EZ and the Intangibles

by Katz, Bob;

  I should have made the coaches write it all down in plain English, so I could prove that none of this was my idea, so there would be no mistake about what was being proposed, so I could show it to a lawyer if this ruined—as I feared that it would—what was left of my life.

  The referee who had been assigned to this game had not yet arrived. The two coaches had discussed delaying the start of the game. One coach wanted to, but the other did not. The weather forecast—which the coaches had been monitoring on their smart phones—called for worsening snow throughout the afternoon, with no let-up until nightfall.

  Coach Rutledge stepped up the riser and took a seat beside me. That was weird.

  I bent over my stat sheet, nearly curling into a ball. I was a little gray snail pulling into its shell.

  “EZ,” he pleaded, “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I learned later that two of the assistant coaches, one from each team, plus a couple of the parents in attendance, had offered their services. Evidently, that’s what the arguing between Coach Rutledge and the Nelsonville coach had been about. Neither trusted the other. They did not trust that an assistant coach or the parent of a kid could be fair-minded, impartial, and objective. They did not trust that someone with a deep allegiance to a team could reliably judge the truth of each circumstance, regardless of which team was harmed or advantaged.

  So where did that leave me?

  Coach Rutledge, I later learned, was actually a certified high school referee and had officiated dozens of games throughout the state. The Nelsonville coach was a father of one of their players. He had not played for the Boston Celtics but had been a Division II player at a college in Virginia and he knew all the rules and the hand signals. Both coaches offered to referee the game, individually or in tandem for the sake of fairness. Each had vetoed the other.

  One of the Nelsonville dads was a police department detective, a veteran of the Iraq war, and he was also their designated representative at the scorer’s table. He volunteered to ref. No way, Jose.

  Rafael Ott’s mother was an emergency room nurse at the regional hospital. She’d actually treated kids and parents from each team. And she’d been a high school basketball player herself. The Nelsonville coach nixed her.

  How was it that I was considered to be qualified when such very qualified adults had been rejected?

  It seems that it came down to a process of elimination. Despite my complete lack of experience—or possibly because of it—I was, as the saying goes, their least worst option.

  The coaches were quite considerate in how they presented their request. They made a point of telling me that I was “free to say no,” and that they would be “okay” with it if I declined. It was a very nice thing to say but I did not believe it for a second, and also worried that my already damaged reputation would suffer even further if I said “No.”

  The coaches said I could try it out for five minutes. They promised they would stop the game at the five-minute mark specifically to give me the choice of continuing or not.

  If I was finding it too difficult or too awkward or feeling too much pressure, or if I was messing up too badly (they didn’t say this, but I knew it was on their minds because it certainly was on mine), I could “opt out.” They didn’t use the word “quit” and didn’t need to. I understood that’s what “opt out” would amount to.

  As to my approach, they told me to keep it simple (ha!), to stay within my comfort zone (yeah, right), and only make calls that were obvious (whatever that meant).

  What I should have said, had I been thinking clearly, was: “Hey, we don’t really need a ref.”

  Kids played ball all the time—at the park, at recess, at the Y, in their driveways—and we never used a ref. We knew how to call fouls on each other. We knew how and when to call fouls on ourselves (although somebody would probably have had to have a talk with Troy on this point). If a disagreement erupted, we worked it out, eventually. If we couldn’t work it out, if nobody conceded, we flipped a coin. If the argument continued to smolder and tempers flared and nobody backed off, well, that’s it, game over.

  If you wanted the game to continue, you simply found a way to work it out.

  Kids knew how to play a game fairly when we only had to answer to ourselves about what was legal and illegal, about what was right and wrong, what needed to be corrected and what was okay to let go.

  It’s grownups that required referees. Even when the game was being played by kids.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Just my luck—the Nelsonville coach had a spare zebra jersey in the equipment bag that he used at scrimmages. It was ridiculously oversized and stank of stale sweat. One of the moms helped knot the jersey at the shoulders so it wouldn’t completely slip off me. I stuffed the extra yard of fabric into my jeans, bulging my beltline. I probably looked ridiculous.

  TV announcers point out that you really know a ref is doing a great job if you don’t even notice him. Well, that was not happening with me. I felt like a clown on parade—

  everything but the goofy blue hair and ridiculously oversized shoes.

  The whistle? Did anybody have a whistle for me?

  I hoped the answer would be “no.” Without this essential tool of the trade, I would have had an excuse. Without a whistle, I would be a fireman without a hose, a carpenter without a saw, a chef without a frying pan.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Espada had one in her purse, and not just a cheap plastic birthday party model, but a shiny silver Fox 40 with a solid vibrating pea and a long leather neck strap. Why in the world did she have this?

  “For Calvin, our dog, when he’s off leash in the forest preserve,” Mrs. Espada explained, while hanging it around my neck like I was being awarded an Olympic medal.

  I did not remotely feel like someone being honored with an Olympic medal.

