​Time for a story about friendship. Six women from our high school recently got together for a pilgrimage they take regularly to commune with each other for the umpteenth time (one of them could probably give me the exact number of these gatherings; we’re older, so let’s just say the number of times they’ve done this is a lot).
 
One the face of it, that might not sound unusual. Many of us stay in touch with high school friends, go to reunions, hang out, drive over to see someone to have coffee, dinner or a drink.
 
What stands out to me about this group of six (and sometimes more) is the commitment they have to each other and their respective friendships (as a group and one-to-one).
 
I’m not privy to their most intimate conversations. I’m confident though that they laugh, sometimes cry, support each other, do new things to enhance the collective lives. I know them well enough to understand that about them: their desire to be there for each other and enjoy hanging out.

Seems so simple, but elusive in today’s world. I wonder about the magic (can we call it that or is it something simpler like commitment and caring) that keeps all of them connected and supportive.
 
It’s a marvelous thing they have. You can see it in the photos they share, how they react to each other when you are fortunate enough to share time with them.
 
While touching base with one of the women recently, we discussed the rejuvenating aspect of getting together with long-term friends. We gain perspective. We see the world a little differently and return to our daily lives with a jolt of joy running through our veins.
 
As we passed text messages back and forth, I related a recent reconnection for me with a great friend from Marquette, MI.
 
When we visit, there is a spontaneous release of joy. We’re on the same page, up for an adventure, see a band, dig up dirt, drink beer, be goofy, climb a mountain, listen to his creative piano playing, walk along Lake Superior as 30 MPH winter winds rip through your jacket. It doesn’t matter what we do. What matters is the hang-out time, reliving a few good memories and creating some new ones.
 
I’ve found over the years that I return from these visits with an improved attitude. There’s a certain purification that goes on, a release of some bad sh…t that may be stored inside, replaced by good sh….t that gives me inspiration. That’s a huge reason for us to gather.
 
When my high school friend got settled this year in their retreat house, I wrote on her Facebook page that they should rent and watch “The Big Chill.” I’m sure they didn’t because they were having too much fun together.
 
But, “The Big Chill” says a lot about what it means to stay in touch. with  important people in your lives, sharing the bumps and bruises we encounter and celebrating those highlights we savor. Life would be so much less without this.
 
Those six women from our high school are, quite frankly, amazing to me. I tell them that when I see them. I think it’s unusual to see a group like that remaining so close and actively connected over oh-so-many years. If they could bottle that energy and sell it to others, all of them would be rich many times over. I think they already are rich in spirit, and they probably could care less about the money anyway.

When you leave the United States for more than a week, it offers a time of reflection, a chance to look back, contemplate and consider how and why we live the way we do. My wife and I recently returned from a lengthy trip to New Zealand. During those 15+ days abroad, I found myself reflecting on the way of life in New Zealand compared to the United States.
 
I came away with one overriding reflection: Kiwis (New Zealanders) put much more effort and care into protecting the native environment than we do in the U.S. I make that statement based on lengthy visual observations while being driven to natural habitat restoration sites in the southern half of the upper island and a lengthy circuitous route along the coast and Southern Alps (Kā Tiritiri o te Moana is the name of the mountain range in the Maori language, hence the shorter Engish version used for simplicity and understanding) of the southern island.
 
Why do I say this about care for the environment? In the days we were there, we found virtually no garbage anywhere along the roadways.

Simple statement. Doesn’t seem like much. But, take a second and think about it.

When you drive ANYWHERE in the U.S., when is the last time you have seen the side of the road you are driving/walking on pristine? And, I mean spotless. No plastic bags fluttering in trees. No abandoned beer cans. No cardboard boxes or cigarette butts. No plastic wrap or Styrofoam or tires or shattered glass. Just grass, trees, bushes, undergrowth, flowers, greenery, the way it is meant to be.
 
If you are like me, you cannot find a street anywhere near where you live that has not been turned into a dump. The only time you see those areas cleaned up, is BRIEFLY after Earth Day or after a Rotary Club or some other do-gooders get out for their one-day-a-year to clean up the mess that others have created 364 days a year.

How do the Kiwis do this? How have they developed this ethic of protection, caring and cleaniness? I asked around.

The answer is simple. They care.
 
I spoke to multiple individuals from the country while we were visiting. The answer was similar from person to person.
 
First, parents instill a reverence for the land. Don’t throw things out the window or onto the ground. If you see trash, pick it up, parents explain to their young children.

