The Referee's Last Season

Mathilde had refereed for thirty-one seasons, and she had decided, without telling anyone, that the thirty-second would be her last. She began to notice things the way people notice the furniture in a house they are about to sell. The line-marking machine had a cracked wheel. The bench had a missing slat. Wet grass and liniment clung to her kit bag until Wednesday.

Mathilde sudah memimpin pertandingan sebagai wasit selama tiga puluh satu musim, dan ia telah memutuskan, tanpa memberi tahu siapa pun, bahwa musim ketiga puluh dua akan menjadi yang terakhir. Ia mulai memperhatikan hal-hal kecil seperti orang memperhatikan perabot di rumah yang akan mereka jual. Mesin pembuat garis lapangan punya roda yang retak. Bangku cadangan kehilangan satu papannya. Rumput basah dan minyak gosok menempel pada tas perlengkapannya sampai hari Rabu.

Every match was the same and different. There was always a father shouting about offside from behind the rope, and always a goalkeeper who blamed the low sun. Somewhere around the seventieth minute there was always a moment when the whole field seemed to lean toward her and wait. Having answered some nine hundred of those moments, she had trained herself to answer in a single motion: whistle, arm, one short word. Nobody had ever asked whether she was sure. Sureness was what they wanted from her, though the league paid her only enough to cover petrol and the occasional new pair of boots.

Setiap pertandingan sama sekaligus berbeda. Selalu ada seorang ayah yang berteriak soal offside dari balik tali pembatas, dan selalu ada penjaga gawang yang menyalahkan matahari yang rendah. Sekitar menit ketujuh puluh, selalu ada saat ketika seluruh lapangan seakan condong ke arahnya dan menunggu. Setelah menjawab sekitar sembilan ratus saat seperti itu, ia melatih dirinya untuk menjawab dengan satu gerakan: peluit, lengan, satu kata pendek. Tak seorang pun pernah bertanya apakah ia yakin. Keyakinan adalah yang mereka inginkan darinya, meski liga hanya membayarnya cukup untuk bensin dan sesekali sepasang sepatu baru.

Her last match was an under-eighteens game on a grey Sunday in March, between two sides with nothing left to play for. With ten minutes remaining, a cross swung into the area and a defender's arm went up. Whether the ball had struck it or the arm had moved toward the ball, Mathilde could not have sworn; she had been twenty metres back, half hidden behind a forward. She pointed to the spot anyway.

Pertandingan terakhirnya adalah laga usia di bawah delapan belas tahun pada suatu Minggu kelabu di bulan Maret, antara dua tim yang tak punya apa-apa lagi untuk diperebutkan. Sepuluh menit sebelum bubar, sebuah umpan silang melengkung ke area penalti dan lengan seorang bek terangkat. Apakah bola mengenainya atau lengan itu yang bergerak ke arah bola, Mathilde tak bisa bersumpah; ia berada dua puluh meter di belakang, setengah terhalang seorang penyerang. Ia tetap menunjuk titik penalti.

The boy who came toward her was the home captain, a long-limbed centre-back called Zeno. He did not shout. Rarely had a player so young looked so unafraid of her. He stopped an arm's length away, put his hands behind his back, and said, "I'm not going to argue. I only want to know if you're sure."

Anak laki-laki yang datang menghampirinya adalah kapten tuan rumah, seorang bek tengah berkaki panjang bernama Zeno. Ia tidak berteriak. Jarang ada pemain semuda itu tampak setidakgentar itu terhadapnya. Ia berhenti sejauh satu lengan, menaruh kedua tangan di belakang punggung, dan berkata, "Saya tidak akan berdebat. Saya cuma ingin tahu apakah Ibu yakin."

"The arm was away from your body," she said. It was the sentence she had used a hundred times.

"Lenganmu menjauh dari tubuhmu," katanya. Itu kalimat yang sudah ia pakai seratus kali.

"You say it the same way when you're right and when you're wrong," Zeno said, without heat. "I've watched you since I was nine. It's like there's nobody in the whistle."