  The teams had finished warming up and sat shivering on their respective benches. People in the stands were buzzing about the severe weather warnings they were receiving on their smart phones. It was getting worse out there, not better.

  “Play ball already,” someone hollered. My first heckler? Would there be more?

  I’d been assured by the Nelsonville coach—when he came over to wish me luck and tell me not to be nervous and urge me simply to “do the right thing”—that this would be temporary. The regularly assigned referee had texted that the plows were now working his neighborhood. “Halftime, or sooner,” was his updated ETA—which stands for Estimated Time of Arrival.

  One option was to do such a ridiculously incompetent job, and do it quickly and obviously—whistle Troy for traveling the instant he caught a pass, or call goal-tending on the diminutive Nelsonville guard—that the coaches, who could not agree on anything, would agree to get me out of there, pronto.

  But call it pride or call it weakness, I decided to do what they always tell you to do when faced with a daunting challenge for which you are inadequately prepared—I decided to do my best.

  “Try it!” shouted a woman’s voice. Another heckler? I turned.

  But it was Mrs. Espada, standing up and pointing. “The whistle,” she hollered. “Make sure it works.”

  I put my lips around the silver ridge. Dare I?

  I blew, perhaps harder than necessary. The screech that shot from this tiny piece of equipment frightened me. In a flash, it was clear that this shiny metal device had special powers. And with special powers come special responsibilities. Lots of books tell you that.

  Promptly, players circled up at center court.

  Play ball!

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  If you’ve ever played a sport, any sport at all, you know how hard it is to find a groove. Especially if you’re not warmed up. It is best to take your time until you’re feeling more steady and self-confident, or until the final horn sounds. Whic
hever comes first.

  That was my mindset as my stint as ref began.

  At the start, luck was on my side. My intention was basically to do nothing. I let the whistle dangle. Because the strap was loose, it hung down by my crotch, creating another potential embarrassment. And another reason to leave it alone.

  The first minute-thirty went by uneventfully. Yes, I did take a peek up at the game clock. The time went by very, very, very slowly.

  Eventually, a few situations developed that required me to intervene. Again, I was fortunate.

  Rudy was trapped down in the post, and the pass he threw to escape the double-team sailed over the head of Matt O’Neil all the way to the Nelsonville end of the court. Clearly a backcourt violation—easy call to make. No dispute about it. I gave a loud tweet.

  A spunky Nelsonville guard double-dribbled on his drive to the hoop and then took an extra step after picking up his dribble, all in the same sequence—easy call to make. The guilty player even looked guilty, loudly cussing himself before I even had a chance to blow my whistle.

  I did notice some stuff I probably could’ve whistled if I’d been surer of myself. A Nelsonville kid hacked Troy’s arm, but it was before the shot, and the shot went in anyways. Rafael set a moving pick and kept shuffling sideways to prevent the Nelsonville defender from getting around him. It was more of a football play. If the Nelsonville coach had raised a stink about it, I probably would’ve been forced into action. But he didn’t.

  The two coaches were notably quiet, which was a surprise. I only heard Coach Rutledge yell out once, and it was aimed at Troy—“Shoot the darn ball!”—not at me. The coaches probably knew that if they complained too vehemently or harassed me in any way, I might start to cry. They were lucky to have a ref out there at all, even if it was only me.

  Announcers like to point out that “good refs don’t pay attention to the score.” Supposedly, they don’t even look at the scoreboard. So that’s what I tried to do. It took a lot of self-discipline because in my heart I really wanted us to win.

  The game was fast and furious. Nelsonville applied a full-court press after each of their baskets, and that pushed everything into a more frantic pace.

  It was bewildering, with all the jostling and nudging and sly maneuvers. Truthfully, I don’t see how two or even three refs can possibly keep an eye on all the stuff going on. Video review would have helped. And maybe the day will come when our grade-school championship games will feature multiple cameras to record every disputed play from multiple vantage points, and thereby allow refs to carefully review the film during a pause in the action before making their final, conclusive, definitive judgment.

  Personally, I don’t know if that would be a good or bad thing. Of course it matters to get each call right. But really,

  when you think about it, very few of the calls matter all that much. Mistakes happen, and refs aren’t the only ones on the court who make them. Why are the mistakes that referees make any different than mistakes that players make? Or coaches, for that matter? These thoughts darted across my mind like jigsaw fragments. But this was no time to try piecing them together.

  “Breaks of the game,” is another phrase you hear the announcers say a lot about every sport. The checked swing that becomes a bloop hit to score the winning run; the slap shot that bounces off your defenseman’s skate into your own net; your tennis opponent double faults and the victory is yours without even having to swing. Lucky bounces and bad breaks are part of all sports.

  I scrambled to keep track of all that was happening—the back-door screens and block-outs and push-offs, the tussles for the ball as it skidded out of bounds, the grasping hand that may (or may not) have nicked the shooter’s elbow, the collision in the lane that may (or may not) have been a charge. It was too much; too much to possibly monitor all of it.