Second, the ethic is taught and reinforced in school. Lessons about respect for the environment and the importance of keeping it clean start early. When you instill that way of thinking, it becomes modus operandi as life moves on.
 
Finally, concrete steps like banning plastic bags at retail shops or charging a $1.50 fee per plastic bag discourage wasteful behavior. Plastic bags are not “offered” at checkout; you must ask for them, then pay the fee. Quite frankly, if we taxed plastic bags in the U.S., our Department of Treasury might become rich. Maybe we could eliminate the income tax. We can hope.
 
I do love the U.S. We have a naturally beautiful country, but it doesn’t stay that way when far too many people dump their refuse on the side of the road. Being in New Zealand got me reflecting on that and how much it angers me about our country. We can do so much better. And it would be so easy. Make it a mission.

​Sung to the tune, Dust in the Wind by Kansas: 
 
Same old song
Just a drop of salt on the snow-bound road
All we do
Salts the water, though we refuse to see
Salt in the wind
All we are is salt in the wind
 
Last week we got a minor dusting of snow. Temperatures the next day were forecast to rise in the snow melting range. Did that stop the salt trucks from pouring it on during the morning commute?  Nope.
 
They were out in force, laying out the road salt in chunks, parking lots getting salted and sidewalks crunchy under foot. All to get rid of that dang snow for about 3-4 hours.
 
Keeping our roads, sidewalks and parking lots safe during winter snowstorms is important. I get it. But there’s overdoing it with the salt thing. There has to be a better way that doesn’t impact the environment so treacherously.
 
When you live in Wisconsin, once the snow flies, you drive a car that’s encased in salt. As that washes off your vehicle, and mixes with the salt on the roads, the runoff goes where? Into the grass, siphoned into pools, ponds, streams, lakes and rivers. It increases water salinity, a silent negative for our waterways, greenery and animals.
 
I watch this over-salting and it really gets to me. Recently after an inch or two of snow, and the consequent massive salting disproportionate to the snowfall, the roads dried quickly in the sun the following day and started to create salt storms (similar to a dust, sand or dirt storm).
 
Driving down I-94 towards Milwaukee, you saw clouds rise from the interstate. A white banket billowed from the wind and speeding cars along the three lanes headed east as the salt broke into powder and blew along.
 
Though I have no proof, I found my eyes burning, and presumed it was salt in the wind. For several days, my eyes hurt, stinging, then it went away when rain washed the residual salt powder off the streets.
 
Isn’t there a better way to keep our roads safe and clear in the winter (and, quite frankly, reduce the rusting of our vehicles and the cracking of asphalt and pavement from salt infiltration)? With our entrepreneurial talent and know-how, I’m sure the engineers can come up with a reasonable solution the reduces our salt intake. Wouldn’t that be healthy? Sounds like a slogan.

Here are a few thoughts from this non-engineer. All you entrepreneurs can take it from there:
 

• Heated coils in the asphalt (I’ve seen this technology applied in sidewalks, but not roads, so I guess it’s too costly. Maybe you can figure out how to improve the technology and lower the cost.).
• Develop salt spreaders with minimal settings (only dropping light amounts rather than massive dumps). Alternately, have several settings based on the snow amount, type and how cold the temperature is so that only the most minimal necessary amount of salt is applied. Use AI to figure out the gauge.
• Invent a new snow melting mixture better for the environment, roads and vehicles.
• Build a blast furnace that trails the plow trucks to super heat the pavement so it burns off and evaporates all the moisture instantaneously.

I’m no engineer, so I freely acknowledge these are likely to be technically difficult. But hey, use this as your personal nudge. All you creative engineers unite and get this done. We’ll all benefit.

​Many years ago, when our dad was about my current age, there was a discussion around our house and Oprah Winfrey came up in that discussion. My dad said at the time, “Oprah who?”
 
Now, even back then, Oprah was a household word and had been for years. Famous to just about everyone except our dad. We were stunned when he showed a total lack of recognition, “Dad, where the heck have you been the last 10-15 years?”
 
Who knows? He wasn’t following popular culture.
 
Scarily, I can now relate to him. There are several examples that demonstrate how culture is passing me by.
 
One is the brouhaha over Bad Bunny playing at the Super Bowl. Let’s backtrack. Bad Bunny gets announced as the halftime musician. My response, “Who is Bad Bunny?”
 
Perhaps I have vaguely heard the name. Most likely, because he didn’t pertain to my life, I flushed that data. Not enough brain space to let him in.
 
