SEPT 19...
New World Order
The "Room" for refs in Traverse City is ample: thirty feet long with showers, TV, a fridge, and dual entrances depending on which rink you are heading towards, east or west. On Saturday it had a new feature, in addition to all the skate laces, old rule books and skate laces, there were four red electronic whistles hanging from the towel hooks.
If we officials were to comply with the mandate to keep our faces covered while working the games—and that was the info being passed down to us in no uncertain terms—then these hand-held whistles were the new world order. I gave mine a try and pressed the button—it seemed fairly loud, though a traditional whistle creates quite a screech in our cement bunker. There were three settings on the red whistle, which was the most powerful. It was clearly a whistle, but not piercing. The gadgets were not entirely convincing.
I was partnered up again with Max for another doubleheader—bantams and pee-wees, both AA level. I notified all the coaches during warmup, none had experienced a game officiated with handheld whistles. The devices were clearly a decibel or two fainter than the real thing. This would be interesting.
I had purchased a "gaiter" this week, comparable to a balaclava, a very thin covering that fisherman use to protect against mosquitos. I could actually blow my original whistle through the material, while still keeping my face covered. I considered trying to combine the old and new, but decided to succumb to the
Over the next couple of hours Max and I sounded our Fox-40 E-whistles a few dozen times, mostly without incident. He and I both inadvertently squeezed our triggers to the confusion of everyone on the ice. I had to stop play with an apology and conduct a faceoff, when Max sounded his after losing an edge and squeezing his hand involuntarily, I shouted to "Play on!" and that's what they did.
When Max signaled off-sides, I provided accompaniment with my gadget, a little support from my side of the rink. It was a little faint from 100 feet away.
At game's end there were no complaints, but I do think the play was slightly compromised. There are times when a shrill whistle is needed to defuse scrums around the net. This airless facsimile is a lot easier to ignore than the urgent blast from a zebra in your face.
In the post game locker we checked in with our two striped counterparts from the East rink. Although they wore masks, neither used the E-whistles. From what I could tell, Max and I were the outliers. The only other official I knew of who had used the E-Whistle was the USA Hockey District assignor Mutt. He and I had texted throughout the week, and I told him about the being able to blow through the gaiter, and he had asked about the brand. Nothing official had come down the line other than to use the E-whistles.
The players complied much more thoroughly this week; I estimated 75% of the players had mouths covered, maybe half over their noses. Family members in the stands were in full compliance, by and large. Change has come, and not a moment too soon.
Sunday morning I nearly spit out my coffee when I saw this bold headline in the local paper.
Nearly three dozen Covid cases reported from a summer tourney at the rinks. There was anecdotal evidence of unmasked players crowded onto benches hacking and spitting, but there was a valid consideration that these cases were shared away from the rink, socializing together over drinks and dinner, a common spreading scenario.
The rink protocol had clearly improved since that July tourney, but Sunday's blaring headline has placed rink management on high alert. For as long as hockey is permitted up here in Michigan District 7, those funny little fish-shaped whistles will become the new normal.
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SEPT 12.
Nothing Else Matters
Searching the icy depths for a crucial artifact; a crowded ref room brimming with Covid protest; and Mettallica sings the anthem that has us all reveling in blissful ignorance.
Arriving at the twin rinks Saturday, I noticed the parking lots were brimming. Turns out this was a showcase tourney, with clubs from Covid-restricted hotspots down state and in Ohio coming up to play here in Traverse City, a Phase-5 region that permits competition. Just as I reached the side entrance, a blast of natural sound informed me of the mask choice of the local refs: A real whistle shrilled, sans mask. Four zebras were at work in the two rinks, none covered above the neck.
Most fans were covered, coaches yes, players partially. Later I saw teams performing dryland with the exuberance that comes from a new season that had been in jeopardy; sadly, only a third were covered above the nose. Another real world experiment: blissful ignorance vs the Corona virus.
