In training, we were taught to never, ever admit we we’re
wrong. In most positions of power, such as a CEO, a military
general or God, this practice is simple. Your power is unquestioned
and respected.
When you’re a UCLA intramural sports referee, however, you
get the Steve Lavin treatment. Any successes will be ignored like a
gymnastics championship, and your every mistake will be hurdled
back in your face loudly and with every intention of making you
feel inadequate in every aspect
of your life.
With only a few hours a week to commit to, I decided to sign up
for one of the more thankless jobs in the world. I regarded it as
my duty to all the refs in my past I had badmouthed just because
that’s what you do when you’re a kid and your team
loses.
Training consisted mostly of the supervisors prepping us for
some of the abuse we might experience. In the case of a physical
threat, we were to swallow our manliness, back down, and find
the supervisor.
Of course, fighting would be a guaranteed ass-kicking, as people
would not be particularly willing to help us out. It is every
athlete’s secret fantasy to see a referee severely
beaten.
When working at our best, no one noticed us. When I caught a guy
in the lane pushing off for position down low, nothing was said
““ side-out, and the ball proceeded the other way. But, when I
wasn’t looking and some guy was clobbered in a moving screen,
I had five irate guys calling me blind.
This kind of behavior has “psychological experiment”
written all over it. Most of the players seemed like friendly,
considerate, laid-back guys that generally had nothing but good
intentions toward fellow members of their species.
Something about the white and black stripes and the whistle,
though, made some people treat me like an enemy.
I found myself playing favorites sometimes. It’s
impossible for a lifelong sports fan to watch sports and be
impartial. Even when your team is not playing, you root for the
lesser of the two evils. Even if it’s for a non-sports
related reason ““ like one team having a Rasheed Wallace
type.
In those cases, I would catch myself rooting against the said
player’s team and being more subjective with the trend of my
calls.
Trust me, this was done subconsciously.
By now, you probably have the impression that the job was
horrible and every player was a jerk. On the contrary, my
experience was rather positive.
It was by far the most entertaining job I’ve held. Plus,
sometimes, there were compliments. Maybe it was just a “good
game” and a handshake. But I was so insecure that it was
reassuring to know I wouldn’t be on those guys’ hit
lists.
In the dozen or so games I did ref, I made some horrible calls.
Some calls I wished I could take back right as I blew the whistle.
Some calls I would miss because I was daydreaming about some girl
in the stands or my Golden State Warriors making the playoffs.
If you were playing in those games, I apologize.
I think I had the unpleasant behavior figured out by the end.
UCLA’s Division I athletic programs compete at such a high
caliber that the non-student-athlete population includes many who
were stars in high school.
In basketball, it is magnified because of its popularity
and by the fact that only a relative few athletes can play in
college. This leaves many exceptional players with only the option
of intramural basketball if they are to attain the coveted social
title of “basketball player.”
And if you have been training and competing at high levels your
whole life, you don’t just lose that instinct or desire. For
better or worse, intramurals may be the only outlet for that
passion, which makes controlling it as a ref a tough job,
especially when these guys are your peers. This may be the recipe
for red-faced, profanity-laden bursts of frustration over an
intramural game.
Or, there is another equally plausible, and much simpler,
explanation that reaches the very heart of the ugliness I
witnessed.
Maybe I just sucked.