  That’s when it struck me like a harsh slap in the face: I could be some team’s bad break, or lucky break, waiting to happen.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The blaring electronic buzzer from the scorer’s table jolted the gym, loud as the horn on a tractor-trailer. The first half was over. I was dumbfounded. To me, it seemed like we still had a long way until halftime. Time flies, they say, when you’re enjoying yourself. I was not enjoying myself. But maybe this wasn’t as horrible as I’d feared.

  I did steal a furtive glimpse of the scoreboard. I couldn’t help it. It was a knee-jerk response. We were up by three. I was careful not to smile. Good referees aren’t supposed to care who wins or loses. Well, nobody said I was a good ref.

  As far as I knew, there was no designated place for refs to hang out during halftime. Players moseyed to their respective benches to catch their breath and huddle with coaches. I slipped over to my usual perch on the second riser behind the scorer’s table. It’s where I was most comfortable. Also, it was where the tubby ref with the off-center nose had relaxed at halftime.

  Speaking of refs, wasn’t he supposed to be at the game already?

  I suspected the ref assigned to this game would be that same ref that Coach had a problem with. He did seem like someone who’d get easily sidetracked by heavy snow.

  I’d once asked Coach why he was so concerned that I keep tabs on this particular ref. Having briefly spoken with the man myself, he seemed pretty mild and straightforward. And the stats about him that I’d compiled so far—about the fouls he had called on Troy, and the free throw differential between teams—did not reveal any problem. In fact, they kind of proved that he was impartial and fair.

  Coach would only say was that they’d gone to high school together, and whatever it was between them went way back. “Trust me,” Coach had insisted. “There’s a problem.”

  I continued to scan the gym for my replacement. At the far end by the parking lot entrance, a man and a woman arrived. They shook the snow from their caps and stomped slush off their boots. Neither looked familiar. Neither appeared to be a referee. Neither looked to be in a hurry to take my place. They were probably Nelsonville parents, arriving late to the game.

  The first half had been a success. No major complaints or altercations. No screw-ups or humiliating mistakes. “Quit while you’re ahead,” is another phrase you hear a lot. My dad says that’s what he should’ve done, if he had been smarter.

  Quitting while ahead was not going to be an option. Not today. Not for me.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Nelsonville took the ball out from beneath their own basket. Something had changed. The action was as frantic as it had been in the first half. The nonstop circus of confusion was just as bewildering. The coaches, knowing the score was tight and sensing the game might go down to the wire, were beginning to pace and growl. What had changed out there was me.

  I was starting to anticipate the plays, to use my understanding of the sport to get myself properly positioned on the court in order to achieve the best possible vantage point for observing the action. And once I had gotten there, I was learning what to look for. I guess you could say I was getting into a groove.

  As I was officiating the game by myself, there was simply not enough time to run baseline to baseline. If I had done that, I would never have had enough time to get back to the other end if there was a steal or a quick reversal of the ball. Instead, I restricted my movements to a segment of floor between the tops of the circles. I moved with a lateral shuffle rather than an outright run, and I discovered I could manage this at a good clip with both eyes peeled.

  Nelsonville had a very fast, very determined guard who could, and did, easily drive around his Lynx defender. A southpaw, he went to his left every time. Whenever he’d lower his shoulder to go into that move, I scurried to the left sideline to monitor how our defenders—usually Rudy—attempted to swipe his dribble and disrupt his shot. If the game came down to one last possession for Nelsonville, I’d bet this was the play they’d go with, probably setting a pick
for this kid driving to his left.

  Anticipating Longview on offense was easier. I knew the kids and knew their go-to tendencies. Most plays revolved around Troy. No mystery there. Even the Nelsonville coach knew that. But I knew the angles we’d use to get the ball into him, and where I needed to position myself to make sure he wasn’t being held or hacked.

  If the game came down to one last Lynx possession, the ball would likely go to Troy. But I was aware that Coach was aware of another option—one that the numbers showed might have better odds for success.

  Judging from the accelerated action and the urgent commands being barked by the coaches, I sensed that the contest remained tight. When Coach Rutledge called a time-out, I needed a breather as much as any of the players.

  Walking to the scorer’s table, I got a sip of water, sweating like it was mid-August in the sunshine. The bald ref with the weird nose was standing there, just in from the storm, with a brown North Face parka and a Chicago Bears stocking cap.

  He, too, was out of breath, though not perspiring. Shaking the snow off his cap, he looked me up and down, taking obvious note of my zebra jersey. “Came over to the dark side, huh?”

  What could I say? It was too complicated to explain. I said nothing.

  “Everything under control?”

  “I guess.”

  Unzipping his parka, it was slowly revealed that he was wearing his own black-and-white referee jersey. It made me think of Superman, shedding the clothing of an ordinary citizen for a uniform that’s better suited to the heroic struggle ahead.

  He was smiling a lot and that put me at ease. Raising his hand stiffly to his brow, he snapped off a crisp military salute. “Reporting for duty, sir.”