When booing is justified

OBSERVER Photo by
Patty Hammond
A backboard and its rim figured in the worst booing I ever received as a basketball official.

Being the target of booing is an occupational hazard as a sports official. No matter how good a job you do, you’re gonna get booed.

Boos are few and far between on volleyball courts and baseball diamonds, but basketball courts are a different case entirely.

I vividly remember the worst booing I ever received and, frankly, I would have booed me, too.

It happened in the Dunkirk Middle School gym, a storied facility that once boasted a spectator gallery in its balcony before a much needed remodeling a few decades ago.

Top among my memories there is the vivid image of DMS standout Holly Stoyle delivering no-doubt fouls with a wide smile and then dutifully raising her hand immediately in proud acknowledgment, even after that rule had long since been revoked. Her teammates loved her for that.

Because I worked evenings, most of the basketball games I officiated were of the junior high variety. If I wasn’t working in Forestville with the dearly and recently departed Jack Szydlo, I was paired with my old Cardinal Mindszenty High School junior varsity coach Leo Bain Jr. in the smallish DMS gym off of Swan Street.

Those two were my chief mentors when I joined officialdom in the 1970s and I owe them big time for their priceless advice.

They drilled into me that at the junior high level, it’s learning when not to blow the whistle that matters the most. It would be easy to find and whistle infractions like traveling, 3 seconds, double dribble and palming virtually every trip down the court.

Too many whistles prolong the game needlessly, turning what should be a one-hour game time into a two-hour disaster. And more times than not, there are two games to be played: eighth grade first, seventh grade following. Nobody, not players, coaches, fans, officials or school custodians, wants to sit through a 3-to-4-hour whistlefest. Especially on a school night.

Anyway, the end of the seventh grade game was thankfully in sight at DMS this one memorable late afternoon. The local team was losing by a considerable margin and, accordingly, I was biting my whistle to bring the mismatch to its inevitable conclusion.

With bench players now on the court for both squads, play was understandably ragged. As the final seconds ticked away, an undersized hometown Lady Marauder furiously dribbled twice, then comically spent her next five or six steps (you are legally allowed two) winding up and then launching a two-handed prayer skyward. I ignored the obvious traveling violation for the moment and watched in amazement as the toss narrowly missed the midcourt rafters.

The rim she had aimed for was about 50 feet away, her toss coming from roughly the top of the circle beyond the free throw line in the backcourt.

Well, you guessed it. Just after the final buzzer sounded, and quiet filled the gym, her unerring missile audibly ripped through the basket’s net.

The eerie silence continued for another split second before the inevitable explosion into pandemonium.

The Dunkirk bench erupted with emotion and every one of its players raced onto the court to embrace their new hero. Even a few spectators joined the huddled, jumping mass of joy at midcourt. Sure, they had lost the game, but weren’t going to be denied a major celebration.

It was really quite the shot. I’ve never seen one like it, especially from a slight seventh-grader.

And the booing? It was all for me. The spectators noticed me sheepishly waving off the basket from the backcourt after the official scorekeeper caught and held my gaze looking for a final, fateful decision.

The fans really let me have it. They had seen her take all of those extra, illegal steps, some even laughing at her frenzied last-second panic. But that mattered little to this mob. I was the unfeeling villain of this piece and I heard those boos long after I exited the gym door and headed to the locker room.

I didn’t disagree with them or their boos and still don’t. Remember, at this level it’s learning when NOT to blow the whistle that truly matters.

ı ı ı

Have a favorite, funny, weird, best or worst memory of amateur sports refereeing, playing or spectating? Drop me a line at mandpp@hotmail.com and let’s reminisce.

ı ı ı

Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER sports editor.