-14 season got off to an interesting start, even before I’d blown a whistle in anger. At 2 p.m. on Saturday 17 August – my first game of the campaign – there came a knock on the door of the Upton Park dressing room.
Standing there were Sam Allardyce and Malky Mackay, with skippers Kevin Nolan and Craig Bellamy, ready and waiting for the West Ham-Cardiff team-sheet exchange. Bellamy looked me up and down, his expression contemptuous.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s Celebrity Ref.’
Such a nice turn of phrase for a Premier League captain.
‘Nice to see you too, Craig,’ I replied. ‘Shall we start again, but this time with a little more respect?’
Bellamy had previous with me, as it happened. I’m not sure what I’d done to rile him – and I don’t care, really – but, not long after the World Cup, I was acting as fourth official at Anfield and was sitting quietly on my own at the back of the technical area. Bellamy was on the bench for Liverpool that day and, midway through the first half, happened to catch sight of me sitting behind him.
‘Oi you, fuckin’ shithouse,’ he yelled, in full earshot of everyone in both technical areas. ‘You fucked up that World Cup good and proper, didn’t you, eh?’
Now he may well have had a good point, but I just thought it was a pretty nasty thing to say. Not wishing to lower myself to his level with a similarly snide retort, I pretended I hadn’t heard. However, I remember thinking at the time that there weren’t many more obnoxious players around than Craig Bellamy.
To be honest, I was becoming increasingly weary of the flak that kept coming my way. A few weeks later I reffed Swansea v Newcastle at the Liberty Stadium. When I blew for full time I received dogs’ abuse from the Magpies’ coach, John Carver, because a penalty decision hadn’t gone their way. I’ve got to know him since and like him a lot, but the stick he gave me that evening was pretty vitriolic. And then his mucker Alan Pardew came storming into the dressing room to wipe the floor with me and I remember thinking you know what, I really don’t need this.
Later that season David Moyes, by then at Manchester United, labelled me ‘a fucking disgrace’ in the tunnel because I hadn’t awarded Ashley Young a penalty. Moyes wasn’t my favourite manager at the best of times – he appeared to have a deep loathing for refs, and would often send in his assistants to harangue us on his behalf – and if there was one insult I hated being hurled at me, it was ‘disgrace’. It really got my back up. I was just a referee who tried do an honest job and who occasionally made genuine mistakes. I may have been far from perfect, but I didn’t think I was a disgrace.
On the eve of a game at Stamford Bridge, in October 2013, I asked to meet up with Mike Riley at my hotel. I needed to discuss an important matter with him, something that had been playing on my mind for a number of weeks.
‘As you know, mate, I’m hoping to get the nod for next year’s World Cup,’ I said.
‘Yeah, of course,’ Mike nodded, ‘and there’s no reason why you won’t get it, Howard.’
I took a deep breath, feeling slightly nervous about what I was going to reveal.
‘But if I do happen to get selected for Brazil, I think it might be my swansong. I’ve had enough, Mike. I want to call it a day.’
‘OK,’ he replied, as if he’d half-expected it. ‘Can’t say I’m totally surprised. Let’s talk.’
Reaching this decision hadn’t been easy, of course, and had been prompted by many soul-searching heart-to-hearts with my wife and my parents. But I’d come to the conclusion that I’d run my course, and that it was time for me to bow out.
Life as an elite referee had been like the proverbial roller coaster, with exhilarating highs and plummeting lows. After nearly a quarter-of-a-century in the middle, however, those dips had started to take their toll. I’d had my fill of the pressures and stresses – the grief on the pitch, the name-calling in the tunnel, the ruined weekends at home – and, deep down, I’d realised that that my passion and energy for the job was waning.
‘You always promised you’d stop when you lost the love for it, son,’ said Dad when we’d sat down for a chat one evening. ‘All things considered, your decision’s probably a sensible one.’
Wise words indeed, but his expression told me that he was saddened that my refereeing journey was nearing its end.