I shuffled through the ref's locker room, one of the premier such rooms in the region, and saw it had a half dozen sets of gear bags spread about five-feet apart, no humans visible, the virus level unknown. I walked out to the west rink to track my striped peers at work. Competitive AA bantam play: kids sprinting around, coaches exhorting troops, smart jerseys from Cleveland sporting the old Barons colors and logos. Less than a week after Labor Day hockey appeared to be in full swing. The new season had begun while the NHL still had weeks to play in the old season. A time/space continuum. I wasn't sure about the sustainability of this blind optimism; it's one thing to keep hockey self-contained within this region that had a very small Carona caseload, but it's another to invite the regions not allowed to compete because of their own Covid issues into our bubble. But once the puck drops, it's full on hockey, and nothing else matters (thanks for that kicker Jim Hetfield).
A minute into watching my guys, including the region's dispatcher Mutt, working a tidy game the second day of a new season, a forward got run the through the boards in the far corner. I look to Mutt for the call, but his young partner immediately shot up his arm. At the whistle I watch his hands for what's known at the "TV call," letting the whole building (and a potential TV audience) know the type of infraction, and the kid let the perp have full justice. The young zebra performed a bit of a yoga pose, putting his non-whistle hand between his shoulder blades to signal a hit from behind.
Kind of a ballsy call. Instead of a roughing, where the guilty party simply serves two minutes and the game rolls on, this was an obligatory 2 and a TEN, one of the four minors that includes a ten minute misconduct. The young but extremely competent ref took the time to oversee the off-ice official make two entrees onto the scoresheet, then he had to explain to a snarly coach that he had to pluck another skater from his bench to serve the original two minutes as the primary perp sat for the misconduct. It was textbook work by the young zebra on opening weekend, something worthy of the USA Hockey instructional video at the annual seminar.
I hustled to the scorers table, and during a time-out motioned the kid over to the puck-sized communications circle cut out in the plexi. I complimented him on his stellar work. Then I went back to the room to lace up.
I found my favorite ref, a fellow NY and Boston guy nick named "Vig," possesser of a thick New Yawk accent he acquired during his previous life on Long Island. Vig rarely blares below the six-decibel mark. "I ain't wearing no (flippin) mask!" he bellowed. I love Vig, but our politics come from different stratospheres, even though we are both Boomers from back East. "I'm trusting my own immune system. I told them (USA Hockey regional powers) that if I have to wear a mask, I'm done."
Turns out another like-minded ref, Tom, shares his belief in no masks (and the second amendment for that matter), and that they would both gladly retire before donning a mask to work a game. From what I could tell, they were the driving forces that got our region's Poobah's to back off the obligatory masks and electronic whistles. I rationalized that Vig's L-O-U-D protests would simplify my job, but I also sensed that it wasn't great news over the long run. You can't outshout this virus.
I playfully parried with Vig about asymptomatic carriers, and how masks were proven effective, and even asked what he would do when 'They" came for his guns (Vig's plan was to do some high-powered sniping from atop the town water tower). I headed out of this potential Covid reservoir to get on the ice and re-acquaint with my edges. I'm in pretty good biking shape, but as stated before, hadn't touched my blades in half a year.
Thanks in no small part to my excellent partner Max, we had a game free from controversy. Halfway through I noticed the name "Drake" on the back of an undersized wing-man, and stole a glance at the Traverse City bench. There was Dallas, the 16-year NHL vet, the soft-spoken legend of the local rinks. In a one-goal game, I saw one of his players get his legs taken out from two-zones away as the trail official. There were too many bodies between me and the infraction to jack up my arm; I heard three sets of adult chirps from the Drake bench. Oh well, no one throws a perfecto on opening day, except maybe the Kid who worked the preceding game against the radioactive Cleveland Barons.
At the conclusion of the high-intensity affair (was it January already?) I dutifully hoisted the nets from the pegs and waited on the Zamboni before tilting the cages against the boards. I returned to the uncomfortably crowded room and saw my partner Max fiddling with the adhesive on his official USA Hockey crest. The one you have to dive through many hoops to acquire: seminars; open and closed book tests; NGB Safe Sport training; background checks and countless training videos. Attaining one of those cloth shields in the mail from Colorado Springs always contained some satisfaction fir the effort invested. Watching Max I instinctively pawed at my chest, and felt... nothing.
