First rule of the Ref club, remember which sport you are reffing.
The Seattle Seahawks have been pretty famous for being on the beneficial side of calls in the last few years. There was the “Fail Mary” call about three years ago on Monday Night Football, and there was the call about the fumble in the end zone that allowed them to win earlier this year.
You know how all jobs, while pretty they are pretty much the worst, still have some sort of benefit somewhere down the line? Like a garbage man while having to deal with everyone else’s stinky crap all day at least they know that there is less garbage on the streets or a teacher while having a bad salary and little benefits still have a few weeks off in the summer in which to find another job that might pay them some real money and they are affecting kids lives somehow.
Jobs are the worst.
Well being a referee, there is no benefit at all. Especially if they don’t get paid. Your job as a ref is to make sure that out of all 25 billion rules that have been written about stuff, you know each of them intimately. And you ruin players lives, fans lives, fantasy leagues money lives and even yours because you decided to be a ref.
I remember being almost forced into being a ref a few times just so I would be allowed to play basketball. I mostly “swallowed the whistle” meaning I just let the people play and got torched because things got out of hand. But then I would call a foul and they got mad because I called a foul. It was an unwinnable job that I didn’t want to do and didn’t even get paid for.
One of the perks of being a ref. The possibility of being heinously injured.
Being a dad or a mom has many thankless jobs, but the least glorious and never winningiest one is being a referee. You are constantly asked to break up fights, declare winners, and make decisions that are as fair as Solomon and the other greatest judges in the history of the land.
“Dad, brother hit me.”
“Dad, sister hit me first.”
“Well he was looking at me funny.”
“Well she was touching my side of the car.”
“Well he was looking at my french fries.”
A flag is thrown up in the air. I turn my mic on, so everyone can hear. “Please come to the judgement table and I shall make my decision.”
“Sister, when we get home, you are to sit in the living room and talk to people.” (She is an introvert.)
“Brother, you are to sit in your room and not talk to people.” (He is an extrovert.)
“Not fair, I want an appeal. Why does he get to go to his room? That is so unfair. I’m never talking to you ever again.”
“Come on, dad, why does she get to stay out and talk to people? I’m telling mom on you when she gets back. She always let me hit sister.”
“I need to confer with my line judge, the field judge and the back judge.”
Minutes of restless arguing in the backseat of the car, I come to the middle of the car and turn on the mic once again. “After a review of the arguments made, it has been determined that the decision with sister will stand. Also the one with brother will stand. Also, sister you will talk to me again, because if you don’t, your tablet will be taken away. And brother, we know that mom never condones violence. If you say that again, you will be further punished by having your Nerf Gun arsenal confiscated.”
Ummm….you can’t do that.
Sister disagrees and stomps off to her room with her tablet, and brother continues to argue with me while shooting Nerf bullets at me because he’s mad.
The life of a referee.
ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH
Bitter Referaaaaggghhhh Ben
Ben's Bitter Blog 
I have a good buddy who is a high school football ref. He gets screamed at by everyone at some point each game. He’s obviously wrong fifty percent of the time even when right. He does it because he played college ball and still enjoys being part of the sport. To me he certainly is a good sport…to put up with all that weekly bitterness.
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I was a ref for that one time only because our team had to volunteer a ref or they wouldn’t let us play and it was the worst. I can’t imagine having to take the abuse every week and actually volunteer for it.
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I remember saying, “I am not the toy police.” A lot. Some toys never came out of jail, because I was totally the toy police.
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I wish I could put my son’s Nerf darts in jail so deep that they could never be recovered. I find them everywhere. In my clothes, in my drawers, on the floor and even a few in the basket that are set aside for them.
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IMO, I thought the refs got the Hail Mary call right for the Seahawks.
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It’s just too bad that the refs took all the flack for it, when it could have gone either way.
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And when the dogs get into the act, there is really no peace in the valley, right? Love this blog.
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They need to be sent to the cage.
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I told my almost 2 year-old not to hit her brother. She responded by slapping me. Not sure where I was going with this, but your blog made me think of that.
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She may not be old enough to understand it, but she needs to go into the penalty box. At least according to the referee metaphor.
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Oh she does…..and that’s another battle. She does not like the penalty box.
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Yeah, my son either. That’s why it is huge for him, but my daughter the introvert stays in her room for hours at a time.
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Does the ref get fired and condemned to lie on the couch with a large pizza when the Commissioner of Everything gets home?
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If that is what it takes to get condemned to the couch, I will do it every time.
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I would think you would rather enjoy the job of a referee. All decisions up to you and, just think of the bitter results.
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You actually might be pretty right about that. The chance with one tiny little refereeing errors and I could cause massive choas amongst the fans and fantasy owners across the land. Mass bitterness.
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Right, just think about it. It’s a beautiful thing.
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But mostly a bitterful thing.
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Good day bitter wishes Ben! ;D
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Bitter wishes indeed. I can’t wait to party with my parents this weekend.
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Whoo hoo!! Now that sounds like the most awesome way in which to get one’s party on!! Should be pretty epic I’d think.. XD
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Finally someone who has worse knees and backs than me! But not by much!
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