The Ref is Called, "Sir" and Other Ways to Avoid Misgendering People

Ryu works the sideline.

Being misgendered can suck. I only have a tiny amount of firsthand experience with this, but it's been over a long period of time. People often think that I am a woman when I am on the phone. It's been going on my whole life. I used to think it was because I was kid, but it still happens. It's only really bothered me a couple times and it doesn't come close to being something that causes me to produce more than an unseen eye roll before I correct the person. In this way, I am privileged. Since I've never had to wrestle with society failing to accept my gender, being mistaken for a woman doesn't have the same effect on me that it can have for other people. 

Assuming a person's gender isn't something I thought much about until a few years ago. For a long time, I was content to go with whatever I picked up from my perception of a person's markers of gender expression. These were cues like hair cuts, clothes and accessories. As I've grown in my understanding of gender and the difference between identity and expression, I know that while they are often linked, expression isn't enough to go on. I saw this with my middle child, who came out as non-binary, but hasn't changed much about their personal style. My oldest, also non-binary, hasn't changed their style much either. Both are often misgendered, but in different ways and with different results. 

Lou hunting a tackle

Most misgendering for my kids comes on the rugby field. Kids play co-ed until middle school, so it's common to have boys and girls and non-binary kids all on teams together. I'll be honest, it can be hard at times to tell who's who. The kids range in age from 7-10 in U10s and from 10-12 in U12 and if you know about kids, you know that the range of sizes and features as kids grow is staggering. Add in the fact that they're all in uniforms and, good luck.  Lou's rugby nickname is "Crash," which removes one more societal marker for gender. Even Lou's real name, being non-anglo and uncommon even for its culture of origin, doesn't provide any help for most people. Lou is sporting a door side-shave that has become a common hair style for people of all genders. So Lou is called a girl about 60/40, and both assumptions are wrong.

Ryu is another story. Being our child, Ryu is very slight of build. Their voice is still child-like, having not yet differentiated. They have grown a beautiful golden mane that they wear in a pony tail when playing or refereeing. When in uniform, this is usually the only typical gender marker that people pick up on. The other thing is that when we ref, we often wear pink, which has become popular for rugby referees in the last decade. I've often had coaches tell me how great it is that my daughter is out officiating games. When I tell them, that's not my daughter, they pivot to how great it is that her parents let her come out with me. 

I need to find a better way to express this concept.

This came to a head a couple weeks when Ryu was working the sideline at a game. I was working the opposite line, so I didn't hear anything about it until later. When we got home, Ryu reported that the coaches on the far sideline spent the entire game referring to Ryu as, "sweetheart." Ew. First off, don't call anyone you're not already in some kind of relationship with, sweetheart. Gross. Second, don't use a diminutive when talking to a match official. Especially a kid and especially if you think they're a girl. I know it may be hard to have to refer to a child in a way that defer's to their authority over you based on the position they have taken in the match, but you still have to do it. Thirdly, don't assume someone's gender. Finally, rugby has already set up a way to avoid this, the referee is called, "sir."

The term, sir is use to address all match officials in the sport. It doesn't matter their age. It doesn't matter their gender. It doesn't matter if they are in the middle of the field or on the sideline. The referee is called, sir. This idea is so ingrained in rugby culture that in parts of the mid-west the word is used not only as a title, but as a noun and a verb. As in, "Are you the sir?" and "Are you sirring for us today?" It essentially replaces the word "referee" in some dialects. When called, ma'am, female referees will sometimes correct it to, sir. Here's what I sent to the coaching staff:

"I'm writing to follow up on one thing and I hope that it comes across in text as being friendly and gentle, which is how I intend it. 

Could you please remind your coaches to refrain from referring to any referee or AR as, "sweetheart?" All match officials, regardless of gender can be addressed as, "sir." I know for sure that there was no offense intended from the staff. I am certain it was an endearment and not an insult. However, we should generally practice not using diminutives with match officials. More specifically because in this case the term used, generally applied to girls, misgendered the AR. The AR wasn't deeply offended, but did feel uncomfortable and didn't feel able to correct the coaches during the match while also attending to their AR duties. 