This was not good. It had happened once before when the two-way carpet tape used to adhere the crest to the striped jersey had come unglued over time. I made a mental note that such a thing would never happen again, yet it had. The Covid protocol had given us an extra half-hour between games, and I began the urgent work of retracing steps before the trail ran ice-cold.
No one had turned in a crest, there was nothing to see on either bench or the scorers' table, locker room zip, zilch, nada. I tracked down Zamboni driver Sam, who hadn't noticed anything unusual on the ice. Deductive reasoning told me that it had to have been scooped up by the Zam. I asked Sam the Zam (no Pharaohs for you oldy music aficionados) to keep on eye out for traces of color in the frosty bath of the Zamboni dump. He agreed to help, but I wasn't terrible confident.
Meanwhile, Max was setting me up with his two-year old crest, applying a new layer of double-sided tape to a 2018-19 crest when Sam popped his head in the door.
"Is this it?"
And there was my sacred crest, one which cannot be replaced. It had been through the full Zam cycle: gobbled up, spun with snow, and pounded down into the icy depths of a very large ice bath. Turns out it was Tony who spotted it, and rescued my peace of my mind in the form of a five-inch piece of colorful cloth.
So I was able to work the pee-wee end of my double header with enough peace of mind to get through it relatively undistracted. It was actually a hybrid pee-wee AA vs bantam A game, and it was kind of fun. I busted a bantam for bodychecking (a new rule to accommodate the pee-wees) and we had a mild discussion on the way to the box. He eventually admitted that the victim was his little brother. Which is just SO hockey, the ultimate clan sport.
So, all told, a great day; maybe. I left the ref room, one of my favorite respites in all of the Grand Traverse region, with a glow of camaraderie. I gave Vig an elbow nudge, thanked Max for help with the crest debacle, checked in on Jake's community college drone work, asked Buck about his U.S. Army reinstatement, and repeated my compliment to the young stud who executed the checking from behind to perfection. As if we were picking up exactly where we left off. But we weren't.
Exiting the complex through the east rink, I intersected another wave of geeked up hockey teens from downstate going through their dryland paces. They were laughing and bouncing and largely unmasked. This, my hockey friends, is not sustainable. I love the fact that the guys managing the T.C. rink are finally beginning to dig out from all the Covid-related red ink from a dormant summer, but I did not see a happy ending in this porous "bubble."
By Sunday morning, MAHA had sent down the latest edict in a blast email:
"So within the last 12 hours MAHA has decided for a 2nd time that officials WILL be required to wear face coverings. For those of you working tomorrow get the E whistles that are there. I have ordered 6 of the fox40 E whistles for us. 2 of them will be available to use at Kalkaska for next weekend only."
I now wonder if I'll ever work with my guy "Vig" again.
March 12. The last time I skated, exactly six months ago. With less than 24 hours notice, my USA Hockey regional assignor dropped two games on me—Bantam AA and Pee Wee AAA. This should be a trip. I started the morning with a coffee and a quick brush up with 'Ol Reliable,' the red Basic Officials Manual that is the first line of defense for every sanctioned ref.
In addition to managing the unfamiliar ice, my partner and I are expected to be masked at all times, and solve the riddle of electronic faux whistles for the first time. I've never seen one, but I'm guessing a button is to be pushed on a handheld gadget. Oh, yeah, this should be a wild ride. I'm trying not to conjure up the worst possible scenario: trying to converse with outraged coaches through my mask, defending a whistle that never sounded, surrounded by angry players. This has the makings of an on-ice maelstrom.
BREAKING NEWS: The USAH supervisor just weighed in by email, found a loophole on Page 4 of the latest mandate, giving us the option of wearing a mask during live play. Hmm... might make this maiden voyage a little smoother, though my wife and step-daughter might not like the idea of taking any unnecessary risks. Then again, the masks are one-way protection, not for the wearer. My family tested negative this week, so I'm confident I won't be endangering the kids. I'm leaning towards return to status quo during the live action, but will be prepared to go either way. Two pre-Covid whistles are tucked in my bag.
We live our lives to meet challenges. This is one of those opportunities. Carpe Diem.
