Doing Time In The Trainer Gym

My first pre-game
I hate shopping for clothes when I am the one who is supposed to be wearing the apparel.   Nothing seems to fit.  Well, nothing seems to fit properly.  Not sure what happened to my body from the time I left high school till now, but there is more of me in certain places than I care to remember. 

It isn’t totally my fault.  I have several other people to hold responsible: Mrs. Butterworth, Aunt Jemima, Mrs. Fields, Tom Monahan (former Domino's Pizza Dude), Little Caesar, Betty Crocker, Sara Lee, Duncan Hines, and of course, that temptress Little Debbie. 

I was shopping for the typical referee clothes: plain black pants, black and white striped shirt and whistle.  I ordered a ref shirt online and hoped for the best with regard to size.  I also ordered a whistle, and my fingers were crossed on that purchase as well. 

The problem appeared in that pair of pants; sort of.  I hate ordering pants online because size does matter. I knew I’d blow out the seat of my britches if I ordered them too snug.  If I went muy grande on my purchase, then I would have to raise my hand while whistling myself for a violation. 

I decided to buy a pair locally and try the material on before plunking down the dough for my purchase.  I tried several stores and could not find someone who sold “polyester-type” pants.  I flashed back to seventh grade, when many a department store mannequin could be found draped in polyester, but finding a vender now was darn near impossible. 

One local sporting goods store came to my rescue, but with a hitch (literally).  They had basketball ref pants, but they were a tad too large.  And a “tad” in this case equaled the difference between accommodating one person and providing ample coverage for two.   A local seamstress removed two inches from the waist and shortened the inseam an inch and a half and I was good to go (or so I thought). 

Trainer Gym Week 1
I tossed and turned the night before my first game.  I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and could not get back to sleep.  Images of court diagrams, situations, violations and fouls ran through my head and rest was totally out of the question. Instead of sheep I was counting three seconds.

Jim (my trainer) told me to meet him in the gym at 8:30 a.m. and we would go over things before our first game at 9 a.m.  I complied and our pre-game prep talk was excellent!  I was scheduled for two games and the players would be fourth and fifth graders.  I thought I could hang with the playas and that the speed of the game would allow me to whet my whistle and get in the flow.  Not so.  A woman (whom I had never met before) approached Jim during our meeting and informed him that her son would not be able to ref his two games that day because the lad had the flu.  I would have told the namby-pamby to “get a bucket and a pair of Depends and get courtside.” 

Jim turned to me and asked if I was up to calling four games instead of just two games.  I said, “Sure.”  My feet took five steps away from Jim and the lady.  My right arm raised (clenched fist mind you) and the hand that was attached slapped my lips.  “What were you thinking?  All you will have to do is talk.  Our feet have to do the heavy lifting and running.”  Oops.

Jim introduced me to the coaches and informed them that I was not only a new ref, but this was also my first game to work.  Jim was only missing one more startling fact and he would have laid the perfect trifecta at both coaches’ feet.  The looks were priceless.  We shook hands and had one last pep talk.  Before I knew it the ball was tossed in the air and I was off and running (jogging while huffing and puffing) in the right direction.  

Five minutes into the game and my appreciation for belt loops had grown immensely, as the lower half of the polyester zoot suit that I was modeling was unencumbered by belt loops or any potential restraint.  To make matters even more delicate in nature, the waist of the trousers was made of “s-t-r-e-t-c-h-y material, meaning my upper torso could be in the foul line extended of the front court while my rear end was still buried in the opponents’ backcourt. 

I quickly found out that this was not an ideal position.  Add in the fact that my ref shirt was made of some obscure NASA space-age material (slicker than snot) and would not stay tucked in, and you had a recipe for disaster.  Actually, the recipe wasn’t for disaster. It was for a moon pie.  With my Fox whistle planted firmly in my cheeks, my right hand was hiking up the right side of my pants and my left was furiously attempting to tuck in the stripes.  I chuckled and the whistle flopped out of my mouth (good thing it was choking my neck via a lanyard).  Before long the game ended and I had achieved several milestones:

1. Called my first foul
2. Called my first violation
3. Hung on to my pants for dear life, thereby avoiding mooning the crowd
4. Pointed the teams in the correct direction of their baskets (which is funny because I attended one of my son’s college games and the officials had the teams going in the wrong direction for the first couple of minutes of the game.  I wonder if they were beltloopless as well?
5. Did not make a fourth or fifth grader cry

Jim congratulated me on calling my first-ever basketball game.  He really was helpful and supportive considering:

1. I had just crossed over to the “dark side” from coaching to reffing
2. Jim was one of the people responsible for calling several of my team’s games over the years
3. We had conversed during those games and the conversation was usually “Coach, sit down and let me call the game.”

The first game wasn’t too bad.  At least I didn’t think I caused James Naismith any concern until I noticed the participants of the upcoming game.  The first contest was between fourth and fifth graders.  The second group of hoopsters consisted of third and fourth graders.  I was downsized before I knew it.  And once again an introduction was in order:  “Hi coaches, this is Kraig and he is a first-time official.  Actually, that is not true.  He just reffed his first game so you will be the second game in his career.”  I did notice that Jim did not mention the words “long and storied” in the intro.  However, I received the same priceless looks from the two new coaches.

