This past week, I went up north to watch a high school girls playoff basketball game between two small schools. A friend of mine from many years ago when we refereed basketball together was now the coach of the “P” team as I call it to protect identities.

He has a unique perspective in terms of watching the ebb and flow of the game having been a former referee. Since I have returned to the hardwood the past three years as an official, my insights are garnered from that perspective, plus having cheered for two of our kids as they grew up playing basketball.

I went to the game as a fan and to support my buddy. I hoped they did well, executed, played to the best of their abilities, and if things worked out, they could win.

It didn’t take long after the opening tap for me to hear grumblings. When I referee, I focus on the game. It’s not to say I don’t hear people complaining, but it’s more important for me to work inside the lines and do the best I can, paying attention, hustling and getting the plays right. When a friend or relative attends one of my games and gives me feedback afterwards, they often raise the “grumbling” issue of the fans.
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This is not to say the whining and complaining is solely about officiating. The “fans” (though isn’t it hard to call them that when they don’t cheer?) tend to find things and people to pick apart. Rather than supporting their team and cheering with passion (or even to make a lot of noise to rattle the opponent), their eyes and voices target negativity.

This strongly struck me at P’s playoff game. No one was bad. No one screamed like they were popping a blood vessel in their forehead to attack the coach or roast the referee. The voices were subdued and negative.

When plays happened, was their collective applause for a spontaneous good play? No. Instead, there would be collective grousing of voices about a whistle not blown against the opposing team, or directed at one of the head coaches about their choice of plays on an offensive possession.

It seems EVERYONE is a coach and referee these days. I’m not sure if people put that down on their resumes, but a lot of people seem to feel qualified to repeatedly comment on coaches and referees.

I get it. We’re a free speech society. People want to voice their opinions. What I don’t get is why don’t these individuals CHOOSE to be supportive and build their team and players up, rather than jeer and put others down? It seems part of our human condition to push the negative rather than support and cultivate the positive.

This column ain’t gonna change anything other than perhaps touch a few people who want to raise their personal awareness and then choose to reach out and affect others by standing behind their team and coaches rather than against them. I would point out, too, that almost all the whining and complaining came from parents, not from the kids who sat on the other side of the court, who attempted to get some excitement going in support of their teams.
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Maybe those teenagers need to talk to their parents to teach them a few things.

​Relearning as a concept isn’t necessarily new. There’s enough literature available on continuing to grow your skills or your emotional intelligence or your ability to adapt to changing circumstances. Sometimes though a new situation arises that brings it home to you that is more along the lines of “relearning” something that you’d forgotten, or possibly hadn’t paid much attention to.
 
Recently, I was out on the golf course with two grade school buddies. We hadn’t seen each other in about 10 years. We’re clearly in a stage of life where our bodies don’t obey the commands they did 15 or 20 years ago.
 
We played three consecutive days. That was overdoing it. We complained about our backs, knees and other joints being stiff and sore. We stretched, used the Theragun to pound knotted muscles, and headed back to the next course to attempt to dominate the white dimpled ball.
 
The relearning curve golf teaches us over and over is simple: life is not easy. Golf is not easy.
 
You get screwed by golf shots when you don’t deserve it. You get lucky when you shouldn’t. That often mirrors what happens in our personal day-to-day existence.
 
You also relearn from golf the lesson that no matter how much prep time you take to get better and master the necessary skills to shoot a good score, that may not be enough. You work and work, repeat your swing, take lessons, listen to experts, adapt some nuance to how you address the ball, and you get back on the course and still don’t hit it the way you want or expect.
 
It’s a hard sport. You relearn your failures.
 
In our world today, I think the discipline of hard work, putting in the hours to get better, relearning lessons to improve a skill are often lost. It’s not a new complaint – that many seek instant gratification rather than putting in the grind time over an extended period to reach a significant goal.
 
But, it does seem with the increasing saturation of success models combined with social media and its constant hammering away at our psyches that we can assume reaching a tough goal is way easier than it actually is. That leads to frustration. “Why didn’t I get there sooner? They said I could be anything if I wanted to.”
 
It just ain’t so. Most people can’t “just be anything.” Yes, we can and should aspire to do important and constructive things in our lives, things that lead us to fulfillment and make societies more productive and unified. None of that happens quickly.
 
A good golf game comes about after relearning many lessons, and reapplying them to yourself. With time, commitment and effort, you see progress. You score goes down. You grow in confidence.
 
You can’t go out and play a few days after not picking up a club for three months and hope to shoot like the pros. Though there are some golfers with natural swings and instincts who can shame many of us duffers in that way. They are the exception.

The majority rule is you have to get down in the trenches and dig away. Put in the work. Shovel the dirt. You’ll make progress. You’ll achieve satisfaction. Importantly, that is often enough.

​If you are someone who works out regularly at a fitness facility OR someone who has a robust sense of humor, this story is for you. Listen up.
 
There’s an elder gentleman (older than me) who, bless his heart, continues to ride the stationary bike, lift weights and laugh at my jokes on a regular basis. He’s kind of a skinny guy. Doesn’t look very strong.
 
He’s a regular though. Along with a more portly fellow who joins him (the joke-teller in this twosome), they serve as a forum for out-there antics. Usually, that means we tell a joke, which is a lost art these days. That’s because many people often choose not to interact face-to-face, instead hiding in their phones, burying their noses in instant media.
 
No, the three of us don’t have our phones with us, no ear buds in. We’re the pranksters, liars, philosophizers about the future of the world. It’s a good thing.
 
As part of our connection, I assumed the role of messing with Skinny Man (who will be referred to as “Skinny” for the rest of this tale). He takes harassment easily. He laughs. I can tell it reconnects him with people, and that’s always a good thing.
 
When he shifts from the stationary bike to the weight machines, Skinny tends to sit and think for a bit of each machine before he pushes the weights. Sometimes that can take a few minutes. This allows time for me to plan the attack.
 
Looking at Skinny, you wouldn’t assume he has much arm strength. But, when I get on a machine after he has demolished his weight set, I often find he pumps more than I do. That’s awesome and inspirational.

It inspires me to push him further. Recently, for example, he cranked on the sitting bench press, where you park your butt on the seat, then push the handlebars attached to the weights away from you. Similar to doing a pushup. It develops the same muscles.

He finished his first set and started daydreaming about his Cream of Wheat breakfast to follow, and how much colon blow to sprinkle in. That takes mental focus for Skinny, so I knew the opportunity existed for sabotaging him.
 
His eyes typically focus in the distance while he daydreams and preps for the second set. I snuck in behind him, pulled the metal peg from the 50 lb. weight set, and reinserted the peg into the 80 lb. weight. Didn’t want to hurt him by going to 100 pounds or higher, but I thought the 80-pounder would get some grunts and his attention, along with Portly Man’s.
 
Finally, he was ready. I moved back to my machine, watching from a distance. He grunted, exerted himself, his massive skinny muscles flexing. He DID it. Then, wham, let the weights slam down and looked around with an amused expression.
 
I’m dying. Cannot contain my mirth. Portly Man is on the floor slamming his palm on the mat in hysterics. Our laughter reverberates throughout the facility. People look up from smart phones. Heads turn. We continue cracking up.
 
Skinny smiles. He loves it. He nods at me. He knows I’m watching him, paying attention, making sure he gets his chuckle of the day. Hopefully, we got a few other people chortling as well.
 
It’s spreading. We can feel it. Laughter is contagious.