The Referee Shook Hands With Their President Two Hours Before Kickoff.

I am writing this because I cannot tell anyone in my real life without sounding like a madman. But I was there. I saw it.

I arrived to the stadium early that day — two hours before the game — because I always do. I walk around the outside, I drink a coffee from the bar across the road, I watch the city get excited. It is a ritual.

Outside the main administrative entrance on the south side of the building, I saw the match referee walking with two other men I did not recognize. Coming from the other direction was the president of the visiting club — a man whose face appears on billboards all over the city when his team is doing well.

They met at the entrance. There was a handshake. Not a formal handshake — the kind two acquaintances share when they haven't seen each other in a while. There was a laugh. The referee put his hand on the president's shoulder briefly. Then they went inside together.

In the second half we had a clear goal disallowed. We had a penalty refused that was more obvious than the one they were awarded ten minutes later. We lost the match.

I have no photograph. I have no recording. I have nothing except what I saw with two functional eyes on a clear afternoon. This is how it always works. That is how they always win. Because they know that without proof, we are just angry fans. And they are right.