I know that you all have your hearts and minds in the right place, I know you're all top notch. I did want to get us all thinking about how we interact with officials and keeping to the same standards even when the officials are children.

I am always happy to have more conversation about this or any other aspect of officiating. Thank you again for coming down and thank you for all of the energy and effort you've put into helping develop referees this season."

The coaches replied and said everything you'd hope one would say in this situation. As time goes on, hopefully the presence of my kids in the league will help bring awareness and maybe even change habits. The thing is, habits are hard to break, even for those of us who think we're thinking about this stuff.

I made a mistake recently that showed me how much work I still need to do. We got a new kid at rugby a couple weeks ago, just coming up to us from U8. Slight build, cool undercut hair style, gender neutral name. The second practice the kid was at, they ended up behind me as I was jogging backward and I bowled them over. Another player asked what happened and I said, "He was behind me and I didn't see him and I knocked him over." That's when the other coach started shout-whispering, "she." It took me couple times to figure out what he was saying. "She. SHE." he shout whispered couple more times. Aw crap, I had just misgendered the new kid in nearly the same way it happens to Lou, and for almost the same reasons. I definitely wanted to dig a hole in the turf and bury myself. 

I did what most people do. I took the available evidence and made what I thought was a reasonable assumption based on how I think the world is ordered. Except, I'm supposed to know better. I really thought I was past using my perception of gender expression and context to assume a person's gender. I'm not. Even after having conversations with my kids and my wife about paling everyone, they until you know for sure, I made this mistake. This was even after another embarrassing moment that happened when I was picking up my kids on the last day at transgender kids summer camp. I signed one of the kids out and said to the counselor, who I'd had some rough patches with during the week, "Thanks, man." I was mortified. I sincerely do not know this person's gender and it doesn't even matter what their gender is, this is the one place where I really needed to be more careful. "Hey, I didn't mean, man like...it's...I say it to everyone. I didn't mean..." The counselor cut me off/saved me, "It's cool. I get it." Thanks, kid. You're very kind. 

So how can you or I or anyone avoid this? Here are my ideas.

-Use people's names if you don't know their gender. Read through this post again, there are places where I use names instead of other pronouns. It takes practice and can feel awkward, but it's a good trick and useful for when you're still getting used to someone's pronouns.

-If you can't smoothly insert their name, or don't know it, use, "they." Yes, for some people, they is their pronoun and for others it isn't and maybe someone who uses something else will take offense. But I think most people will get your intent, see it as a positive and offer you their pronouns. If singular they seems confusing to you, think of the lost item example to see how you probably already use it: "Hey, someone left their sweatshirt here. We should find out who they are and get it back to them." You don't actually say, "Someone left his or her sweatshirt, we should get it back to him or her."

-Normalize including your pronouns. Even if you're cis, let people know your pronouns. It can function as an invitation for others to also disclose their pronouns and know that they're with someone safe. 

-Don't call people, "man." It's reflexive for those of us who grew up wanting to emulate The Fonz, but its time has passed. It's a hard habit to break, but just break it. A lot of people won't care, but I don't want to be the guy who reawakened someone's trauma with an offhand turn of phrase I cold just as well not say.

-Remember that most things you say could be said just as well without a gender tag. "Excuse me, miss." Could just be "Excuse me." "Hello, sweetheart," could just be "Hello." "Your son or daughter," could just be "your child." It's really not hard to just stop talking before you say the gendered part.

Finally, don't let yourself off the hook, but don't beat yourself up. I'm raising these transgender kids, going to workshops, spending time and effort to be the best ally I can be and I still make mistakes. I don't take them lightly. I use each one as an opportunity to remember that I can't be complacent or ever think that I'm done learning and growing. It's OK to be imperfect as long as you keep getting better.

I probably missed somethings here, so please feel free to correct me in the comments or hit me up on Twitter.

Ryu goes to the whistle and admonishes Lou for calling them "princess" during a match.

