Why I hope Webb, Mullarkey and Cann aren't the only responsible adults at Old Trafford today

By Michael Calvin

Published 23:02 18/09/10

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It was silly o’clock. Football men, necking beer from the bottle, showed little inclination to leave the hotel bar.

A policeman from ­Rotherham, shaven headed and strangely familiar, had returned from holiday for a night out with his mates.

One, an Exeter City fan, was mourning the ­premature death of Adam Stansfield, a player, and a person, he ­admired.

The other, a former ­Norwich youth-team player, was dwelling on his failure to make it beyond Crystal Palace reserves. He ­admitted: “I just wasn’t good enough.”

They were good guys, good company. But non-people to those who insist that ­referees, like Victorian children, should be seen and not heard.

You’ll recognise them today, when they form the third team at Old Trafford. They will be the only ­non-millionaires on the pitch.

The toxic rivalry between Manchester United and ­Liverpool will represent business as usual for men who have survived the World Cup and Champions League Finals.

Sergeant Howard Webb, on a five-year sabbatical from The Job, is obliged to be a jobsworth. He cannot be ­influenced by the mob, ­intoxicated by the cocktail of adrenaline, bile and ­testosterone. He’s not ­allowed to speak for ­himself.

His assistants, Mike Mullarkey and Darren Cann, will earn their £375 match fee. They have a fraction of a second to reach decisions that will be scrutinised, at their leisure, by millions.

All three are fair game for cyber nerds, rabble-rousing radio presenters and scribblers like me who are averse to sitting on the fence.

They are subjected to the tyranny of technology, but not permitted its support.

Their professionalism is consistently compromised by political posturing. Death threats come with the job.

They are ­accustomed to mind games, ­intimidation and feigned rage. Cann was condemned as a “liar” during one of those ­periodic hissy fits which are doing an increasing ­disservice to Arsene Wenger.

Sir Alex Ferguson claims that Webb is an Arsenal fan. ­Trademark tosh from a master manager who applies ­pressure by massaging public opinion.

The three, together as a team for three years, are fallible. They’re human.

They rely on the efficiency of their optic nerves, which transmit visual information to their brains. But they’ve heard all the eye-test jokes before. And they don’t sleep when they get the big calls wrong.

In my job you don’t mind upsetting people if you feel right is on your side. Webb identified with that principle when we found common cause in that hotel bar.

We’d been at a FIFA dinner at Manchester Town Hall, as part of England’s World Cup bid.

The Three Amigos had ­earlier turned a sterile photo-shoot into a series of small-sided matches, at ease with the kids, who responded to their ­enthusiasm. Webb has the work-ethic you’d expect of a miner’s son.

We explored our interest in sports science. He’d prepared for South Africa in an­ environmental chamber. He values the sounding board of his sports psychologist.

He would welcome goal-line ­technology, and seeing former ­players getting fast-tracked into refereeing.

Cann and Mullarkey are the only full-time assistants in the Premier League. They rely on match fees. Mullarkey, who began in the Devon and ­Exeter League in 1987, is ­living off the reserves of his ­redundancy money.

Cann left his job as a team leader in a bank. He has a coach, and trains by ­watching live TV matches.

Remember their ­sacrifice today, when the chant that is the soundtrack of their lives strikes up. You know the one. It rhymes with banker.

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