Age had undoubtedly been a factor, too. Technically I could have carried on officiating for another five or six seasons in the Premier League (unlike FIFA and UEFA, whose age cap was forty-five), but I didn’t want to be an old man in the middle. I’d seen too many ageing referees dragging out their careers for years – perhaps beholden to their £100,000+ salary – and that had never been my intention. Finishing at the top, and choosing my own destiny and departure time, was what appealed to me.
By unburdening myself of this emotional weight, I hoped I’d be able to relax into the final stretch of my Premier League career. Sadly, I was mistaken. Desperate to end on a high, I piled the pressure on myself and almost lost the plot. Before I knew it, the domestic season began to unravel before my eyes, the catalyst being a calamitous game between Chelsea and Liverpool on Sunday 29 December 2013.
In the opening minute I’d missed a red-card tackle by Samuel Eto’o on Jordan Henderson, which had been really difficult to detect at full speed. Everything then seemed to spiral downwards. In the second half, Eto’o clipped the heels of Luis Suárez, bringing him down in the 18-yard box. Since the incident had taken place off the ball (and in my peripheral vision) I couldn’t be sure how Suárez had hit the deck – or whether he was exaggerating, which he certainly had previous for – so I waved away the penalty appeal. I was wrong – very wrong – and got rightly hammered for it afterwards.
That night I went to the PDC World Darts Championships with Darren and Mike, and what was intended as a festive jaunt to Alexandra Palace became anything but. Instead of cheering on Phil Taylor and Raymond van Barneveld on the oche, I spent the night staring into the contents of my pint glass and mulling over my dismal display.
Contrary to the opinion of many Liverpool fans, I had nothing whatsoever against their club – I truly respected its supporters, its players and its heritage – but it seemed the harder I tried to referee them well, the more I failed.
‘It just gets worse, Darren,’ I moaned.
In February 2014 I officiated over Arsenal and Liverpool in the FA Cup fifth round. In hindsight, I should have closed that date off in my diary. I’d been in Gran Canaria for a week-long FIFA seminar and, following a long flight delay, I was completely knackered by the time I arrived at the Emirates Stadium.
I went on to have a horror show of a game, my woes culminating in the 64th minute when, with Arsenal 2-1 up, I awarded Liverpool a free kick. Having been blasted into the wall, the loose ball was picked up by Luis Suárez, only for him and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain to collide into each other. Well, that’s how I saw it anyway. I dismissed all the penalty appeals and sanctioned a goal kick instead, much to the disgust of the Liverpool camp.
Within minutes of the final whistle, I’d received a text message from an old Rotherham refereeing colleague, Steve Pickervance, whose love for the Reds knew no bounds.
‘Howard, I know you’re a mate, but how you didn’t give us that penalty is BEYOND BELIEF,’ he stated.
That doesn’t look good, I thought, but he’s sporting his red-tinted glasses, obviously, and he’s miffed that Arsenal are through to the next round.
The next incoming text, however, was from ITV Sport commentator Clive Tyldesley, a fair-minded bloke whose opinion I greatly respected.
‘One bad decision doesn’t make you a bad ref,’ it said, and I thought shit, I’ve definitely cocked it up.
I went and had a shower, and I remember closing my eyes, resting my head against the wall, and not wanting to come out. What crap am I going to face when I get outside? How badly has my reputation been damaged? Who’s going to be slagging me off now?
It was, of course, the clearest penalty I’d seen for a long time – Suárez had been fouled, no question – and prompted yet another weekend of crawling into my shell and shunning all media. I spent the next few days replaying my error over and over again in my head, wondering how I’d misread things, what I could have done differently, and why I was getting things so catastrophically wrong.
In contrast with my woeful Premier League displays, I found myself performing fantastically well on the international circuit. In the autumn of 2012, after some lobbying on my part, Darren had been reinstated as my chosen assistant referee, and the following June our usual trio had flown over to the Confederations Cup in Brazil, a tournament often seen as the precursor to the World Cup.
