I Remember the Name of that Referee
When I was eight years old, my parents suspended me from family Monopoly games for a month. Logic tells me, it was probably a single game but I remember it being a month. “Why were you banned from the game?” you ask. I threw the board across the room after going bankrupt.
Okay – as a child I didn’t handle losing very graciously. So what if I put all my money into a hotel on Baltic Avenue. Is that any reason I should be declared bankrupt? At my first (and last) childhood birthday party, why should I get disqualified from the marshmallow relay race just because I picked up the marshmallows I dropped and put them back on my spoon. My mom, my first referee, called foul. I protested hysterically at the injustice.
Mike, an extremely successful coach friend of mine, told me the Greek word for compete means “to strive together or strive in common.” Mike is a reader, a thinker, a meditator, a studier of the human animal, an individual who strives to find the best in himself and others. But Mike also hates losing. From what I gather from his post-game synopses, referees rarely call his games correctly and are often partially at fault for the outcome, at least when his team loses. As for the Greeks, they’re up to their wazoos in debt because no-one pays taxes. What do they know about striving together?
I was in 7th grade when my aunt, a professor in Chicago and also a nun, came for a visit. My dad, always the gallant host, treated her by bringing her to one of my grade school basketball games. I was having a game – four steals in the first quarter because my opponent kept telegraphing his moves. Eventually, however, he stopped telegraphing, turning my steals into fouls and then a technical for righteously and justifiably screaming at the referee for his poor judgment.
Eventually, I fouled out. Walking toward the bench, I peeked into the stands and saw the anguish in my father’s face, the astonishment on my aunt’s. Obviously, they were as disgusted by the refereeing as I was. So later, after the game, why was my father scolding, “Your attitude was an embarrassment. And in front of your aunt who came to watch you play.”
One more childhood story you’re dying to hear.
I was seven or eight years old when I played for the Sharks. I was the best player on our team. You’re correct, we weren’t very good. Our last game of the season I was pitted against Ricky. Who is Ricky, you ask? I don’t know. I don’t know if Ricky turned out to be a great soccer star, a bust, an inventor, a best-selling author of self-help books or a heroin addict . What I do know is that one fall day in the late 70s little Robbie Harrington and little Ricky Somebody waged an epic battle for supremacy on a soccer field.
Ricky, as I remember him, was a long-legged kid with fluid moves, gliding through and around our players with ease. I, on the other hand, was quick and violent, losing and gaining control of the ball with tackles and desperation last-second cuts. When the game ended, we lost 0-2. I had failed to score. The battle of the titans ended with little Ricky 1, little Robbie 0. As with all games, we finished with a post-game handshake or hand-slap and half-hearted “good game.” Then, of course, there would be a post-game wrap-up with the coach, a few leftover orange slices and the drive home.
Not this game. I never made it to the wrap-up with coach. When I reached little Ricky in line, I withdrew my hand and stuck out my tongue. Sweet vindication – if you can’t beat them you can at least let them know what you think of them. That little prima donna didn’t deserve my handshake.
I moved on, possibly another four steps when I felt the back of my shirt rising up and the front of my shirt assaulting my neck. My dad had witnessed the episode and wasn’t pleased. He dragged me to the car and sat me down: “If you ever pull something like that again, don’t expect to be on any team.”
Just one more story. Final one, I promise.
My senior year I was captain of my high school team. We were riding a three-year reign as state champions. It was time to bring home a fourth. In the semi-final match, I came ready to play. I had a few good situations around the opponent’s goal but couldn’t capitalize. With about fifteen minutes left in the game, an opposing player broke through our back line and fell down, untouched. The ball rolled harmlessly to our goalkeeper. Then I heard the whistle blow and saw the referee pointing to the penalty spot. We lost 0-1.
Post-game I chased down the referee, Eli Lieberman. “You blew it Eli. You blew it. You’re an idiot and a shit ref and everyone knows it.” Eventually, someone dragged me away. I don’t remember every moment of my high school soccer career but 31 years later – I do remember the name of that referee.
So what’s your point? you ask. Is this a confession? Not really. Anyone who’s known me as a player or coach will tell you I struggle with losing, as do most coaches worth their paycheck. Being gracious after losing isn’t easy. Losing causes us to look down and slump our shoulders. Winning lifts our heads and improves our posture. It’s instinctual. One says, “Here I am everybody” and the other, “I failed,” or worse yet, “I’m a failure?”
I would like you to know that I have matured though. I’m fifty now – about time, right? I no longer throw Monopoly boards, stick out my tongue or chase down referees. I can lose and smile, lose and laugh, lose and enjoy the rest of the day. But it’s not always easy. Like most coaches, I’m condemned to remember and relive the failures, mistakes and losses with startling clarity. But they serve a purpose: without them I might still be putting all my money on Baltic Avenue.