 

Just Let the Kid Dance

I am not a Men's Rights Activist. I am a feminist. This is not a rant about how men have it hard. Men, in general, don't have it hard. This is just a story about a little boy who wants to dance. His name is not Billy Elliot.

I grew up with a single mother who wasn't into sports. It's not that she didn't like them. It's not that she didn't know that sports exist. It's just that sports weren't on her radar. While my friends were running shuttles on the soccer field I was being shuttled between art and dance classes. I loved art and dance. I danced on and off through high school. I went to Shakespeare camp. I was a skater. I danced. No one ever questioned it. I don't remember a single time when I was made to feel like I didn't belong. To the contrary, I feel like I was always welcomed.

This is the experience I relied on when I signed Buddy up for dance class last fall. It wasn't the same for him as it had been for me.

From the beginning he was subjected to teasing from the girls either in his class, or waiting to take the next class. Too many times he was told that "boys don't take dance. Boys don't do ballet. Boys don't wear tights." Just like that a few dumb ass elementary school girls had undone months of me showing him videos of male ballet dancers and regaling him with stories of my days spent in tights, going over the initial positions, and demonstrating my still excellent turn out. He didn't feel uncomfortable in in his leotard and tights until other kids decided that he should. It wasn't until a couple months into the class that the teacher told us he could wear warmup pants if he wanted. We didn't know that earlier because the printed instructions and requirements were very clear about what was expected. The times when I raised my concerns with his teacher she would look at me blankly and then tell me she hadn't heard or seen anything. A couple times there were assurances that they valued Buddy just like the rest of the dancers. Nothing changed.

Despite the setbacks, as I periodically rebuilt his confidence, he decided he wanted to participate in the spring recital. So we paid the surprisingly high fees for the recital and the costumes for both kids and committed to a second session of classes. (You had to sign up for the recital early in the first session, there was little time to decide if you liked the class or not.) It was at this point that the underlying discriminatory indifference became clear.

The girls' costumes arrived two months prior to the recital. We had time to make sure they fit. We were taught how to put on the weird headband. We were told that we must have nude colored tap shoes for both kids. The day the costumes arrived I found Buddy in tears as the costumes were handed out.

"What's wrong Bud?"

"I don't want to wear a dress!"

Once we assured him that his costume would be more masculine we were told that his had not yet arrived, but it would. We were told that every week for two months. When we arrived at the dress rehearsal, which was also our only chance to take pictures of the kids on stage (there is a strict no photo policy during the performance), we still did not have a costume. When T did his makeup, we still did not have a costume, but we did have little girls squealing "EW WHAT IS HE DOING?" because they are asshole children. T kept her composure and explained to them that everyone on stage or on TV is wearing make up, even the men. I might have been there to help explain things, but I was not allowed.

#LetBertoBeADanceMom was a short lived internet non-phenomenon that completely failed to go viral. About a month before the recital the parents were called into the studio at the end of class to film the kids doing their routines so they could practice at home. At the end the teacher asked for volunteers to be "Dance Moms" during the recital and dress rehearsal. "We need to two moms from each class." After 30 seconds of silence with no volunteers I stepped up. "Hey," I thought to myself, "I spent most of my life doing theater and dance. I can do makeup. I can help with costume adjustments. I'm perfect for this.

Maybe you're thinking that thirty seconds isn't a long time. Trust me, it's forever. It's so long that during dress rehearsal if a group was 5 seconds late for their entrance cue the director started again until they got it right. Imagine thirty seconds of dead air on the radio. Or try this, the next time someone asks you a question, just look at them silently for thirty seconds before you answer. Or the next time you answer the phone, don't say hello for thirty seconds. Seriously, it's enough time that if it sits that long after a teacher asks for volunteers, it's clear that no one wants to do it. "What's involved?" I asked. Silence. "Like, what times do we have to be there?" The teacher finally replied that it was just the regular listed times. "OK, I can do it." Silence.

"Oh, no dads. Only moms."

Thanks to my friend Gloria for the pics

I was stunned. I didn't even think to ask why, I just stood there dumbfounded and uncomfortable. After another thirty seconds a couple moms complained that volunteering would mean missing their kids' performances. It was only after they were assured that they would be able to watch from the audience that two women stepped up.