Despite temperatures hitting the mid-30s – and me suffering a severe attack of the runs – our two games went brilliantly, including the Italy v Spain semi-final. It may have been an evening game, but it was still swelteringly hot in Fortaleza’s Estadio Castelão. I remember Fernando Torres coming off the pitch at half-time, mopping his brow and wearily dragging his feet.
‘This heat is terrible, ref. I can hardly move,’ he moaned.
‘Fernando,’ I replied, as the sweat oozed from every pore, ‘you’re from bleedin’ Madrid. You should be used to this. Imagine coming from Rotherham!’
Somehow I doubt that Fernando Torres had ever imagined coming from Rotherham.
I performed well in Europe, too. Being away from the Premier League bear-pit, where familiarity often bred contempt, probably helped in this respect.
In March 2014, I was appointed to a Europa League tie between Fiorentina and Juventus. To my surprise, as I warmed up on the far side of the lovely old Artemio Franchi stadium in Florence, a section of the crowd broke out into a spontaneous round of applause.
‘Bravo, arbitro inglese, bravo!’ they yelled.
While I was aware that English refs were revered in Italy, I was really taken aback by all these happy-clappy supporters. All the crap that I’d been experiencing back home had left me feeling slightly wounded, and I found it strangely touching.
The following month, I absolutely nailed the Champions League quarter-final between Atlético Madrid and Barcelona at the Vicente Calderón stadium. The contrast between my continental and domestic mindsets was striking.
‘Don’t question me; I’m good at my job,’ I remember barking at Xavi, who’d sprinted across the pitch to challenge a penalty decision. No doubt he thought I was an arrogant swine, but that’s how I often felt when I was on foreign soil; in the zone, in total control, and not to be messed with.
The Real Madrid v Bayern Munich semi-final, on Wednesday 23 April, witnessed another first-rate performance from me and my team. However, after flying home I received a concerned email from Pierluigi Collina, who’d been my assessor that night. During our post-match chat, he’d sensed that I was contemplating retirement.
‘I know that this kind of decision is a very personal issue and I don’t want to be impolite writing to you about it,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, it is my responsibility to guarantee UEFA competitions the best referees and I cannot imagine the next season without Howard Webb.’
Just a week after being praised to the hilt by the great Collina, I was being pelted with abuse at Selhurst Park.
‘Fuck off, Webb, you fuckin’ wanker. Hope you’re better than last time, you tosser,’ yelled the Palace fans as I warmed up before their game against Manchester City.
Ten minutes later I trudged back to the dressing room, my head down, my shoulders sagging.
While UEFA were happy to assign me to Europe’s finest, the Premier League had clearly lost all confidence in my refereeing abilities. Following the Arsenal v Liverpool debacle, they were unwilling to trust me with the key matches and, to be brutally honest, I didn’t blame them. Each Monday, when the PGMOL email arrived, I became accustomed to seeing my name tagged against a lower profile tie, whereas the big games would be tackled by in-form refs like Martin Atkinson and Michael Oliver.
With my final domestic match looming on Sunday 11 May, Mike Riley gave me two or three fixtures to choose from. For a long list of reasons, I plumped for Hull v Everton. I’d run my last ever Football League line at the old Boothferry Park stadium, I’d refereed the first ever game at the new KC Stadium, my sister Claire had attended university in the city, and I liked the place and its people. But, most importantly of all, it was the closest fixture to my Rotherham home, meaning that my family could travel over to witness my final game.
So at 4.45 p.m., having notched up a grand total of 298 Premier League fixtures, I blew the whistle and brought my domestic career to a close. It was all very low-key; I’d not wanted any kind of fuss or fanfare and, other than Mike Riley, had only told my relatives and my officials that I’d decided to quit. As I walked off the pitch I felt a slight pang of sadness, but also felt sure I’d made the right decision. Refereeing had treated me well – and had taken me on the most incredible journey – but it was time to say thank you and goodbye.
