The Day Brian Wilson Provided The Live Soundtrack To A Bout Of Football Violence

The driving force behind the Beach Boys made his public comeback at a pro-life gathering in Rancho Park in 1989. Less than 400 yards away, I was officiating a Sunday League game. Madness ensued

My preposterous life, an occasional series

I NEVER SAW Brian Wilson live. But I heard him. It was one of those times when you’re within a goal kick of greatness. I mean that literally.

November 12, 1989, started out as a pretty normal Sunday. I was sleeping on the couch at my mate’s place, under the shadow of the freeway at Carmelina and Pico, when Brian kicked me and said, “Get ready, softlad. Get your kit on.”

Hangovers would have to wait. Within minutes, we stood facing each other, both dressed all in back. We had work to do. Well, not quite work. We were referees. A quick check of whistles, cards and pens, and we were off, men on a mission.

We always drew some funny looks in Los Angeles when wearing our refereeing clobber. In American sport, it was all striped jerseys and long pants. Unlike in Europe, we weren’t instantly recognisable as refs. One bartender in the AirTel at Van Nuys airport greeted our presence for post-match drinks with the gibe, “Careful, people. Hell’s boy scouts have just arrived.”

Thanks mate. We’ll be in tomorrow to rob all the cheese and ham during happy hour.

Refereeing kept us in beer. Because we were illegal immigrants and economic migrants, we were always scraping around for money. Brian was more established and doing better than me. I’d made the decision to leave for a new life in the summer after Hillsborough (“Nah, mate, it had no effect on me, like: this is a completely rational decision).

During the week, I was working helping a British finish carpenter on building sites for $50 a day. By weekend, I was a “bastard in the black.” The money earned running the middle made the difference between being able to drink every night and going to bed sober – that was not an option.

On Saturday, you could do three school matches. They paid well: $36 each game. On Sunday it was men’s leagues. The money was less – $24 per 90 minutes – but you could do five matches.

There were two bonuses this day in November. The sky was overcast and the venue was Rancho Park, a short drive away.

This was the first time I’d been to Rancho Park. There was only one pitch in use and that was on a plateau at the top of a natural slope behind one goal. There was unusual activity behind the net. There were cops lurking and temporary barriers were in place. Quite a few people were milling round, too.

The senior referee arrived – an American – and the first two teams. As the most junior official (I had absolutely no credentials), I’d take the line in four out of the five games. The others took a couple of matches each. A pretty easy day.

But the crowds kept building. After the first game, mounted police appeared. Between fixtures we went and chatted with a policeman. He was quite frank. He clearly respected the uniform.

This was LA’s contribution to a series of pro-choice rallies that were taking place across the country. Half of Hollywood were appearing, a handful of pop artists were due to play and Jesse Jackson would be among the political figures to address the audience. The event was slated to end about 5pm, which was around the time we expected to complete our schedule.

Then the cop said something that really caught our attention: Brian Wilson was going to perform in public for the first time in more than two decades.

Still, we were here for business and the day went reasonably well. The swelling crowd behind one goal was distracting and a small number of anti-abortion zealots – all men, funnily enough – gave the impression of a tiny away mob. There was a bit of chanting. As an aside, Americans don’t do mass chats very well, do they? Is that a function of the obsession with individuality? But everything was good. I don’t remember any speeches or music.

Until the final game.

The two teams for the day’s climax were about as diametrically opposite in terms of style as you could find in 1989. One side was from Chile. They loved tight passing triangles and controlling the ball. They were lined up against one of LA’s British pub teams. Their philosophy could be defined by one word: batty.

Yeah, that too, but their inspiration seemed to be David Batty. Leeds’ finest took an uncompromising approach to the tackle. He hated possession. Even, at times, if it was his own team on the ball. Hell, he fought with Graeme Le Saux during a Champions League game. They were on the same side. Was it because the name Le Saux sounded foreign? Of course not, but Batty was as British as a bulldog cloned from Churchill’s DNA. To be honest, I loved him. I’d have him in my team.

There seemed to be an inordinate number of Yorkshire accents in the Brit side, too. The senior ref took charge of this. His pair of Scouse linesmen exchanged glances. We knew what was coming.

The atmosphere at the rally/gig was reaching fever pitch. Meanwhile, the Chileans were moving the ball with too much ease. So the tackles started flying.

Now, these Brits weren’t bad lads. You’d see some of them around the King’s Head in Santa Monica and at times like this a talking to could diffuse the situation. “Come on softshite, I don’t want to send you off. It’d mean paperwork for me and a fine for you…” That probably wasn’t true. Many of them had blag IDs. “We’re supposed to be having a laugh.”

Just occasionally, that approach would work. The poor American ref did not have the light touch of a fellow illegal with them. He let two or three yellow card opportunities pass and you could see the South Americans boiling over. As things got heated, Brian Wilson was introduced.

I wasn’t really listening. A sense of dread was sweeping over me. At half-time, Brian said to me, “Give it 10 minutes. Five reds at least, match abandoned.”

And so to the denouement. Both sides began kicking and elbowing each other. A Brit threw in a two-footed tackle that missed – thankfully – and his Chilean target responded with a massive boot to the side of his assailant’s knee. The 11^th kick-off of the day was truly spectacular.

We were told by the local FA not to break up fights, although we always tried to calm things down. Here we didn’t need to do anything. Two mounted policemen behind the goal, perhaps a bit bored by how little action they’d got from the anti-abortion ultras – peeled off to sort things out.

At that point, I heard Brian Wilson with clarity. The man who defined the Beach Boys, one of the greatest figures in pop history, was singing, “hold on to your ego,” revisiting the original version of I Know There’s An Answer off Pet Sounds.

I though, fucking hell, Brian, if you know an answer to this sort of lunacy, I’d love to hear it. No wonder he changed the lyrics back.

The match was abandoned. No arrests were made. There was more fingerpointing and abusive shouting between the players than between the whole pro- and anti-choice crews.

By the time everything had calmed down, Brian Wilson was gone. An hour later, me and my mate Brian were sitting side by side in the Daily Pint on Pico, just like we’d sat together at Cardinal Godfrey. “How did any of this happen?” I asked. “Is any of this real, Bri?”

The voice of Norris Green replied. “Is it fuck,” he said.

Rest well, Mr Wilson. I may not have seen you. Yet, as I think back, I heard you. I really did. Still holding on to that ego.