Excerpt from the book Life At The Top by Mark Hodkinson
The prophecy is often uttered at football grounds. It is, of course, a euphemism. "There's going to be a riot here," they say, whenever the passion borders on hostility. At Oakwell last Saturday the euphemism was a truism. Gary Willard, the referee in charge of Barnsley's match against Liverpool, seemed to be a man tired of the banality of life, a man with an outlandish death wish. In a game with nothing above the normal level of irascibility, he sent off three Barnsley players.
If the reason for the dismissals was vague, there was nothing unequivocal about the actual procedure of sending them from the field. The cards were held up defiantly, victoriously almost, as if he was holding aloft a flag; a unique flag representing a nation of one. The body language was all wrong. There was no "sorry, son, had to do it", apologetic smile, or a shrug of the shoulders. It was showy, bloody-minded sternness, more of a "get off my pitch, you insolent fool".
Willard chose precisely the wrong place to stage his three-card trick. Barnsley does not suffer fools and it has a historical mistrust of authority. While, like most clubs, Barnsley has undergone what sociologists call "embourgoisement" - you know, serviettes supplied with the pies, toilets that flush, fans that applaud David Seaman because he is the England goalkeeper, etc… - there remains a mass of support based on fierce parochialism. They are ex-miners, and sons of ex-miners, once the aristocracy of the working class, now left with too much time on their hands to ponder Barnsley's next match.
Back in the 1970s, they saw through the smoke and mirrors and detected that the National Coal Board had a secret agenda. They were patronised, told that too much time underground had made them over-fond of baseless conspiracy theories. In the 1980s the pits duly closed and their frustration was played out against lines of policemen.
The resentment, institutionalised now, still exists in Barnsley. The football club has become a focus for regional pride and naked passion; a two-fingered wave back to a country that they believe has consigned them to afternoon television and twice-weekly trips to the job club. Their nemesis arrived last weekend in the shape of a divorced father-of-two civil servant with a Saturday job as a football referee. There are "honest" fouls in football - a clip of the heel, a shift of weight to slow up an opponent's run - and there are dishonest ones, too. Willard permitted the cynical, the puerile and the snide but gleefully punished the trivial.
After this injustice had been reinforced beyond the point of tolerance, ill-feeling spread through Oakwell like a malignant Mexican wave. The tension was more sinister and ugly than portrayed throughout this week. The death of a Fulham supporter and the various outbreaks of sports-related violence provided a cover for Barnsley. Willard was attacked from all angles and the game was eclipsed by another sick sport as police, stewards and players intercepted various beerbellies on legs hurtling towards a seemingly impervious figure. Make no mistake, their plan was to do him serious harm and, without overplaying the drama, for a good while it looked as if the mob held the upper hand and we were to see Willard set upon.
The bravery of the players, Fjortoft, Ince and Redfearn in particular, was commendable. The Barnsley supporters who applauded the pitch invaders, however, deserved nothing but contempt. In the streets around Oakwell they screamed into television cameras that their club was being persecuted; Willard was a vindictive agent of the FA Carling Premiership that wanted to relegate Barnsley and maintain its closed shop of big-city clubs. Their anger is understandable, even if their argument is specious. Barnsley has been good business for the Premier League. Their stirring battles with football's elite have made absorbing theatre. The fight against relegation has been a Rocky film transmuted to foot ball; at one point they are flailing and helpless, then a string of wins, a spring in their step and hope is renewed. Also, the Premier League would not be so gauche as to send Willard as the angel of death; it would, if it was driven by malevolence, draw the breath from the club surreptitiously without recourse to melodrama.
The combination of an abysmal refereeing display and a tempestuous Oakwell crowd was pretty much unique and should be viewed as such. A return to perimeter fences, a deduction of points or a hefty fine is an arbitrary punishment, hurting the majority for the few. Barnsley is what Barnsley is.
If the goading is relentless and considered unfair, it will retaliate. The club can bring Premiership football to the town but it cannot instantly bring a saintliness and civility to the part of its community that seeks out martyrdom. This is not to condone or canvass a metaphorical shrug of the shoulders, but a simple fact. All those that have this week lamented and squealed surprise that thuggery still exists within football are foolish. Hate, compassion and love are part of the human condition and sport is merely a reflection of life. Our best hope is that the balance falls most frequently on the side of compassion and love, and violent afternoons at Oakwell are rare; very rare.