All the hoopla followed with people taking sides on patriotism. I had no frame of reference. Since 2021, I have never heard of three of the Super Bowl halftime performers: BB, Weeknd and Usher.
 
Does the Super Bowl make them culturally  relevant? I’m not sure, but there are certainly a lot of testy people who think it’s the biggest deal on the planet when it’s not.
 
I don’t know any of those three bands. I don’t know their songs. I couldn’t sing along with the lyrics. Couldn’t imitate the guitar solos or drum rolls (if there were any). This doesn’t diminish their talents or elevate any of them to stardom. It just means popular culture is passing me by.

This happens to many people once you get past the age of 60 or so. You have other things to focus on, perhaps your health, a hobby or grandkids. You may still be working your butt off to pay the bills and not have time to focus on music or movies or sports to divert your anxieties.
 
I caught a bit of Green Day opening before the Super Bowl. I know them. I can sing (badly) some of their refrains. I like the beat. If they were given the halftime show, yeah, I would know them. But all that means is I know of a band from my limited cultural forum (mostly from my past; I don’t listen to much new music).
 
Your brain fills up with age. Perhaps that’s why we hark back to the music we know. It’s familiar. It provides good memories. We know the riffs and lyrics. We stick with the culture we know. It’s a familiar refrain.
 
And that, I believe, is what revved so many engines about BB on social media. One side doesn’t want new culture. The other side embraces it.

I like new culture. It invigorates our society, pushes us, forces us to examine assumptions and beliefs. That’s extremely healthy for an individual and for society at large.

Others want to stay mired in the past. I like my old music. When new music comes along that gets me singing the refrain and imitating the drum solos, tapping my knees, I buy in. Please let me know when you hear the next J. Geils Band enter the scene. I’ll be their biggest fan.
 
The Super Bowl is probably the single most over-hyped event in the United States. We turn it into a battleground. It’s not. It’s a professional football game. We should take that for what it’s worth: entertainment. Turn it on or turn it off. Your choice. Stop ranting and frothing at the mouth.

There’s a guy I talk to regularly at the fitness center where I work out. He turned 82 a while back. When I overheard this in conversation, I asked him, “How does it feel to be 82?”
 
Without missing a beat, he replied, “I don’t know, I’ve never been this old before.” I cracked up. I want to be that old guy.
 
I am the old guy, having just turned 70. I know some things I didn’t know before and lived through enough history the past 50 years or so (that sounds weird to say) to have learned a few things.
 
Because I’ve failed so many times, or had something go wrong, those events/situations have taught me what may work the next time or what should be avoided. For what it’s worth, here are some thoughts that stay with me and might help you at some point navigate life’s difficulties:

• Take care of your skin (and your feet and teeth).
• Stretch like a cat. Watch how they do it. Increase your stretching with age.
• Read (in-depth, not in short bursts)
• Make new friends. There are many good reasons for this. The saddest reason is losing an old friend.
• Hang out with younger people. They’re fun and get you out of your comfort zone.
• Challenge yourself somehow mentally, intellectually, physically, psychologically. I do this by refereeing basketball, continuing to play old codger baseball and setting golf goals that I never attain.
• Laugh. As much as possible. Hang out with people who make you laugh.
• Practice mental agility. There are more than enough options in today’s electronic world to find several games that force you to think. I play 3-4 every day.
• Travel within your personal financial parameters.
• Hang out with people you enjoy spending time with, and, conversely, avoid pound-offs (they take you down).
• Recognize online scams and stay away from them.
• Find a team you care about and root for them.

The list is not exhaustive. If I’m blessed to reach 80, this list will likely expand. There will be new challenges, new hurdles to leap over. I’ll share one amusing story before signing off that deals with prepping yourself to improve.
 
In this case, I was looking to strengthen my knees to handle the pounding of running the basketball court and baseball field, and squatting to line up putts on the golf green. I watched many people at the fitness center place an elevated mat in front of them, squat and jump up onto the mat and then hop down. Looks easy. It’s not at age 70.
 
Start small. That’s my first tip. I took a mat down last week that was six inches thick. So my leap had to get six inches into the air. A vertical jump. In my basketball playing hey day, I had a 38-inch vertical jump and could dunk two-handed. Now, I can barely slide a piece of paper under my feet when I rise.  This new exercise will hopefully help me build on that.
 