No dads. Only moms.

None of the other parents seemed to think this was odd. The reactions to my complaints on social media were mixed. A few dads thought I should sue. Most people jumped on the idea that other parents, and the kids themselves would feel uncomfortable with a man back stage helping so many little girls change clothes. I get that. But that's not the situation.

All the dancers were instructed to arrive at the venue in full costume and makeup. The little kids were each in one dance, and did not have any changing to do. There were older girls who were in multiple dances and did change costumes, but they were in a different room than the little kids, who were also in different rooms than each other in many cases. (Buddy's class had a room to themselves.) There was no chance I would have seen anything improper or uncomfortable. But no, I can't help.

No dads. Only moms.

But I digress, back to the costume debacle that acted as a metaphor for the entire dance school's approach to having a boy in their midst.

At the dress rehearsal T finished Buddy's makeup and left the backstage area before his costume arrived. While she was getting the kids situated in the mysterious land where dads dare not tread, I was investigating the costume situation. I was assured that it was "being Ubered over right now." Seriously? After eight months of class they had to get a costume Ubered over on the day of the dress rehearsal? Ridiculous.  I know what you're thinking, "Dude, it takes a while to get a custom made Durham Bull costume that emits smoke from the nostrils and has all those neon lights." And you'd be right, but that's not what the costume was. We waited anxiously for Buddy to come out. We took bets on whether he'd have a costume on or not.

It was Push. When his group came out, during the only chance we'd have to take photos, he was wearing a shimmery black dance dress shirt, a bedazzled bright pink tie, and the shorts he'd been wearing when we arrived. Oh, and the nude tap shoes.

When I went back stage to pick him up after rehearsal I was handed $40, presumably for him only getting half a costume. We were asked to provide out own black pants. When I brought up my frustrations with his teacher she gave me a blank look, the kind teenagers give their least favorite family members during dinner, like she was waiting for me to stop talking so she could leave.

"It's been very frustrating that Buddy has been treated like a complete afterthought all year. It's like you're completely unprepared to have a boy in your class. You've had eight months to get him a costume and then the day comes, and he doesn't have pants. How does that happen?

"Well," she replied dryly, "it is very unusual."

UNUSUAL? It was difficult for me to hold in my fury. If this were a girl in a traditionally male activity being treated this way it would be a local news item. There would be outrage. But I wasn't done. With all the strict clothing instructions they'd given us, hair ties must match the hair color, pins must be done just so, etc. how could they not understand enough about mens' fashion that they had him in nude shoes?

"Also, you're telling us we have provide black pants. Didn't you know that weeks ago? Why not tell us? Also, why did make him buy nude shoes? He's wearing a black shirt and black pants. He's going to wear black tights underneath. Why nude shoes? no man wears nude shoes with black."

"All the dancers are wearing nude shoes."

"ALL THE DANCERS ARE WEARING NUDE TIGHTS! He's wearing black. He already had black shoes. Didn't you think this through even a little?"

"Well he can wear tan or khaki pants."

"With a black shirt and a pink tie? Have you ever met a man anywhere before? No. You were right that he should have black pants, don't come to me with tan pants just to justify your poor idea about the shoes. We're returning the shoes and you're taking them back without complaint."

It's astounding how obtuse people are allowed to be without somehow falling onto train tracks and being run over. So with that my wife went to the thrift store and found and hemmed a pair of size 8 black dress pants.

On the day of the recital Buddy looked great. He danced like a champ. He showed all the qualities of the world class ham that he is. He was jazzed. He had his performer's high. He also maintained that even though he liked dancing, he never wanted to take a dance class again. Rugby season started soon after and he spent the summer running around the field and not asking the girls on his team why they were there.

They Make Me a Better Sport

We're old school Dubs fans at my house.

I am a poor sport.

It's tough to admit, but it's true. Part of the reason is something I noted about a month ago while waiting to hear back about a job interview. Some people can do that thing where they say, "Don't worry about things you can't control." I'm the opposite. I only worry about things I can't control. Why would I worry about anything else? I control all the other things so there's little to worry about there.

