Temper, temper

I decided to sit out this year’s old men’s basketball league, despite having played the previous two seasons.

I had a number of valid reasons, including a balky shoulder and a lack of talent, but the bottom line was, I just didn’t want to play. I finally settled on the reason why: I don’t like referees.

Perhaps I have some sort of a problem with authority. But I cannot get through a single game without getting angry at one or both of the referees. Here’s my problem with them:
A. You cannot win an argument with them. They get final say.
B. They are often wrong.

I try to obey my better angels on the court, but the devil in me always comes out. I end up saying something like, “Is this your first basketball game?” or “I didn’t know waterheads knew how to blow a whistle,” or something like that.

Did I mention this is a church league? Well, I can’t help it. I know I ought to act right.

Sometimes I think in these situations, What would Jesus do? But as far as I know, Jesus never got called for a charging foul when the defender WAS CLEARLY MOVING!

I actually got kicked out of a church-league softball game last year. It’s a coed league. My daughter played on the team with me. As did the preacher. But let me explain.

There was a close call in the first inning, and the umpire got it wrong, which is OK, except when I innocently asked him why he called the guy safe when Stevie Wonder could see that he was clearly out, he got a little huffy with me.

Not wanting to cause trouble, but seeking clarification, I said, “Am I not allowed to ask you a question?” He looked at me and he said, “Shut it.” I didn’t think that was very nice, but to my credit, I did indeed “shut it.” For the time being.

Next time I came up to bat, I was still a little steamed, and I bombed one over the left-center field fence. Your classic church coed-league softball no-doubter.

I began to circle the bases, and the grumpy umpire was standing near second base, and as I jogged near him, we made eye contact, and, well, I might have said something.

To this day, doubt lingers over what happened. It’s possible that I said, “It’s gone!”, meaning the home run that I hit, a natural celebratory reaction by me. It’s also possible that I looked at him and said, “Did you like that?” And then winked. The mystery may never be solved.

Either way, I think he overreacted by charging toward home plate, ostentatiously throwing me out of the game as I crossed, with the veins throbbing in his little neck and sweat running down his face and into his cheesy 70’s porn-star moustache.

I have this wonderful effect on people, it’s really hard to explain.

Regardless of my guilt or innocence, I felt bad about the incident, so I resolved to keep my mouth shut the rest of the season, and I did. At the umpires, anyway. I might have yelled at players on the other team a time or two. All in good fun, of course.

So I think it was wise for me to sit out basketball season, and I promise to approach the upcoming softball season in a positive, conciliatory, turn-the-other-cheek frame of mind. I might have to wear a muzzle, but I can do it.