I did the first jump, then hopped down. I did it again, and my feet didn’t come up high enough and I lost balance and almost fell. I laughed at myself, “Hey old man, can’t even jump six inches anymore, eh?” I focused harder, then did five more successful reps for a total of six. That was enough. The next time I did 10 reps, all successful. This week I hope to raise it to 15. We’ll see.
 
Do the work, and you progress. Don’t expect miracles (probably another bullet that could be on the list above). If you keep after something though, you might surprise yourself.

​If you live in Wisconsin, you know January can be brutally cold. This year we had a run of almost seven weeks with temperatures not rising above freezing during the day, and several stretches of sub-zero temps combined with heavy winds for tortuously frigid days.
 
During one of those ultra-psychotically cold days (15-degrees below zero with 20 mph winds, for a -35 windchill), the heat in our house went out. We have a cast iron stove and several space heaters. We called our furnace guy, cranked the space heaters and fired up the stove.
 
Despite all those fingers in the dike, the temperature in our house continued to plummet from 63 degrees to 61 to 60. Our teeth weren’t chattering, but my wife and I wore extra layers, sweatshirts, stocking caps and pulling blankets over our legs while sitting.
 
Soon after we took those measures, the furnace came back on. It warmed up nicely. We called the furnace guy and cancelled the visit. As expected, the heat went out again soon afterwards and the house temperature began dropping dramatically again. We called to have the technician to come in again.
 
When you face this type of situation, you realize you’re close to the edge. You’re not about to die, but you think about how easily you could be in seriously dangerous circumstances. It’s about survival.
 
Your instincts kick in during times like this. You immediately consider consequences. “What’s the worst that can happen? What do I need to do next? What should we do about the pets?”
 
When modern technology fails, we’re back to those survival instincts. Think how lost you feel when you lose your internet connection. It may only last for an hour or two, but if you’re like me, you feel lost without connectivity.
 
Losing heat in the middle of an arctic wave is one of those occurrences that gets you back to your primal instincts. “Fire, heat, warmth, mmm, good. Give me animal hide to cover body,” says neanderthal man.
 
We are all close to living on the edge. You can lose a job that pays your mortgage with no savings to cover food, clothing, transportation, housing. If you have a life-threatening illness with no health insurance, what happens next? Your car can slide off a one-lane country road during a snowstorm with no hope for an emergency vehicle to rescue you.
 
We don’t think of these things on a day-to-day basis. We send them to deepest recesses of our brain to forget. If we worried about survival consistently, our heads would explode. We couldn’t function. More people around the globe grapple with survival every moment of every day than we can count. My small example of one day briefly losing our heat doesn’t measure up to their constant struggle.

While our heat was out that day, I took a hot shower. I could not believe HOW GREAT IT FELT. I let the water stream over me for far longer than I should have. My hands and feet warmed up; I was invigorated; it relaxed me and got my brain functioning again.
 
Most people around the world don’t have that luxury. Life is dangerous every day. We’re all close to living on the edge. Be thankful.

This past week, I officiated a boys basketball high school JV and freshman doubleheader here in the Milwaukee metro area. The freshman game was very sloppy. Lots of fouls. Kids were taking an extra step and we had to put a whistle on them to curtail traveling. Bad decisions abounded.
 
When that happens, as a basketball referee, it is hard. I’m not sure how much fans, coaches and players recognize this.
 
When you finish, your mind is worn out (to say nothing of your body). You’ve been making instantaneous tough decisions for over an hour – yes/no, let it go/blow the whistle, inbounds/out-of-bounds, contact that doesn’t affect speed/balance vs. contact that does affect speed/balance. In what other job must you be highly effectively (correct, consistent and judicious) in an intense emotional and physical environment? Not very many.
 
You cannot rest physically or mentally. You cannot rest in the game, nor can you expect someone to give you credit as you enter the next game because you must perform again.

You must be a lunch bucket guy. You must bring your lunch bucket EVERY day to EVERY game and perform. There are no days off.

I’ve use those statements often in describing what I do to others. When you enter a school, you start a new day, a new game, and what you did yesterday doesn’t matter. Your reputation doesn’t matter. You better bring your lunch bucket because you go to work again and must prove yourself.
 
At the freshman game noted above, there was a father in the stands who clearly appreciated how my partner and I officiated the contest. You might be surprised, but observant officials recognize these things. You see certain body language things that stand out. After the game, before the JV contest, he was down near the scorer’s table and he had a brief enjoyable interaction with me.
 