Being a poor sport doesn't come through as much when I'm playing, though I have been known to be a bit of a hot head when I feel an opponent is playing dirty. It comes out in spades when I watch rather than play. In fact, I've come to realize over the years that watching brings out the worst in me because I can see everything, but control nothing. It's why during my rugby days I played better as a scrum half, in close to the action, than as a wing standing on the outside with a great view, but little minute-to-minute impact. I never got in trouble playing scrum half. I was constantly in trouble as a wing.

I don't coach anymore, I didn't have the right temperament.

I quit coaching a couple years ago when I realized I couldn't stop yelling at the referees. Yelling at referees is terrible to begin with, but for me it was especially egregious because I am a referee. I was haranguing guys I worked with, guys I had to face at the ref meetings. I couldn't stop. So I had to recuse myself until I could work on my issues and be the kind of coach I expect when I referee.

So why am I writing about this? I may have found my salvation, and it's my kids.

There are a few things that being a parent has changed for me that I would not have changed on my own. I eat more vegetables and cook healthier meals now, not because I have internalized that it's good for me, but because it's good for them. I drive slower and more patiently, not because I don't feel the road rage, but because I want them to be safe. I don't pick up my phone when I'm driving, not to save my life, or yours, but because I want to be able to say to them "See, you can drive without FOMO." Having them with me is also making me a better sport, at least when I'm in front of them.

It started with the 2012 NFC Championship Game between the Giants and the 49ers. San Francisco lost on a muffed punt in overtime that led to New York's winning field goal. I was bummed, but Buddy was heart broken. For the next three days our morning commute was consumed with him crying, begging for them to replay the game so the 49ers could win. That's when I had to institute The Rule. The Rule is that when our team loses, whether as fans or as players, we can be sad about it for 24 hours, then we move on. As a fan The Rule is useful because it acknowledges our emotions and our need to grieve, while also allowing for the fact that sports fandom is kind of a silly pursuit.

Go Buddy, go!

As Buddy and Lou have gotten older and begun to engage more with the sports world, I have had to become better. The first big challenge came last year when Buddy started playing Under-9 (U9) touch rugby. I tried my best to just be a parent. I didn't want to be a coach, I didn't want to referee. I wanted to be a parent and let him experience what it's like to hear other voices.

Really, I wanted to not want to be a coach or ref.

The truth is I desperately wanted to do both. It killed me to see coaches who were caring and well meaning, but didn't have a ton of experience with little kids, devise drills and practice sessions that failed to hold their team's interest. It was all I could do to swallow my frustration with how the games were officiated. None of this is because the coaches or refs were truly inadequate, but because it is so hard for me to watch imperfection, even in games where they don't keep score. (A note on keeping score, you can say you don't keep score, but the kids all know the score.) The next challenge came this month as my Golden State Warriors carried a three-games-to-one lead in the best of seven NBA Finals, that then became a three all series with a deciding game seven to come.

Generally it had been easy to rant and rail at basketball games like a typical fan because they usually start well after the kids' bedtime. I became notoriously obnoxious on Facebook during the playoff months of April, May and June. I also had more riding on this than the average fan. A Warriors win would mean trip home to California for me to work the victory parade. I had worked the parade the year prior and I was over the moon at the idea of doing it again. With game seven in Oakland, and with the two-time MVP on our side I was confident our team would win, could win. Might win. OK, I'm generally a pessimist, but I figured they would win despite my reservations.

2015 Warriors Championship Celebration

It was Sunday night before the last day of school and I offered the kids the chance to stay up and watch the game. Early on I realized the biggest challenge of the night would be in keeping my comments measured in order to be a good example for them. So while I complained about things on Facebook, I tried to remain calm while Buddy snuggled next to me on the couch. (Lou elected to go to bed before half time).  At one point in the first half Kyrie Irving hit a tough shot and had a foul call go his way on what was, in my mind, not even close to being a foul. It was bad enough that it happened, but then he danced. He danced because he was happy. He was happy because he was playing better than he ever had in the biggest game of his life. But it burned me up and I said, "Someone should punch Kyrie Irving right in his stupid smug face."

