Their jet black, Nike basketball shoes are laced tightly. Their mouths are dry with excitement. They jump up and down eagerly in the hallway outside Alexander High School’s gymnasium. Anticipatory beads of sweat reel down their cheeks. The lighthearted demeanor of a half hour ago has gradually escaped them. It is ten minutes from the start of Saturday night’s basketball game, and they are the officials.
These guys are as beloved as the IRS. They are more invisible than Adam Smith’s hand. They are lonelier than a salad fork in India. As fans, we batter them and bruise them. We heckle them and harass them. We tease them and taunt them. Sometimes we refuse to even acknowledge them as human. That’s why I sought to find the story behind these Martians. That’s right. Instead of taking in Saturday night’s basketball game, I shadowed the men in stripes. I went for a stroll in their shoes and found the real stories of these robotic referees.
“It’s one referee and two umpires,” Ed Caudill corrects me. We have just settled into the official’s locker room, which is in all actuality a large classroom with murals of past presidents lining the walls. “Umpire” Neil Knight and Caudill tease their partner Brent Billings about his pre game ritual that begins with an instant trip to the bathroom upon arrival to the arena. As they change out of their street clothes into their ironed black slacks and fabled striped top, they continue to banter and recall old officiating stories.
They are laughing. Hmm, that is kind of human, right?
Seeing what appeared to be a notion of emotion in them, I request to learn more about them.
Ed is 53 years old. He has been married for 28 years. He also is sure to point out that he has been officiating for 28 years. Amidst a roomful of chuckles, he insists it is merely a coincidence. He enjoys what he calls “man stuff“ such as hunting, fishing, and golf. Brent is 49 and married twenty years. He golfs, shops, and yells at his son. Neil is 52 and widowed. He has officiated 24 years. He loves sports and plays guitar.
Their human level is rising rampantly. They are no different than the average fan. Brent’s son even plays high school basketball himself making him, at times, one of the fans.
“What is the number one reason you ref?” I inquire. All three answer within ten seconds. All answers are the same. They do it because they love the game of basketball. This is striking to me. They are not out there conspiring against teams. They are not trying to take over games. They simply yearn to be a part of the game they love, the game they all played when they were younger.
Now, all Shrek aside, whenever I hear the word love it just screams human to me. In fact, officiating basketball games makes them even more human. Brent tells me it serves as a stress reliever at the end of long workdays. That speaks volumes to his passion for the game. I am guessing you will find only a select few people who consider leaving work and going to get publicly scrutinized for two hours straight a stress reliever.
It is an escape for Neil Knight. Six years ago his wife passed away. In a period of mourning, what was the thing that served as an escape, giving him a much-needed opportunity to be around something he loved? You guessed it, officiating high school basketball.
Now the transformation begins. As they enter the court, they turn from their exuberant, talkative selves to the machines we perceive them to be. Why? Because they have to. They refuse to be partial, and quite frankly, they tell me, they like it that way.
As they waltz onto the floor they are as apathetic as Alexander’s water coolers. They are more neutral than Switzerland. They stand alone, blending in to their surroundings as pre game warm-ups take place. The game begins and moves quickly. The game is played cleanly throughout the first half. In less than a half hour, halftime arrives.
I follow the officials into the locker room and ask what such a quiet first half means. They adamantly proclaim that it is an overwhelming good sign. Neil tells me that not hearing anything from fans or coaches is the biggest compliment a referee can get.
In the locker room, three chilled Gatorades await the officials. Alexander Athletic Director, Josh Merckle, waits with a pen and piece of paper to take the officials’ orders for a post game meal. Wow, I thought, this is not so bad.
Merckle is a regular Martha Stewart when it comes to hosting officials. He provides them a meal, their game paycheck, and even offers them a place to shower after the game. It is like a Holiday Inn Express with a Continental dinner. He constantly thanks the refs, which is magnified in their eyes because officiating is generally a thankless job. He takes welcoming to an entirely new level. He jokes with them, caters to them, and makes certain that they know their work is appreciated. I decide if I ever would ever win the lottery, I would hire Josh Merckle to bring me a Gatorade and talk to me when I am having a bad day.
The second half comes quickly. The officials told me things tend to get more intense late in the game, and their suggestion proved true. A late third quarter foul call results in grief for Ed. A player lays out for the ball and takes out an opponent’s knees. Unhappy with the call, fans roar in disapproval. Ed’s rebuttal is, well, not to rebuttal. He is irreversibly indifferent. The next play contact is made and none of the officials made a call. The crowd erupts again. The officials are utterly unaffected. They remain rigorous in their duties. Their ability to block out their surroundings is superior. For the fans, it is like yelling at a coffee table. For the officials, it is like doing their job.
After the two outbursts, the game ends with very few whimpers of appeal. They come into the locker room sweating like oil executives on Capitol Hill. They are human again. They congratulate each other on a well-officiated game and partake in their respective meals. They converse about the game and speak highly of the teams. “We’re all a fan of the kids,” Ed insisted referring to all officials.
They change back into their street clothes and return to their everyday lives. As they walk out of the gym no one notices them, no one makes eye contact with them, and no one says anything to them. Neil Knight, Ed Caudill, and Brent Billings are free to release a grin, for now they know they have done their job.
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