He immediately spoke in sincere appreciation (you know when it’s sincere) of the job my partner and I had done on the court. I thanked him and mentioned how tough the game was.
 
I said to him (more or less), “I’m not sure people understand how hard a game like this is to officiate. There are so many decisions to make on the court. The kids are sloppy. You have to let some contact go. You also must stay consistent. It doesn’t work well if you and your partner aren’t on the same page. Parents, coaches and players can complain and want a certain call to go there way, and you can’t blow your whistle all night. That would exhaust everyone.”
 
The point being that you are working hard every minute of that game being the lunch bucket guy, grinding it out, getting it done to the best of your ability. The next night you will do it again. And the next.
 
For the record, two other fathers that night came up to me and thanked me and spoke about how well-officiated the contest was, something my partner and I appreciated. There’s a lot written about the lack of support for sports officials, and there is no question there are nasty fans with unrealistic expectations, and coaches who act out rather than coaching their kids.
 
I’m not sure those fans or coaches understand the lunch bucket nature of what sports officials do. If they did, they might thank us a little more often. We’re not in it for the money or prestige.

​When someone recruits you, it feels good. You are flattered. Someone sees something inside you that perhaps others (maybe not even yourself) see in you.
 
You can be recruited for many things – a bridge partner,  a new job, for a sports team. That recruitment can be for a multitude of reasons, but in essence it’s still about them wanting you.
 
Recently, fairly suddenly, I found myself being recruited. I didn’t seek this. In fact, the recruitment was something I was not interested in.
 
As a player on two senior men’s baseball teams in separate leagues, I’m reasonably busy with games during the Wisconsin summer (Tuesdays and Saturdays, May-September). I don’t make every game, but I’m committed and participate in as many as possible.

I love the games, practice, hanging out with friends/teammates, appreciating the challenges of still hitting a sharp breaking ball or making a one-handed stab on a scorching liner. That pumps me up.
 
The games also take a toll. Stiff joints, sore and pulled muscles, aching elbows and knees cause you to pause and say inside your head, “Is the added pain worth the fun?” So far in my aging years, that answer has been “yes.”
 
Two weeks ago, the call came. A guy from one of the other teams called me. There is a new league in the Milwaukee metro area, which started recently (the only such league in the United States to my knowledge), for players age 70-and-over.  I hit 70 this month.
 
The manager was waiting. He knew my birthday and wanted me to join his club. It was nice to hear. He tried to sell me on various options – just play enough games to qualify for the playoffs; play only when they need an extra player. They know how to draw you in, then wham, you’re playing every week.

That’s what those recruiters do. They get inside you. They get you thinking, playing various scenarios through your head.

I remained steadfast as he ran through his list on how I could participate and help them out. I mentioned all my negatives: already playing in two leagues; need time for the body to recuperate; want time to play golf; three days a week ties up too much time; potential injuries; other things I want to do during the Wisconsin summer months.
 
He accepted this, ultimately, but it didn’t stop from another inquiry coming in (those recruiters must talk to each other). This one I jettisoned even more quickly, as I had my reasons already articulated.

I get it. Guys who play sports at this stage of life are totally into it. I enjoy most aspects (standing on an astroturf infield for 25 minutes in a long inning during 88-degree, 90 percent humidity is not one of them) of the game. But I don’t rage to play. I’m competitive and want to make the plays in the field, jack the ball at the plate, imbibe a bit afterwards and shoot the breeze. Twice a week is enough.

When someone comes after you in the recruitment process it can be a good or bad thing. Weigh your options. Make sure your decision covers the good and bad. It was flattering and a bit weird for me getting the phone calls. Not gonna happen this year, but you never know.

​Does the outcome of a live sporting event really matter? Not really.
 
Over the past several years, I’ve developed the habit of recording any sporting event I plan to watch on television – golf, college basketball, college football, Major League Baseball, the NFL. For the most part, this is done to fast forward through commercials and dead time in games (see: video review situations).
 
Those time wasters/killers (along with commercials) add tremendous length to any televised contest. When first recording pro football years ago, for example, I only programmed to the actual length of the game. It soon became apparent (due to the reasons noted above) that not enough time was being allocated to see the whole game. I had to go to the extended time. Rather than ending the recording with the expected finish to the game, I had to click additional buttons to extend it 15 minutes, then 30 and now one hour extra is the standard to be safe you get the full game. Whoooo boy.
 