Nope. That is not what you say in front of a seven-year-old kid.

I got up. I got a drink of water. I went to the bathroom. When I came back to the living room they were showing the replay of Kyrie's dance. I sat down with Buddy.

"Hey Bud, a minute ago I said someone should punch Kyrie Irving in the face. That's not true. I shouldn't have said that. I was frustrated, but no matter how frustrated you are you shouldn't say that someone should get punched in the face. Do you know why I was frustrated? Because he was dancing and taunting his opponents. It's rude. If you're ever doing really well in a game, don't dance. You can be happy, you can high five your teammates, but don't do things to taunt the other team. And if someone taunts you, or dances, don't think about punching them. Use whatever emotion you have as motivation to do better. Then, if you win, go back to the locker room and dance your butt off. But always show respect for your opponent."

Other than a couple instances of "That's not a foul!" I was well behaved the rest of the game, even as the Warriors let a seven point half time lead slip away. Buddy did implore me to stop begging for coach Steve Kerr to take Anderson Varejao out of the game. Honestly, it was a brutal few minutes for both us. For me because I could see Varejao single handedly losing the game. For him because he had to hear me cry about it.

In the end the Warriors lost the game and the series, and I lost my trip to Oakland. The game ended up being a classic, won by Irving on a shot with just a few seconds left. I apologized to Buddy. I thought he'd be up to see his first championship win. "It's OK dad," he said, "I got to see my first championship game, and I got to stay up and see it with you." And with that he demonstrated that he was already a better sports fan than me, which is what I want for him. We talked about what the game meant for LeBron James and the city of Cleveland. We talked about how that game will likely go down as an all-time classic. With that we started our twenty-four hour mourning period with a hug, a wan grimace, and headed to bed.

Let's get it again next year.

Chasing Your DreamS

I'm not really sure how I got here. Seriously, it's weird.


OK, I know how I physically got to where I am. It's not hard, I'm sitting in my "office." (OK, it's a TV tray and a folding chair in a corner of my bedroom, but it's what I've got.) What I mean is, when I look back to who I was twenty years ago, or even twelve months ago, I don't know how I got to this point in my life.


This past weekend I headed off to my first Dad 2.0 Summit. It's a conference for dad bloggers. At this time last year the site you're reading had been around for twelve years and had thirty posts since 2013. On Saturday I read to an audience of guys who get more views in a day than my most popular piece has had in two months. It's was certain to be a packed house, mostly because I went on five minutes before Michael Strahan of NFL fame and now the co-host of Live! With Kelly and Michael.


I have business cards for my blog. I headed to a DC hotel to talk to other bloggers and sponsors about "the changing voice and perception of modern fatherhood." 
This is not where I expected to be. How did I get here?


It's sort of the big question of my life.


There are people who say you should pursue your dream no matter what. They say that you should never give up. They imply that if you quit on your dream you have some kind of moral deficiency. I disagree. I think there's a lot of value in giving up on a goal. 
  

When I was three-years-old I was going to be a fireman. 
At age six I wanted to be a stay at home dad. From five to eighteen I was definitely going to be an actor.  That was the dream. I didn't get into my first choice theater schools, and I realized the odds I was facing chasing a life on stage. I went for a back up. I became a sign language interpreter, a field  I'd become aware of by accident when I joined Inner City Outings (now called, Inspiring Connections Outdoors), a Sierra Club group that took disadvantaged kids on wilderness trips. When I volunteered to be a white water rafting guide for ICO I had no idea that half of their members were Deaf. It took two years on the Dean's List to convince my family that interpreting was a real major. It took seven years to complete my B.A., working full time and taking community college courses for the first few years. Then I signed up for two more years and got a master's. 