Darren, Mike and I shared a bottle of champagne in the dressing room.
‘Here’s to you, Howard,’ said Darren, raising his glass. ‘The end of an era, mate.’
‘Not quite the end though, is it?’ I replied, thinking ahead to our next adventure.
‘Hull this week, Rio the next.’
My 2014 World Cup selection had finally been sealed on a cold November night in Stockholm, on the occasion of the second leg of the Sweden v Portugal play-off. I’d been very nervous during the run-in; such decisive, do-or-die contests demanded exemplary, error-free refereeing, and this tie was probably the highest profile of the lot.
The sports media had billed it as a battle between Zlatan Ibrahimović and Cristiano Ronaldo; depending on the game’s outcome, only one of these footballing superstars would have the chance to shine in Brazil. The margins were tight – the first leg had finished 1-0 to Portugal – and as both teams kicked off, the pressure felt intense.
Following a goalless first half both teams sprang into action in the second. Ronaldo’s left-footed strike opened the scoring five minutes after the interval, but an Ibrahimović header pulled one back to make it 1-2 on aggregate. Then, with about 20 minutes remaining, the ball pinged into the Portuguese penalty box, whereupon Kim Källström took a touch, went past the defender and fell to the ground.
From my vantage point it appeared like a dive, not a trip. I wasn’t 100 per cent sure, though – neither were Darren or Mike – but my strong gut feeling suggested no penalty, and almost immediately I blew the whistle on instinct. Sixty thousand Swedes were doubtless expecting me to point to the spot but, instead, I yellow-carded Källström for simulation before signalling a Portugal free kick.
All hell broke loose. The decibel level in the Friends Arena hit new heights, and I found myself being surrounded by a pack of livid Swedes, all railing at my decision. In order to ward them off I used every inch of my 6 foot 2 frame, extended my arm at a 70-degree angle, and gave them the sternest look I could muster. All the while I was thinking fucking hell, I really hope that was a dive.
It was a huge call, not just regarding Sweden’s progression to Brazil, but regarding mine, too. An incorrect penalty decision would almost certainly scupper my team’s World Cup chances; I’d seen what had happened to my friend Martin Hansson after the Thierry Henry incident four years previously.
Ibrahimović scored again to make it 2-1 on the night, the Swedes just needing one more goal to secure their place. The irrepressible Ronaldo saw what was happening, however, and grabbed the game by the balls, whipping in two more goals to send him and his ecstatic team-mates to Brazil. It was by far the best individual performance I’d ever seen from a footballer.
Mercifully, the texts I received straight after the game suggested that my Källström call had been spot-on.
‘YESSSS,’ I shouted, punching the air with glee.
Moments later, the Swedish coach Erik Hamrén, along with striker Johan Elmander, popped their heads into the dressing room.
‘Congratulations on a great game, ref,’ said Hamrén. ‘We’ve watched the footage back, and it was a dive. There was no contact at all. Well done, and enjoy Brazil.’
How noble of them, considering their World Cup journey had just ended. It proved to me that there were still some nice guys in football.
I departed for the World Cup in June 2014, with the Duke of Cambridge’s kind words ringing in my ears. I’d met him some six months earlier – I’d refereed the FA’s 150th centenary match at Buckingham Palace – and his passion for football was evident.
‘Best of luck to Howard Webb and his team,’ he said as part of his official good luck message to the England lads. ‘They remind us that we are up there with the best when it comes to refereeing.’ I thought that was a really nice touch from the Prince.
As things turned out, we weren’t awarded a match in Brazil for a good two weeks. During that fortnight we lived in a football bubble, spending most our time working out on the training pitches or watching the games, either in the Maracanã Stadium itself or stationed in local bars. Unlike our isolated World Cup base in rural Pretoria, our Rio HQ was located within a stone’s throw of Barra Beach, which wasn’t without its attractions. This low-profile start prompted a raft of jokey messages from the UK.
