Never Let 'em See Your Underbelly

I made a HUGE mistake today on the soccer field. I was Assistant Referee (AR) for a U-12 boys game in a tournament. U-12 means the boys are under 12 years old at the beginning of their soccer year, so by now most of them are 12. Two teams, one from Texas and one from Colorado. There are two AR's for each game and one Center Referee (head honcho). The AR's are positioned along the touch line, which is the side boundary of the field. Each AR "runs the line" from the half line across the middle of the field to the goal line at one end. One AR gets the team side, one gets the spectator side. Today I got the spectator side, the side with all the parents. (cue in "pending doom" music)

I made a bad call. It was actually an error of omission. I failed to make an offside call when it was indicated. It was due to my misunderstanding of a fine point of the laws of soccer, and I won't bore you with the details. Unfortunately, a goal resulted, and the parents went bananas. "OFFSIDES, REF!! OFFSIDES! OFFSIDES!"([In truth, it was only two or three Dads - it usually is- but they were loud enough and awful enough to expand my impression to the whole group.) The center ref came over and we conferred privately. I explained the positioning of the players to him. He educated me, then he made the offside call, took away the goal, and restarted the game at the offside position.

That was not my huge mistake. It was not even the first mistake of my (so far short) reffing life, nor will it be the last. Nor was it terribly egregious, although I was embarrassed that I didn't know the law more thoroughly. All refs make mistakes. It's the nature of the beast. You can't be everywhere and see everything all the time. A good ref does his/her best, gets most of them right, and everybody's happy. Or, everybody's equally unhappy, which is the same thing. As it turned out, the team that lost their ill-gotten goal went on to cream the other team anyway. They were a better team.

No, my mistake wasn't that I missed a call. My mistake came afterward. My mistake was forgetting that referees never make mistakes. Period. By definition. The referee is always right. You may not agree, in fact you may disagree verbally, but the game goes the ref's way. Every time. Parents (and other spectators) disagree all the time, often very verbally, sometimes abusively. The experienced refs have learned to just shut their ears to the parental barrage. Most parents have only half a clue about the laws of the game, and they're on the sidelines, not in the middle of the action, meaning they can't see the game as well as the refs, and they're usually wrong about whatever they're bellowing about anyway, so the good refs ignore them.

I find this difficult. I'm working on it, but when I hear rude shouts from the people behind me, challenges to good calls made with comments like, "Are you BLIND, ref?""Are you watching the game at ALL, ref?" etc, my hackles rise. (I don't know where hackles are exactly, but I know what it feels like when they rise). I want to turn around and educate them, or chastise them, or punch 'em in their obnoxious faces! Conversely, I've been known to chat up a nice group of parents before the game or during a break. Both of these approaches are bad ideas. Do not engage the spectators. Period. In no way, shape, form or fashion. These are probably rules 2 and 3 of referee etiquette.

And ESPECIALLY don't forget rule #1. The referee is always right.

So, when I, after screwing up the offside call, turned and apologized to the parents for making a mistake, I was trashing all three rules. THAT was my big mistake. NEVER say "oops" when refereeing. NEVER admit a mistake. Oops, I mean, we don't MAKE mistakes! We are always RIGHT!

In medicine, we also make mistakes. Of course. People are human. Everyone makes mistakes. So, when I make a mistake in my medical practice, I do what seems to me to be the Right Thing To Do. I acknowledge the mistake, apologize, and fix it. And do my best not to repeat the same mistake. I believe this is the Right approach in life in general.

But in refereeing, it really is different. It really is important that the referee maintain their status as undisputed boss of the field, head traffic controller, the guy (or gal) with the Last Word. The referee must maintain control of the game, or the game will get out of control. "The referee is always right" is one way this crucial control is maintained. There are no debates about what the correct call should be. There are no voting sessions on the field, or discussion with players, fans, or coaches. Right or wrong, the ref is right. We must maintain the illusion of omniscience in order to keep things running smoothly.

Back to my blunder. I naively thought that admitting my mistake to the howling parents and apologizing would calm them down, would satisfy them, would make them see me as human. NOT! Instead, it seemed like it lit a fire under them. First, they looked at me as if I were speaking Hungarian. Then they proceeded to get even more rabid, even more insulting, for the rest of the game.Like jackals who catch sight of a gazelle's soft underbelly, they were on us, growling and snapping. What I had done was give them ammo. Evidence of incompetence, which they hungrily foist upon the three of us for the rest of the game.

I didn't turn around again, didn't make eye contact again, didn't speak to a one of them after the game. I learned my lesson, too late for that game, but not too late for the next. No more Ms. Nice Guy. Rule number one is my armor, my shield, my backbone.

Next time too, I think I'll bring earplugs. And a muzzle (for me). Just in case.

My First Time as Top Dawg

Try something new, I always say. Good idea, right? Spice up your life, get some perspective, challenge yourself!

Today I tried "being a center referee" in soccer. Brand new experience for me. I've watched soccer for 15 years, played soccer for 7 years, and been a sideline referee for 1 year. So you'd think I'd have a pretty good idea of what to expect, right? Think again, bright eyes.

