Sideline Cut: It is high time the GAA began to "big up" the role of the umpire. For when you think about it, the fabled Man in White gets a raw deal.
Becoming an umpire must be akin to a religious vocation. The idea of donning the iconic white coat, creased and vaguely medical in appearance, is not immediately attractive. The prospect of standing underneath a goalpost for an hour going through the medley of waves and flag-bearing routines is not every man's idea of fun. Much like the slowing corner back marking the star attacker, the best the umpire can hope for is the match passes by with little or no reference to him.
Afterwards, as the referee engages in a series of manly handshakes with players and mentors from both teams or - on other occasions - gets caught up in the tumult and glamour of a Garda escort from the field, the humble umpire furls the tools of his trade and walks back towards the dressingroom alone, an invisible figure amid the pandemonium of joy and disappointment.
And often, he does not even have a dressingroom! Most modern county grounds now boast luxury home and away changing rooms complete with work-out equipment, jacuzzi, tanning salons and the like. The more thoughtful county boards have piped chill-out music to the referee's changing rooms and generally make a masseuse available to help the Man in the Middle unwind during the half-time of a particularly fractious Ulster derby or a north Kerry hurling relegation clash. There is a room where the brass band can warm up. There is a room for the medical team distinguished with a fetching red cross. There is a room for the media distinguished by an amusing lack of electrical sockets. But there is no door marked "Umpires".
Would it be too much to allocate a little box room where the umpires can hang their coats and maybe practise raising the green flag to confirm that yes, that thunderbolt from the Gooch was okay by them? Would it be too much to leave a little kettle and a packet of Marietta so the umpires could huddle down and agree upon strategy for those contentious points which God himself could not call with a full degree of accuracy? And maybe a little steam iron with which the umpire could starch his lapels for televised games? These simple touches would go a long way towards making the umpire feeling a valued and a more central part of those epic GAA Sundays we love to celebrate in this country.
We have "star" players and "personality" referees. So why not give names and faces to the men in white? England thought so highly of cricket umpire Dickie Bird that millions bought his autobiography and it is only a matter of time before they build a statue to him in Trafalgar Square. Many a dull Wimbledon has been saved by the presence of posh, eccentric umpires doling out elocution lessons to American brats. And across the pond, baseball umpires regularly get their moment in the sun.
But in GAA culture, the umpire is an afterthought. Generally, men become GAA umpires in much the same way as they become gamblers. They fall into it. They are generally restless and agreeable sorts and end up umpiring because they are friendly with referees. The referee, energetic and bristling with the kind of certainty that comes with bossing 30 pumped-up and highly disagreeable men week in week out, will call to his house to insist he needs a bit of a favour on a Sunday. 'Just put on the coat, wave your hands. Nothing to it', he promises. It is just a friendly match. There will be 10 people watching. Tops. That is how is starts.
And sometimes it goes fine. The thing about GAA scores is most of them are clearly scores. The net ripples. The ball or sliotar sails between the posts. The problem is the tricky scores tend to be really tricky.
It breaks down like this: the crowd behind the lad who takes the shot want it to be a point. The crowd behind the goalkeeper and full back frantically making "wide-ball" signals and walking towards the umpire in a bullying manner certainly do not want the shot to be waved as a point. Both sides let it be known this is a matter of grave urgency and all hell might break loose should the wrong decision be made.
If this is a junior match in a remote, sodden field, the umpire suddenly feels terrifyingly alone. If this is an All-Ireland final, he feels the same. Up in the studio, the suave and dulcet-toned analysts are reviewing the contentious shot from every conceivable angle. "Phhhew. . . it's marginal," Kevin McStay might admit. "You'd be a brave man to call it either way," Cyril Farrell might laugh nervously.
This is the nightmare all umpires face. One minute they are lounging against the goalpost, maybe enjoying the match or ruminating over that puzzling conclusion to The Usual Suspectsthe previous night on RTÉ 1. The next, the wind has taken a standard free for a ride and the ball has swirled perilously close to the post. But which side? The players do not know. The referee cannot say. Even the slow-motion cameras cannot give a verdict. So it all falls upon the shoulders of this poor man in a white coat, staring up at the sky as though waiting for a jaunty thumbs-up from the Man Above.
He will steal a furtive glance across the goalmouth - by now busy with milling, arguing players - for some sort of advice and will know by the look in his colleague's eye he does not know either. Both are absolutely frozen with terror. What human being would not be? Sometimes they stay perfectly still for several seconds. Sometimes they bend forward as though about to reach for the flag and appear to rummage through thin air for a while before standing up right again only to gravely dismiss the claims for the score. Then the umpire must stand resolute as the booing and hisses cascade around him without even the consolation of mileage.
It is, when you think about it, the grimmest and bravest of all the roles in the GAA galaxy. Could the GAA not do something to make life easier for the Man in White? You see the confident and assertive manner the Australian Rules umpires adopt when doing their dinky little robotic hand signals to validate a score Down Under and then think of the poor GAA man waving his green or white flag like he wants to surrender. And it is saddening.
Wouldn't it be great if the umpire knew the weight of the association was behind him? Wouldn't it be great if the humble umpire had the confidence to turn to the Hill 16 in the last minute of an All-Ireland football final and wave wide a debatable point by Jayo with the flourish and majesty of Herbert von Karajan conducting the Berlin Philharmonic? And that the masses on the Hill, although crushed by the cancellation of what would have been an All-Ireland winning point, would to a man, woman and child applaud the integrity and courage of the umpire.
But for now, as Christmas approaches, it is enough to acknowledge that the Man in White has feelings too.