"Ibu mengucapkannya dengan cara yang sama ketika benar maupun ketika salah," kata Zeno, tanpa emosi. "Saya memperhatikan Ibu sejak saya berumur sembilan tahun. Seakan-akan tak ada siapa pun di dalam peluit itu."

Mathilde looked at him a moment too long. What struck her was not the accusation but how exactly it fitted. Her sister had said something similar at a wedding years before, that Mathilde spoke to people as if she were issuing them a ruling, and Mathilde had laughed and refilled her glass. Had the boy raised his voice, she would have shown him a card without breaking stride. Speaking quietly, he had left her nowhere to stand.

Mathilde menatapnya sedikit terlalu lama. Yang menohoknya bukan tuduhan itu, melainkan betapa tepatnya ia. Kakak perempuannya pernah mengatakan hal serupa di sebuah pesta pernikahan bertahun-tahun lalu, bahwa Mathilde berbicara kepada orang-orang seakan-akan sedang menjatuhkan putusan, dan Mathilde tertawa lalu mengisi gelasnya lagi. Seandainya anak itu meninggikan suara, ia pasti sudah mengacungkan kartu tanpa mengubah langkah. Dengan berbicara pelan, anak itu tak menyisakan tempat baginya untuk berpijak.

If she had allowed herself one honest doubt aloud in her first decade, she thought, she might not need a seventeen-year-old to do it for her. The certainty had been a uniform, like the black kit, and at some point she had stopped taking it off.

Seandainya pada dasawarsa pertamanya ia membiarkan diri mengungkapkan satu keraguan jujur dengan lantang, pikirnya, mungkin ia tak butuh seorang anak tujuh belas tahun untuk melakukannya. Keyakinan itu sudah menjadi seragam, seperti kostum hitamnya, dan pada suatu titik ia berhenti melepasnya.

"I think it hit your arm," she said slowly. "From where I was, I couldn't see the ball move. I'm not certain. I gave it because the arm was out, and that is what the law asks me to judge."

"Kurasa bola itu mengenai lenganmu," katanya pelan. "Dari tempatku, aku tak bisa melihat bola bergerak. Aku tidak yakin. Aku memberikannya karena lenganmu terentang, dan itulah yang diminta peraturan untuk kuputuskan."

Zeno considered this, then nodded once, like a customer checking his change. "Thank you," he said, and jogged back to his line.

Zeno mempertimbangkan hal ini, lalu mengangguk sekali, seperti pembeli yang memeriksa uang kembaliannya. "Terima kasih," katanya, dan berlari kecil kembali ke garisnya.

The striker hit the penalty against the post. Nobody on either side said a word about it, and Mathilde found, for the first time in thirty-one years, that she was watching the players and not the clock. At the end she shook eleven hands on each side. Two boys said, "Thanks, ref." One said, "Thanks, Mathilde," which she had not expected and did not correct.

Sang penyerang menendang penalti itu mengenai tiang gawang. Tak seorang pun di kedua pihak mengatakan sepatah kata pun tentang itu, dan Mathilde mendapati, untuk pertama kalinya dalam tiga puluh satu tahun, bahwa ia memperhatikan para pemain dan bukan jam. Di akhir pertandingan ia menjabat sebelas tangan di tiap pihak. Dua anak laki-laki berkata, "Terima kasih, Wasit." Satu berkata, "Terima kasih, Mathilde," yang tak ia duga dan tak ia koreksi.

Afterwards she did not return the keys to the shed. She walked a full lap of the pitch, something she had never once done. She passed the bench with the missing slat and the machine with the cracked wheel, and at six the floodlights clicked off on their timer. Then she kept walking in the dark until her hand found the gate.

Setelah itu ia tidak mengembalikan kunci gudang. Ia berjalan satu putaran penuh mengelilingi lapangan, sesuatu yang tak pernah sekali pun ia lakukan. Ia melewati bangku dengan papan yang hilang dan mesin dengan roda yang retak, dan pada pukul enam lampu sorot padam dengan bunyi klik pada pengatur waktunya. Lalu ia terus berjalan dalam gelap sampai tangannya menemukan gerbang.