‘Eh, pal, are you really in Brazil or what?’ texted one mate of mine.
‘Enjoying your holiday, Webby? How’s Copacabana looking?’ emailed another.
We were eventually appointed to Match 21, Colombia v Ivory Coast, in the sprawling capital of Brasília. Assembling in the tunnel on Thursday 19 June was a full complement of Premier League Ivorians: Didier Drogba, Wilfried Bony, Didier Zokora, Cheick Tioté, Gervinho and the two Touré brothers.
Like most players, they’d probably not paid too much attention to that day’s referee appointment, but when they eventually clocked me, their eyes lit up in recognition. Here was a familiar face from the UK, someone they knew and hopefully trusted.
‘Ah, Webb, good to see you,’ smiled Drogba, giving me a hug before his compatriots lined up to do the same.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Colombians suspiciously eyeing this cosy-looking love-in. So, once Yaya had given me a rib-splintering pat on the back, I pointedly approached the South Americans, too, embracing and high-fiving as many of them as possible, regardless of the fact that – apart from West Ham’s Pablo Armero – I didn’t know any of them personally.
Colombia won 2-1, the game went well, and we finally felt part of the tournament. Our adrenalin rush was tempered a few hours later, however, when we watched England’s World Cup hopes fade at the hands of Uruguay. A double-whammy from Luis Suárez had left Hodgson’s boys standing on the brink of an early exit.
We flew back to our base in Rio and, following another longish wait, FIFA informed us that, for the second major tournament in succession, we’d be taking charge of Brazil v Chile in the round of 16.
‘Couldn’t they have given us something more high profile?’ I said to Darren and Mike, smiling and rolling my eyes.
This was going to be huge, of course. The host nation playing a near-neighbour. The opening last-16 knockout match of the tournament. The hopes of a football-obsessed nation pinned on to their yellow-shirted idols.
I found myself embroiled in some pre-match controversy, too, Chile’s Alexis Sánchez having insinuated that FIFA’s match officials had felt impelled to keep Brazil in the tournament. I hadn’t been put under any pressure whatsoever, and was planning to ref it like any other game. Sánchez’s comments had predictably incensed the Brazilian camp, who accused their opponents of disrespecting both their country and their national team.
‘We are Brazil. We don’t need the referee’s help,’ responded an angry Phil Scolari.
The heat was turned up to the max at the Estàdio Mineirão, Belo Horizonte, on the afternoon of Saturday 28 June. By the 50-minute mark the game was delicately poised at 1-1, David Luiz and Alexis Sánchez having scored at either end. In the 51st minute, however, I’d had to make one of the hardest decisions of my refereeing life.
Having latched on to a decent cross from Luiz Gustavo, Brazilian striker Hulk had controlled the ball, which had promptly dropped dead like a stone. From my perspective, about 25 yards from the action, the dynamics looked unusual. The ball appeared to have thudded on to the pitch after hitting a right angle; an outstretched arm, maybe. Not feeling entirely convinced, I didn’t whistle.
From his angle, Mike hadn’t seen anything untoward, either, which further reduced my level of certainty. I’ll let play go on, I thought. Hulk will probably put the ball wide, and I’ll be able to give a goal kick. But he went and shinned it, and it bobbled into the bottom corner.
As the stadium erupted, and three or four Chilean players hurtled over to remonstrate, time seemed to stand still. FUCK, I thought. Do I disallow this goal because my instincts say handball, or do I let it stand because I haven’t seen anything concrete? It was a coin-toss of a decision in a game of huge consequence.
With the clock ticking, I knew I’d have to make one of those stomach-churning, sixth-sense judgements. It wasn’t about making a wild guess; it was about trusting my instincts, my knowledge and my understanding, and realising that some of the best decisions were often reached in that way.
The reaction from the trio of Chileans ultimately swayed it for me. They’d occupied better vantage points than mine, undoubtedly, and the strength of their appeal – which was immediate, independent from one another and not at all contrived – suggested I hadn’t been the only person on the pitch to have suspected handball. So I inhaled deeply, blew my whistle, and disallowed the goal.