I should have known better. After all, one of the main lessons I learned each time I started a new soccer activity was that I had no idea what the next step was like until I experienced it. Parents who watch from the sidelines, yelling directions and criticisms as if they know the game inside and out, have no clue what it's like for their kids to be out there playing. Until the parent plays. Parents who play develop an instant respect for their kids. Once I started playing, I stopped yelling from the sidelines.

Players, in their turn, tend to get critical of referees. They think the ref "has it out" for them, is favoring the other team, is blind, stupid, incompetent, slow. I've been there, too. Until I became a referee. It's a whole different view of the game, and it carries a heavy responsibility, even for the linesman. Linesperson, in my case. Players who ref develop instant respect for the referees. Once I started reffing, I stopped yelling from the field.

From linesperson to center referee is a bigger step than you might think. The center is the Top Dawg. The center's word is Law. This means the center has to know the rules cold, and to make decisions quickly and, well, decisively. And stick with it, even if it's the wrong call. The center keeps time, records goals and penalties, keeps the game under control. It's a big responsibility, a lot to do, and I had beginner's butterflies.

They gave me 7 year olds. Oh good, seven! Sounded manageable. Good way to practice being an authority figure, which is always a challenge for me. At seven, the field is tiny and there are only eight players on the field at a time, four from each team. No goalie. I won't bore you with the rest of the rules, even though there aren't many. The players are tiny and cute and you'd think the parent comments would run along the lines of "Aww, look, he kicked the ball!" Think again, bright eyes.

I was amazed by this group of parents. "Enthusiastic" doesn't begin to do them justice. You'd think their tots were World Cup contenders. Constant uproar from the sidelines. Shouted instructions to the kids. Shouted instructions to me. Loud protestations at my calls. Real anger if a call went against their team. Deafening cheers for each goal. That last, I don't mind. Positive enthusiasm is always welcome. But the rest....whatever happened to "setting an example of mature behavior"? Whatever happened to "respecting authority"? Whatever happened to "Hey, they are only SEVEN YEARS OLD for crying out loud, and this is A GAME, folks!"

Mercifully, a seven-year old game is short, and I was so busy keeping track of everything (like which team was headed which way - don't laugh, it gets confusing!) and trying to focus on the game and do my dang job, that I didn't have attention left over to chastise the parents. Not to mention I was new and nervous and none too sure of myself. I wish I had. Chastised them. I should have. Now I want to go back and do it over again, with my 20-20 hindsight and my belated bravado.

Next time I'll begin the game with a lecture to the parents. I'll hand out chill pills, pleas, threats. I'll remind them that the players are children, they are adults, and request that they act like it. I'll tell them firmly that if they don't behave, I'll throw them out and they can watch the game from the parking lot. More importantly, I'll remind myself that my word is Law, that I am the Top Dawg, and that nobody, but nobody, better mess with me! Just try it, chump! Grrrr! Back off! Woof!

The kids were just boys playing soccer. They were cute. They were energetic, active, involved in the game. Thank goodness, their parents' attitudes hadn't trickled down to them. They did what I said, accepted my calls, played the game without protest. Until the last minute. I called a corner kick. As the boys gathered in front of the goal, one of the defenders gave me that look. The look that said, "What the fuck is that call, ref?". Hands outstretched, palms up. Mouth open in righteous disbelief. I'm sure you can picture it. A very grown up look, shockingly out of place on a seven year old face. I almost thought I imagined it, but he held it long enough to be sure I got it. Little prick.

At the time I was pissed (in case you couldn't tell). But now, looking back, I'm just sad. Sad about the messages those parents were giving their kids. Sad that at the tender age of seven years old, that child had already internalized an attitude and a behavior that was just going to fester and grow with him. An attitude that, in the end, would do him as big a disservice as those he foist it upon.

I'll take on Top Dawg again sometime, wiser and tougher after my surprising experience today. I expect my sadness will turn to wisdom and my shock into strategy. Meanwhile, I'll be licking my wounds and practicing my woof.

Giving and Taking Orders

Yesterday I spent the morning "running line" out at the soccer complex. For those that are soccer parents or soccer players, you know what this means. The "linesperson's" official title is "Assistant Referee" or "A.R." As an AR, you assist the Center Referee, who is the big cheese, the bottom line, the boss. The Center makes all the final decisions, sets the tone of the game, and has the power to throw players or parents off the field, even to stop the game if necessary. He or she is the boss. As their assistant, I am "beneath" them, so to speak, and have to bow to their greater authority.

In my job as a doc, I'm not used to taking orders. I'm not that used to giving them, either, to tell the truth. I'm one of those docs that asks for things rather than demands them, that uses "please" and "thank you" and does things for myself if the nurse looks busy. In spite of that, I know that I am in charge in that situation, and that there are people "beneath" me that have to do what I say. I have the greater authority.

It's interesting to move back and forth between those types of roles. I was noticing yesterday, when I wasn't the one in charge, I found it kind of a relief. I could relax, let someone else make the decisions and call the shots. Since I don't do that anywhere else (no, not at home, just ask my husband!) it was kind of a nice change.

That's all for today. No gory story. Just a few random thoughts. (I'm too tired from running up and down the field plus playing my own game today - think I'll hit the hot tub!)