The truth is, I was such a lousy student in high school that no one should have expected me to go to college. My guidance counselor refused to meet with me. My mom told me that, "butlers make good money." As if I'd ever have the poise or patience for being a butler. No one had any faith in the idea that I'd do anything productive. I didn't give them any reason to. I had gone from being considered gifted and talented through 8th grade, to being a near drop out who managed to fail PE. Yet somehow I've made it this far. 


I loved acting because I never wanted one job. I wanted every job. I wanted to do everything. I chose interpreting because it gave me something similar to acting. I still get to become other people every time I go to work. As an interpreter I've worked for almost every department in the Federal government. I've worked for a Major League Baseball team. I stood in front of 900,000 people at my hometown team's championship parade. I've been to China. I've worked in health care, education, law, tech, and even theater. That's the dream.


I was re-watching The Office series finale recently on Netflix. At the end, Jim talks about his journey being at the company and how he never expected it to lead to anything. He ends up saying, "Everything I have I owe to this job." Like Jim, I also met my wife at work. (Thanks Obama Interpreting). Everything else that I've done has grown from there.

 T has been everything you could want in a supportive partner. 

I was climbing the ladder at the company where we met when my mom died. T was one hundred percent behind the idea of ditching everything and moving home to be close to my brother, who was still in high school. Three years later, when I had a chance to pursue a PhD she was one hundred percent behind abandoning the life we'd built in California to come back to the east coast with a one-year-old and one on the way. The strength of our lives and the foundation of our relationship has been our flexibility. Our willingness to change our lives on the fly to pursue opportunities has always led to better opportunities. Everything I have accomplished I owe to her willingness to help make it all happen. It's a trait I try to repay when she pitches an idea for something she wants to do. 



Now I'm here at this conference where I have been selected to read a post to a room full of bloggers. I'm here because T shared my dream of having one of us stay home. I'm here because T agreed that I should be the one to do it. I'm literally living the life I'd dreamed of as a kid. 



I'm here because a member of another side project, Your Mom is so Berkeley (a joke between co-workers attracted 5,000 strangers who wanted make fun of my hometown), suggested I join a group of dad bloggers on Facebook. So I joined the group, got inspired, and wrote. Then something happened that hadn't happened for me before. If you look at the right hand column you'll see that this blog dates back to 2003, but it wasn't until last year that most of you started reading it. I never expected this. I can't figure out if it's weirder that I was there at this conference, or that some people actually recognized me.





OK, if you made it this far, thanks because it's basically been a weird list of how cool my life is. I do have a larger point.



My life has been very cool. I've played rugby in England because I met a guy at Kinkos who was printing recruiting flyers for a rugby team. I refereed a televised rugby game because I got hurt and couldn't leave the game behind so I picked up a whistle and a former teammate was able to assign me to a televised game.

 

My life has been this way because I've allowed myself to have multiple dreams. Though I've wanted to be different things at different times I've always been ready to seize the next opportunity. As I think more about it I realize that all I've really wanted in my life is to do cool things. It's meant giving up on some dreams. It's meant making sacrifices. But the thing that's carried me through, the thing that's made my life the amazing experience it's been, is that I've been willing to find happiness along many paths. I didn't get stuck on having one goal.

 I don't know where I'd be if I'd stuck with acting. I doubt I'd be making a living at it. I know that I would never have met T, my kids would be different kids.

It's OK to give up and shift gears. Don't limit yourself. It's OK to decide you want to do something else. Giving up is great. I encourage it. It's made me everything I am. 






PS: As I was writing this post about how great my life is here and how much I love doing exactly what I'm doing T sent me a job posting for just about the only job that could get me to leave being a stay at home dad. It's back home in California. It would mean pulling the kids out of school and moving them across the country. It would mean T leaving a very good career. It would mean leaving the house we just bought this summer.

I'm on it.

Pink Still Rules for Refs, Another Cool Experience, and a Lesson

Yes this has mostly been a parenting blog lately but as I mentioned in the renaming post there will be other content here and there. If you bear with me, I'm going to tie the whole thing back into parenting at the end. I promise.