I couldn’t gauge much reaction from Hulk, who stormed off with a dismissive wave of the arm. However, Fred – his fellow attacker – said ‘for handball, ref?’, before nodding knowingly. And while that indicated that I’d perhaps made the right call, the incident followed me round, like a black cloud, for the remainder of the game.
The match was decided by a penalty shoot-out, Brazil triumphing after Gonzalo Jara’s spot-kick had hit the post for Chile. While I didn’t care who won, I realised that my passage in life was probably going to be easier with Brazil as victors. Had they lost, my pivotal decision might have made me chief scapegoat, with ramifications of Euro 2008-sized proportions.
‘Webb, you’re still the best!’ beamed Scolari as I exited the pitch, the fireworks ricocheting round the stadium. You wouldn’t have bloody said that if you’d lost, I thought.
More telling, in my mind perhaps, was a post-match comment from Brazil’s head of media, who’d been sent to the stands at half-time for picking a fight with a Chilean substitute.
‘Can you imagine?’ he said, his eyebrows raised, as I passed him in the tunnel. I feared what he was getting at. Can you imagine, ref, if you’d have disallowed a perfectly good goal for us? Can you imagine if Brazil had been unfairly knocked out in our own country? Can you imagine how despised you’d have been?
I needn’t have worried. My decision to trust my instincts had been a lifesaver. As I lay on the dressing room bench, mentally and physically exhausted, I scanned the congratulatory messages pulsing through to my phone.
‘Astounding call, H, well done,’ texted Martin Atkinson.
‘Balls of steel,’ texted Mike Riley.
‘Congrats to Mike Mullarkey for spotting that one,’ texted one cheeky so-and-so.
The video replay revealed that Hulk had discreetly used his upper arm to control the ball, and that to have allowed the goal would have been a major injustice to the Chileans.
A few days later, I learned that FIFA had provisionally allocated our team to the Argentina v Holland semi-final in São Paolo and, as was the drill, had run this past both countries. It transpired that the Dutch were more than happy to accept our appointment – regardless of the events of South Africa 2010 – but it was the Argentinians who’d protested, citing political issues relating to the Falkland Islands dispute. FIFA decided to play safe, and the tie was awarded instead to Turkish referee Cüneyt Çakir and his team.
My linesmen and I watched both semi-finals from a Barra Beach bar and – like the shell-shocked locals – were in a state of utter disbelief as we witnessed Germany’s 7-1 annihilation of the host nation on the evening of Tuesday 8 July. The aftermath was like a mass bereavement. All the wonderful hotel workers and FIFA drivers that we’d befriended over the past six weeks were so embarrassed and devastated that they could hardly look us in the eye.
I’d never been in with a shout of officiating the final – FIFA protocol dictated that the same ref couldn’t oversee it more than once, and there were so many excellent candidates for the job at the tournament – but I was delighted when Match 64, Germany v Argentina, was awarded to Nicola Rizzoli. I was the only man in the room who knew exactly how he was feeling when the announcement was made, and that evening both our teams had dinner together.
‘This appointment will change your life, Nic,’ I smiled. ‘Don’t forget that you’ve got here on merit, though, and don’t forget to enjoy it.’
Following the announcement, FIFA had invited the remaining officials to stay in Brazil to watch the final at the Maracanã, all expenses paid, but Mike and I declined their kind offer. Now that our mission was complete, we didn’t feel the need to hang around and just wanted to get back to our families. Darren stayed on, but we caught the next day’s flight home to the UK.
As our Boeing 777 soared over the Atlantic, and as Mike snoozed beside me, I gazed out of the window and pondered my Brazil 2014 experience. Ideally I’d have liked to have reffed more than two games, of course, but I was hardly going to complain. After all, there weren’t many referees who could cite Brazil v Chile at Belo Horizonte, in the 2014 World Cup, as their final ever match.