The Official

Sophia is ten. Miles is nine.

I think that’s right. I don’t know. It seems like we celebrate birthdays all the time. Until further notice, they’re ten and nine.

They play basketball at West Central Community Center. It’s a fun place. The concession stand has good food. Really. Surprisingly fine cuisine for a youth basketball league in the metropolis of Pfafftown.

The league is competitive. Parents volunteer as coaches and scorekeepers. It’s a family environment. Lots of sponsorship banners hanging on the walls and from the rafters.

It works. The teams are assigned names from ACC squads. Tar Heels. Deacons. Tigers. And on and on and on.

Sophia is a Yellow Jacket. Miles is a Cavalier. Cool.

It’s a relatively small gym. Bleachers on one side. It is what it needs to be.

The crowd is typically quiet. Suspiciously reflective. Especially, especially, when the ball is in play and precious seconds are ticking off the clock.

Come on people. It’s a ballgame. Be loud. Let’s get – a little bit rowdy, R – O – W (hand clap) D-Y!

“We got spirit, yes we do. We got spirit, how ‘bout you?”

I’m the disruptive one at WCCC. Everybody knows it. I’m loud.

I can’t help it. I’m Margaret’s son. Vikki’s husband. Dad-O to Sophia and Miles. Catherine and Emmett are our best friends. Our family and our circle do “loud” really, really well. It’s a gift.

From my days as the Viking at North Forsyth, I’ve taken great pride in my ability to cause a ruckus in any gym, during any game.

It’s accurate to say that 90% of everything I holler and bellow is encouraging. Uplifting. Meaningful.

I implore Miles to make the pass. I remind Sophia to play defense. Get on the floor. Rebound the ball. Everybody guard. Box out. You can do it. Don’t give up. Keep trying.

I don’t second-guess the coach. I leave that to others.

Occasionally, I’ll bellyache about a call, but it’s not a frequent occurrence.

Who argues with referees in a youth league game? That takes a jackass.

I hope for that which every coach and every parent hope. When it comes to officiating, that is.

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

That’s it. Nothing more. I don’t think that is too much to ask.

Well…

WCCC is home to several officials, but there is one in particular. I’m not a fan. He is wildly inconsistent.

One week, dribbling is essentially optional. The next week, he’ll blow the whistle fifteen times for traveling. In the first half.

One week, there will be no fouls for moving screens and the next week, the coach will have to shuffle the lineup thanks to foul trouble.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also a youth league. Make the obvious calls. Let the children play. He invariably stops the game to lecture third-graders about the technicalities of “freedom of movement” and inbounding the ball.

In Miles’ division, you cannot guard your opponent, or attempt to steal the ball, until the ball is in the front court. (Past the mid-court line for you football people.)

The Cavaliers were down three. Miles waited until his counterpart crossed the line, picked his pocket and took off for an uncontested layup.

A whistle. Technical foul on number four for guarding in the backcourt. Miles wears jersey #4.

I couldn’t contain myself.

“Miles, do it again. You were absolutely right. Do it again.”

Seven seconds later, the whistle blew. Again. Personal foul. Number four.

The official turned and glared at me. Miles was at least twenty feet from the play. Ridiculous. Vindictive.

In retrospect, I should have been quiet. I wasn’t.

“Miles, don’t sweat it. He called that one on me. Keep playing. You’re fine.”

The Cavaliers got pounded the rest of the way. There was no comeback. Oh well. We lost.

I don’t worry, and I don’t want Sophia and Miles to worry, about missed shots or losses. So what? It happens. Keep playing. Work hard. Be a great teammate. Don’t quit. Listen to the coach. All that stuff.

We never-ever-ever talk about missed shots. It is what it is. We don’t dwell on losing.

“Did you do everything you could do to help the team? Did you hustle? Did you thank your coach?”

We practice three things in the driveway.

1. Rebound.
2. Play defense.
3. Make the pass.

Everything else will work out. We’re also big on the whole “be a great teammate” thing. Enjoy the game.

It’s not as complicated as fans and commentators make it out to be.

During one of Sophia’s recent games, Vikki and I (in our customary spot on the front row) were talking about husband-wife stuff. A private conversation.

My least-favorite official ever was standing next to me, preparing to hand the ball to a kid so the game could resume.

He held onto the ball, looked down at me and said, “I’ve had enough of you.”

Surely he wasn’t speaking to me, was he?

He said it again, staring straight into my eyes.

“I’ve had enough of you.”

“Alright. I heard you the first time, I’ve had enough of you, too.”

“I’m serious. I’ve had enough of you.”

Awkward pause. Uncomfortable silence.

I guess he doesn’t like my vocal enthusiasm. I don’t like his random interruptions. We’re even.

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

The last two weeks, the Cavaliers and the Yellow Jackets have found their mojo. Both teams are peaking. It’s starting to come together. The post-season tournament looms in the not-too-distant future.

Back to the man in prison stripes. He has apparently decided to stop calling anything except the most egregious fouls and jump balls (his favorite violation.)

Herein lies the problem, when kids start to ignore the rules and proceed recklessly without the benefit of common sense, injuries happen. Players get hurt.

I think it is imperative for the adults in charge to make sure kids don’t harm other kids. Coaches can only do so much. The officials are responsible for what happens on the floor.

Two weeks ago. Sophia’s team. A Yellow Jacket was knocked down multiple times. Hard. She was in tears. It happened repeatedly. I fully expected her daddy to make his presence known. I was irritated. She was finally carried off the floor and watched the end of the game from her seat on the end of the bench.

No whistles. No fouls. The score didn’t matter. I don’t know if we won or lost.

Last week. Sophia’s team. Same official. Close game. Two more Yellow Jackets pushed down from behind. Injured.

I’m not blaming the other players. They were trying to get the ball. It was wrong, but understandable.

No whistle. No foul. Another child carried off the court. She sobbed in her father’s arms until the game clock read 00:00.

The official wandered to the far end of the court while players scheduled for the next game started warming up.

I walked toward Sophia, gathering my thoughts for our traditional post-game father-daughter moment.

Sophia is tough. Hard-nosed. Strong-willed. A steel magnolia. Like her mama. Like her grandmother.

The tears caught my attention. It’s not like her to cry after a game.

“Sophia.”

She looked up. A bloody lip.

“When did this happen?”

“At the end.”

I had missed it. One thing was certain, I hadn’t heard another whistle. There was no foul.

I knew better than to approach the official, who bears a striking resemblance to Captain Merrill Stubing from THE LOVE BOAT.

I walked to the scorer’s table. A league representative was sitting there. I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I said what I needed to say to make the point.

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

Sophia’s coach was nearby. I pointed to the coach and spoke to league rep, “You know, that whole wrong call or right call, consistent or inconsistent, fair or unfair, winning or losing – those are all his problems. He can handle those things.

But when we have players carried off the floor in consecutive weeks due to injuries that could have been prevented, that’s your problem.

My daughter’s busted lip is my problem.

He’ll deal with his and I’ll deal with mine. You need to deal with your problem. And it’s standing down there in stripes, holding a whistle.”

Consistency. Fairness. Let the kids play. Keep them safe.

I’ve had enough of him.