Appreciating the joys of fast forwarding through commercials, timeouts and video review, these recordings became mandatory. Slowly, insidiously, it became quite difficult to watch a sporting event on the tube in real time. Advertisements got in the way. Dead time in the game bored me.
 
Another factor was at work though in terms of why recording became more important. I started to find it just doesn’t really matter who wins or loses. Yeah, we all root for certain teams. We care. We want them to win. And, I am rabid at times.
 
It’s that rabid feeling that makes recording sensible. Let’s start with a short story.
 
My dad, Herm, played football for Bucknell University after WWII. He was their starting center for three years. He rooted for the Bison until the day he died, giving money, reading their newsletter regularly, knowing who the star players were.

Near the end of his life in his mid-80’s, we went to see a Bucknell game in-person, including spending time in the locker room to hear the coach do his thing. Herm was like a kid, his eyes sparkling, unable to stand still, all hyped up. Once the game started, it got worse. I did not know these things about him. He couldn’t stop his leg from jiggling.
 
His leg bounced up and down like a pogo stick the entire game. You could see him hyper-ventilating. He shifted continuously in his seat. I couldn’t figure it out. I asked if he was okay, and he looked at me with saucer pupils and nodded, “I’m just nervous about the game,” he said.
 
I thought to myself, “This is my 85-year-old father and he can’t sit still for a football team because he is so pumped up.”
 
We have blood of our parents inside us, and when I root for a team I care about these days, I better understand my dad’s jumpiness. I get wired. If the game is on late and it is close, I can’t sleep afterwards. I’m too drained.
 
What do I do? I turn the game off, knowing I have it recorded and will watch the final in the morning. And, egads, as I have done this more and more, I’ve found I’m not wired about the win or loss. I still care, but winning or losing doesn’t cause me to lose sleep. Instead, I sleep, then find out the score the next morning and watch the delayed game. All is good. The sun rose.
 
Does the outcome matter? Yes, emotionally. No, in the grand score of life. The game may be your passion. Recording it gives you perspective and some distance. You wake up refreshed from a good night’s sleep, then when you access the score online you scream in joy or pain.

​We all have many opportunities to meet new people. That can occur through day-to-day experiences, randomly, through business, meetings, introductions by others, at our place of worship, and a multitude of other ways. The point being: we can put ourself into new situations or stick to our current relationships.
 
I’m going to throw a statistic out there. For those regular readers of this column, you know I referee basketball. As a basketball official, I’m thrown in with new partners over and over and over. To me, that’s a good thing. It’s a learning experience to work with someone new, and they almost always teach you something (which could be good or bad). And, you may make a new friend (wasn’t it Roy Rogers who said something to the effect of, “A stranger is just a friend I haven’t met yet.”).
 
Here’s the stat. Over the past three years, I’ve tracked my basketball officiating partners. During that time, I have reffed with 147 new individuals. Breathe that in.
 
Now, step back. Think about your work situation or your neighbors. Have you met someone new in either of these venues in the past few years (or weeks or months)? No value judgment about this. Just an interesting exercise to consider who has entered your life during this time period in any significant way (doesn’t mean you must have an ongoing relationship; just someone who you’ve hung out with or done something with, worked on a project together, things like that).
 
If you have new people you’ve met and engaged with, have you picked up something new from any of them? Have your grown through those meetings?
 
Back to my basketball partners. The fascinating thing to me, first of all, is the large number of new officials I’ve been introduced to the past three years. That’s about 50 individuals a year. I must work with them closely. I must trust them. I must get to know them (at least in a perfunctory way because we’re going to be making high intensity decisions in a very emotional environment over the next 75 minutes or so in a high school varsity game).
Beyond trust and getting to know each individual, secondly, I pick up something from every new official. They may explain something verbally during our pregame that prepares me for the upcoming contest. They may step forward on a play during the game that we discuss afterwards and it helps me understand a rule better. They may handle an explosive coach with a special phrase, and I add that to my repertoire afterwards.
 
Third, and this gets into aging a bit, as I get older, there seem to be fewer situations where you are introduced to new people. The basketball court gives me those opportunities.
 
I also learn things not to do, like not adopting a bullying or know-it-all tone of voice with my partners or coaches. I recognize situations where I need to hold back or step forward based on what I see and hear from my partners.
 
Finally, you develop new friends through meeting others and the relationships that ensue. You may find someone you hang out with for years and years.

It’s important to keep meeting people throughout life. They help us grow and develop. Sports officiating is a great venue to experience this.