| Friday, December 24
By Frank Hughes
Special to ESPN.com |
|
I'd never realized how easy, and how hard, and how fun it was to be an NBA
referee until I got the chance -- or at least the semblance of a chance --
the other day in Minnesota.
The Seattle SuperSonics, you see, had an off day there -- which, for some
reason, never seems to happen in Miami, where I could spend my time gazing at
the lovelies on South Beach instead of looking around for my ears, which
happened to fall off like autumn leaves into a minus-20 degree snowdrift
that made the Target Center look like the world's largest igloo.
|  | | Vladimir Stepania was a consistent target of Frank Hughes' foul calls. |
But I'm not angry. Hey, I got to see snow at Christmas, and now I'm the
world's first sportswriting Van Gogh.
Anyway, on with my officiating tale.
So, I and another reporter from Seattle, Ron Tillery of the
Post-Intelligencer, were hanging around the Target Center waiting for
practice to end, when they called us in. We were expecting to do interviews, but Seattle coach Paul
Westphal instead asked if we wanted to referee their scrimmage.
Sure, we both said, thinking that we would finally get to make all the calls that we
see during games that go unnoticed. We know these players' moves probably
better than they do, considering we watch them 82 games a year, not to
mention the practices we are allowed to witness.
I know, for instance, how often center Vladimir Stepania drags his feet on his moves and never gets called for traveling; I know Vladimir Stepania pushes off on rebounds and rarely gets called for the foul; I know Vladimir Stepania
sets illegal screens and never gets whistled for the offensive foul.
The other players ... well, I don't know so much but mostly it's because Vladimir Stepania commits so many offenses that it's difficult to notice the others. Hey, it's hard to detect the pickpocket in the crowd when the bank robbers down the street are trying to shoot their way out of their predicament, you know what I'm saying?
"Throw us the whistles," we said.
"We don't have any," answered Marc St. Yves, the equipment manager.
What are the Sonics, the Andy Taylors of the NBA? (For those in the
younger generations, Andy Taylor was the cop who didn't carry a gun --
probably because he would have shot Barney Fife for being so annoying.)
Well, we were able to adjust to the situation, meaning we just had to yell really loudly.
Being sportswriters, we didn't want to get a great deal of unnecessary
exercise, so I took one half of the floor and Ron took the other half, which
basically meant we each stood under a basket and called whatever we saw,
and considering we are both about 6-foot-3 -- oh, alright, 5-foot-9 -- and
everybody else is about 7-foot-10, we probably didn't see a great deal.
I can only tell you what happened on my side of the court, mostly because
I didn't venture from the baseline, but also because my glasses are getting
weak -- or is that my eyes? -- and I can't see that far. I think Ron blew
more than a few calls, but who's counting.
At first I was a little tentative to make any calls, not knowing how
strict I should be on the play. I mean, if I was a regular NBA ref, I'd be
blowing my imaginary whistle every three or four seconds, foul or not. But whenever I play, I like to just play and only call the flagrants, so
I figured that's the kind of ref I'd like to be as well.
No blood, no foul, as they say -- except at Sing Sing, where I believe
they say: No rigor mortis, no foul.
(Before I go much further, let me tell you that Gary Payton, Vin Baker, Vernon
Maxwell and Horace Grant all were not playing, since they had played the
night before and were off lifting weights. This was good, because the last
thing I needed was to give Payton a forum to vent his anger at me for some of
the stuff I write. Of course, I could have thrown him out, but you don't see
that in practice very often -- unless Stave Javie is officiating the practice.)
Well, the first foul I called was pretty obvious: Brent Barry came
across and grabbed Rashard Lewis' arm as Lewis made a layup. I called the
foul, no complaints, and I said to myself, "Piece of cake."
Later on, I realized, I probably should have said, "Piece of
7-year-old fruitcake," because this stuff was hard.
Lazaro Borrell was in the corner, and he drove to the basket. Barry sealed
him to the baseline and Shammond Williams came across to trap him, at which
point Borrell plowed into Williams.
"Blocking," I screamed.
"No, no, no," Chuck Person said. "That's a charge."
"Blocking," I screamed more loudly. In the back of my mind, I was thinking,
"Well, I didn't really consider the charge call, but I still think it was a
block." I even did the old Saturday Night Fever dance move where you put your
arms up in the air and pump them toward your waist, the universal sign of the
block.
With the play stopped, Westphal said, "It could have been a charge, but
Frank sold the call so well it had to be a block."
At which point, I realized it doesn't matter if you are right or wrong, as
long as you make everybody think you are right.
To put it in a sportswriting maxim: Don't let the facts get in the way of
a good story.
After Borrell's team won the game, that wily veteran Person came
over to me and asked if I knew the rule on charging. "Shammond wasn't set," I
said.
"He doesn't have to be set," Chuck countered. "The rules this year say you
don't have to be set. If the guy charges into you, it's a charge."
"I know," I said, "but Shammond undercut him." I had no idea that was the
rule this season, but I insisted Shammond undercut Borrell and Chuck waddled
off, not before telling me I suck.
As I gained more confidence, I made more calls. Vladimir Stepania for
pushing Greg Foster out of the way for a rebound. Vladimir Stepania for fouling Greg Foster on a drive to the basket. Vladimir Stepania for fouling
Lewis.
"It's bull ...," moaned Stepania, showing improved mastery of the English language.
At one point, Ruben Pattersonwas posting up Barry, so I was watching how
Barry defended Patterson. Out of nowhere, Sonics assistant coach Nate McMillan
called Patterson for palming the ball.
"I didn't even see that, and I was standing three feet way," I said.
"That's why they have that third ref," Nate said.
Made me feel better, and also made me realize that there is so much going
on and there are so many things you have to watch, there should probably be
six refs out there.
Who knows, Vladimir Stepania was probably giving somebody the business on
the other side of the court and I had no idea -- until afterward, when
Foster was laying on the ground missing two teeth and pointing to Vladimir
Stepania, who was making bloody footprints on the court as he ran away. I was
going to call a foul, but I figured Vladimir Stepania would get Johnnie
Cochran to defend him and the foul would be overturned.
The trash talking was non-stop, even without Payton on the court. I called a foul on Person as Lewis made yet another layup, and Chuck admitted he couldn't even jump that
high to foul Lewis where I said he did. Valid point.
Then he told me I sucked. Another valid point.
Emanual Davis missed a layup and thought he got fouled. "We're going to be friends again, but not right now," Davis said to me -- although he smiled.
My shining moment came when Foster was shooting free throws after
getting fouled by, you guessed it, Vladimir Stepania, whom I began to
refer to as Slappy.
As Foster was shooting his first shot, Slappy walked across the lane
-- and I know he did it both to distract Foster and to dispute my call. It was
only practice and all, but after Foster's shot bounced off the rim, I yelled,
"Lane violation on Slappy. Still two shots."
Person let me have it as Westphal cheered from the sidelines and
Maxwell, who was done lifting, said from the side, "They should make
that call more often. Players know what they're doing when they do that."
I felt good about the call until Person said, "You suck."
During the ensuing timeout, I heard somebody say, "Give a guy a whistle,
they think they have all the power in the world."
They couldn't have been talking about me. I didn't have a whistle.
But I have a new respect for the guys that do.
Frank Hughes covers the NBA for the Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune. He is a regular contributor to ESPN.com. |  |
Fouled Out: $18 mil worth of lap dances