After game numero dos, Jim asked me if I knew where the men’s room was.  I immediately felt bad for Jim because after spending all these years calling games in the building, no one had ever given him directions to “the little boys’ room?”  “No, I have no idea.”  “Okay, let me show you the way.”  We walked through the bigger gym next door that contained bigger players.  I immediately broke one of the Ten Commandments.  Envy. 

Oh, how I immediately longed for the day when I could officiate a game involving players who shaved (face or underarms did not matter).  Jim gave me the low down on concessions and what we received for calling two or four games.  Forget the walking tacos, I would just settle for an on-site seamstress.

Games three and four were a blur.  I called a foul and thought I performed everything in a correct manner.  At the next timeout I asked Jim if I raised my clinched fist to signal a foul and before I could even get half of the sentence out of my lips, he smiled and said: “No, you never raised your hand.”  I thought of telling Jim, “Well, I raised it at 5:30 this morning.”

All through the day, Jim asked about my welfare:  feet, legs, breathing and hydration.  I cannot believe he never, ever once thought to ask about my pants. 

Editor’s Note:  Two days after refereeing the four games my legs were on fire.   I knew I was not in the best of shape, but seriously?  I felt like I had just completed a 24-hour marathon on Suzanne Summer’s Thigh Master.  “Thanks, Thigh Master.”

The lights at Bronner's

Tis the Season.  Almost every day of the year is Christmas if you browse Bronner's in Frankenmuth, MI.  If you happen to visit the joint the last couple of weeks in December, you can find yourself buried in somebody else's armpit while scurrying searching for the perfect ornament. If, however, you make the pilgrimage in July, you can pretty much guarantee the store to yourself.  We visited Frankenmuth recently and had a fine meal at the Bavarian Inn.  Family-style chicken dinner was on my menu and our waitress Heidi brought plate after plate of cole slaw, green beans, stuffing, cranberry (pass), noodles and mouth watering chicken.  The chicken noodle soup was a great way to kick off the dining experience.  I looked over at Ryan and his plate resembled an autopsy gone wrong.

"How many you up to?"

"Nine pieces of chicken."

"You feel okay?"

"Yea, I'm going for my jersey number (13)."

Once done with ice cream we rolled over to Bronner's and I luckily made it through the automatic doors before they closed on my tail feathers.  I was thinking I never wanted to hear the word "chicken" anytime soon.  I looked at a tree ornament and had a fleeting thought of the exact square footage occupied by this humongous store and the only answer I could come up with was--lots. I would hate to pay their electric bill.  What am I saying?  Most months I hate to pay for my electric bill.  I had only been in the building a few minutes when I felt the need to visit the "little bronner's room."  And if you think the lights are bright on the showroom floor, ya oughts to visit the "little bronner's room."  I stepped up to the sink to wash my hands and was immediately wishing I had worn my sunglasses.  Blinded by the light.  Wow!  I was squinting looking for the faucet handle.  Then it hit me and I realized why George Hamilton was always so golden brown--he must have spent a considerable amount of time in the "little bronner's room."

Trigger

We were living in the U.P. of Michigan when Trigger was added to our family.  I was at the credit union and they were giving away free puppies. Cool!  Except he definitely ate more than a toaster.  Trigger was beautiful.  He was a white and brown springer-lab who loved to play.  One day, barely nine weeks old, Trigger was out for a walk sniffing the sidewalk.  A few days later his belly swelled up and he no longer passed his Kibbles and Bits.  We were told by the vet that our "free" puppy had swallowed some non-passable rocks and would need surgery to remove the rocks.  Celeste and Erica drove to the vet to pick him up.  Above each cage a sign told the story of what procedure the pet had gone through:  Fluffy "declawed"  Bronco "tail docked"  Trigger "rock-echtomy."   Trigger was a handful.  Celeste was in the process of making chicken casserole when Trig jumped up on the kitchen counter and snatched most of the cooked chicken.  He was happy, but I didn't appreciate having to eat Alpo that night.  Ryan would feed and water him (Ryan was five when we got Trigger). When Ryan would bend down to put food in his dish, Trigger would snatch his hat off his head, walk away with it in his mouth and not give it back.  Trigger lived outside, even in the winter and even in da UP.  When he was inside and playing with a ball, Erica would have his full attention.  He might disregard what I told him, but Erica had his ear.  We were teaching Trigger to not come into the living room.  He could have total access to the kitchen and dining room, just not the living room.  As we sat on the couch with the television on (but watching to see what the dog would do), Trigger would amble towards us and lay down.  Now there was a metal strip dividing the living room from the dining room and he would lay just close enough so his body would not cross the line that I had showed him.  But by the time he had come to a complete stop, his paws were hanging over the line and into the living room.  I told him no and moved him back.  By the time I got to my seat, he was laying with his paws across the line and the dude was watching television.  Trigger was strong.  When Celeste took him for a walk, she was such a drag.  Trigger was observant, or rather he loved observing people, pets and whatever else crossed in front of him.  He would jump on top of his dog house and watch the world go by for hours.  He even took his siestas up on the roof. 

