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Friday, January 10, 2014

A Boy and his Whistle: Chronicles of Clueless Referee


I was 18 years old and understandably low on cash. My father had essentially kidnapped me and drove me around the county asking me to enter any establishment in search for employment for my senior spring and the upcoming summer. Despite my eagerness (largely to get the fuck out of the tired mom and pop stores) and my winning smile, I struck out on the small business scene and returned home jobless. With a few half used chipotle gift cards as the only assets to my name, the urgency picked up, and thats when the phone rang. My friend called on behalf of the local 5th grade basketball league in search of a replacement referee. He knew that I needed a job, and he knew that I had always loved and had been involved in sports. Of course, there was one detail I neglected to mention following the godsend of an offer...I knew absolutely nothing about the rules of basketball.

With hopes that the charade could go unnoticed, I met with the league’s boss, gave off the vibe of someone who knew what he was doing, and took the court for my debut. Contrary to what the parents, coaches, and players must’ve thought, I had a whistle with me. And not surprisingly, the “let the kids play through it” philosophy is much more accepted in the NBA Finals than in the 5th grade rec league. During the few instances in which I blew the whistle loud enough for someone other than the scoreboard operator to hear, I froze with all eyes on me desperately searching for some remotely basketball related words to say.

This act went on for weeks and what I quickly learned was that 5th grade fathers turn into a fearsome Bobby Knight Greg Popovich combo in the midst of a tight 18-16 contest in the 4th quarter. Either that or they were frustrated beyond containment that the league they paid to participate in used its money to give $20 per game to someone who probably never watched an entire game let alone participate in one.

Despite the accumulated hours of kids whining for fouls (probably deserved since there were more unnoticed hacks than a Siberian timber yard and the minds behind “Cougar Town” combined) and grumpy 40-something’s questioning my brain capacity, I had made it to the season’s end with surprisingly no written complaints. Perhaps they would have treated any official that way in the heat of the moment. In any event, the final task ahead of me was the All star game (yes, they had an all star game). What I figured would be a nice low-tension conclusion to my fraudulent journey turned out to be my greatest officiating test to date.

The first unexpected twist of the night was the swift elimination of the full court press rule which allowed all offense and defense to take place before the midcourt line instead of  beginning once the ball crossed the middle as I had grown accustomed to throughout the season.  If I had a vote I would’ve stuck to the regular season rules but hey, I guess the anarchist demon children should have their say as well. I did my best to keep up with the quickened pace and fortunately I began to adjust, until things took a turn for the worse when my assistant referee decided to go for an alley oop mid game. Correct, the ref had built enough of a rapport to the point where he could organize an alley oop with the point guard that was met with a chorus of jovial laughter, not to mention the solidification of him as the fun ref. Fuck me. On top of my lackluster officiating abilities and continued dread of being in that sweaty pre-pubescent gym, I had been firmly entrenched as the un-fun referee. Just when the grand finale couldn’t get any worse, I received the ultimate death stare from sasquatch himself, the previously silent coach who stood a hard 6 foot 6. The charges filed? Apparently I was “giving him a nasty look.” Maybe I hadn’t masked my bitterness and disdain quite as well as I thought, but this guy was about to get the business if not for the halftime whistle, and the fact that he could break my face.

I paced around the gym knowing that I either had to call the guy out or at least come up with some fake-ass apology for the nasty look that I didn’t give. I chose the latter and headed over to the monstrous man expecting some more wrath, when suddenly I saw him come towards me. Before I could begin my “I’m sorry” soliloquy the coach exclaimed “Hey bud I’m really sorry for getting angry with you. You didn’t do anything wrong I just haven’t been thinking straight. My mother passed away a couple days ago and its been really hard for all of us.” His mother passed away. Yes I heard him correctly, his mother passed away.  Don’t get me wrong, the human in me was crushed to hear this because the loss was obviously having an effect on the poor guy. But in some sick twisted and shameful way this sorrow ridden apology was the Popeye spinach I needed to fulfill the officiating potential that they saw in me from day one of this entire fiasco. 

The second half began with the heartiest whistle this side of Thomas the Tank Engine, and I proceeded to give the most all-star worthy performance that league had ever seen. The calls were on point, the whistles were clear, and I even found myself smiling in the midst of it all. For those final two quarters that league was mine, and my relentless pursuit of the basketball law helped remove 90% of the guilt I planned on feeling for collecting a $1,000 check in exchange for a fraudulent misuse of authority and unparalleled basketball ignorance. In addition to learning a thing or two about basketball, I learned a lot about myself  throughout the entire experience, aside from the fact that I apparently thrive off of somber apologies from grief-stricken rec coaches. “Fake it til you make it” never proved to be more applicable, and I’d like this to serve as cautionary tale for anyone with a cash flow problem and a natural knack for bullshit.  

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