We buried Trigger two days ago.  He was one month shy of 14 years old. 

Good-bye Trigger.  We love you.

A Speedway Treat

While Celeste, Erica and I were at Sunday School there was a long break before church started (:45 minutes), so we left and headed to the gas station to refill our car.  I offered to stop at Bigby's so Erica could use her gift card but she declined.  I pulled into Speedway, pumped the petrol, then went inside to find a treat and pay.  The store was running a special on little six-packs of donuts--two packs for $2.22.  I thought of the girls and picked out chocolate and grabbed a plain pack for myself.  Out in the car the chocolate package was opened and a couple of the chocolate creations jumped out and splatted on Celeste.  She handed a couple to Erica in the backseat.  I was asked if I wanted chocolate and I replied "no."  My lips were smacking in anticipation of having a plain donut or two (or six) pass between them. 

"Well, if you don't want chocolate then you'll have to wait your turn." 

Great.  I drove down the road only to hear a gutteral sound eminate from Erica in the backseat of the 'Bu. 

"Yrcjrk.  This donut has mold on it."

"What?"

"The donut has mold on it."

"Did you eat one?"

"I ate half."

At that point I was glad I had waited patiently and not partaken of the fungus amongus. 
 
"How bad is it?"

"I don't see any mold on mine."

I turned the car around and headed back to Speedway.  I grabbed both packs of donuts (one opened and partially gone and one still waiting for me), strode through the doors, picked up a giant-size Reeses Cup, then made my way to the checkout line.  As I got to the register there stood my wife's cousin Chucky.

"Hey, Kraig.  How's it going?"

"Swell.  Want a moldy donut?"

There was a long pause in the conversation and I thought maybe Chucky was debating just how much mold was on the donut and how bad it would affect his digestive system.  Or, he could've been wondering why he was asked such a stupid question.

"No, thanks."

"Can I help you," the clerk asked with a smile which was opposite of the green face Erica was sporting.

"Yes, I was just in here, purchased these donuts and the donuts have mold on them."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Would you like a refund?

It took me a minute to comprehend what she asked.  A refund?  Or would I like her to scrape off the mold helping me to continue on my merry way?

"or would you like to exchange them?"

She noticed I held in my hand the enormous package of Reeses and figured I did not want the donuts in my possession anymore.

"I'm really sorry," she added.

"I will exchange the mold for the chocolate please."

The clerk smiled, apologized, rung up my order, and handed me my change.

I arrived back at the 'Bu and saw Celeste laughing.  What now, I thought.

"I can't go back to church like this, I've got chocolate all over my top.  When the donuts hit me, I thought they just hit my pants."

Celeste and I laughed.  Erica, however, resembled the Grinch and was trying hard not to hurl.  

Just Call Me Bjorn (as in Borg)

While in college I worked with the men's basketball team.  I tried out as a walk-on and did not make it (40 guys competing for two spots) so instead held a variety of positions--volunteer manager, equipment manager for all University sports teams (emphasis on men's basketball), head statistician, and I was the color guy on the radio.  During my first year as volunteer manager the head coach had a hard time remembering my name.  So he called you Bjorn?  No.  He called me "Hey Manager."  The assistant coach was a pure bred athlete and even though he was in his forties he could still kill anyone at practically anything.  He played basketball and baseball in college, and wound up playing in the Milwaukee Brewers farm system.  He also was a most excellent tennis player (as I soon found out).  One day I heard him talk about wanting to play tennis against someone, anyone.  I spoke up and let him know I was an Alaskan AAU champ in tennis.  I smiled as I spoke those words.  He grinned and said, "Okay manager, meet me tomorrow at the tennis courts and we'll play before we have to be back for practice."  Uh-oh.  I knew I was kidding about my clay court prowess, but Coach Lefty most definitely did not.  The next day I showed up at the tennis court for my appointed execution.  Lefty served it hard and I responded with a feeble return.  I cranked up a mighty serve and Lefty replied with a shot to my face.  I had never sweated so much in such a short time while accomplishing so little.  Game-Set-Match. 

"I thought you said you were the Alaskan AAU Champ?" 

"I did.  I lied." 

I thought I was going to get beat over the head with a racket.  We arrived in the basketball office and the head coach was there waiting for us. 

"How did it go?" 

"He's not the Alaskan AAU Champ.  He can hardly play.  I killed him."

Lefty stomped out of the office.  Coach Bishop looked at me and shook his head. 

"You told him you were the Alaskan AAU Champ, you weren't and he killed ya?" 

"Yea, something like that." 

"Why did you tell Lefty that?" 

"I was trying to be funny." 

"Was it fun?" 

"No.  He killed me and I'm sore."

 At this, the head coach walked out of the office and said, "Lefty, I can't believe you got taken by our manager."