I recently ran a post about the trend of rugby referees wearing pink, which got some good response. I promised a follow up from the Collegiate Rugby Championship 7s in the event that they also used a pink kit for the referees, and indeed they did. This means that three of the six jerseys I've been given this year have been pink.

It makes sense for referees to wear pink. You need to have something that contrasts with what the players are wearing. This is especially important in sports like rugby and soccer where the referees kit is essentially the same as what the players wear, unlike in baseball or football where the official's attire is markedly different than that of the players.

Still, pink can end up being too close to some reds or purples so the good people at USA Sevens Rugby gave out two jerseys with our kits.

Varsity Cup referee Kurt Weaver

I think I only ended up wearing the black jersey one time during the weekend, but we were glad to have it when we needed it. Some of the other refereeing squads wore the black fairly often. Of course I was perfectly happy to wear the pink, which I am not ashamed to say I love.

You may be able to tell the kits were sponsored and made by Rhino Rugby. Rhino made kits for most of the teams at the CRC as well. The dot matrix graphics are a thing at Rhino as you can see from the ref's kit at the Varsity Cup. Penn Mutual is the new tournament sponsor. My only wish is that the USA 7s/CRC 7s logos were featured more prominently.

CRC weekend ended up being huge for me in another way. In a small way I was able to finally fulfill the promise some saw in me when I started reffing. About nine years ago I was occasionally told, "You'll be on TV some day." I never believed it. I should have, but back then there was less rugby on TV and I didn't think I'd ever make it to the level of being an international ref, so I thought they were just being nice.

The world changed when rugby was added to the Olympics. Suddenly it was possible for a ref to be on TV in the US. By that time I was a little older and due to circumstances and life choices it seemed I had been passed up by younger refs. I understand why. I don't begrudge anyone their opportunities. Over the last few years I've been content to take higher level assignments as a lower level assistant (sideline) referee, but I did secretly lament that I'd likely never do a televised game in a stadium as the center ref.

Then I unexpectedly got an offer to referee a game in the stadium on Saturday. It wasn't a CRC match, it was a lower tier game in the City 4 Philadelphia Cup, a competition between four Philadelphia based universities. The game was on at 6:55pm and broadcast on Comcast Sports Net. In some areas it was preempted for hockey coverage and shown later on tape delay. I'm not sure if there were announcers. The video I have only has the stadium audio. But it happened. I did my TV game. As an added bonus I was an In Goal Judge for the Bowl Final on Sunday. The game was broadcast on NBC so every time there was a try scored on my end I was on TV for a few milliseconds.

I know the classy thing is to "act like you've been there before" and play it all off like it's no big deal. Maybe the real high level refs do that. Maybe I should be emulating it. But I think that for many of them it isn't a big deal. They expect it. They know it's going to happen for them. I don't. So it is a big deal to me.

For me it reaffirmed what I had been telling myself and my kids for years. If you keep your head up and work hard you can eventually achieve what you set out to do. It doesn't help to complain or get angry. There were times when I felt like I wasn't getting the resources I deserved. I certainly wondered what other refs had that I lacked. I felt periods of frustration over the last few years.

Instead of getting angry I asked questions. I watched the other refs to see if there was more to them than just youth (there was). I volunteered to help out whenever I could. I made myself available. I worked hard at improving my knowledge of the game and my physical abilities. I also tried to find ways to ask for opportunities without sounding like I was complaining. I asked for things based on my own merits, not by comparing what I had to what others had. I did all the things I tell my kids to do.

It worked.

I'm 38. I'm old for a referee. The refs my age and older who do high level games were already doing high level games when they were younger than I am now. I may never get a center game on TV ever again. But I got one. I'm happy.

It doesn't mean I'll stop trying to move up, but if this is it I'll be fine. If this is the only one I'll put the memory up on the mantle alongside my one hit, in my only at bat, in the only baseball game I ever played (an RBI single off a 60 year old Spaceman Lee). Mostly I'll have a real example to use when I tell my kids that hard work, showing up on time, and being polite really do pay off.

I was also able to snag one of these cool sky blue alternates from the Eastern Penn refs, so double bonus.

Pink is the New Authority

USA Rugby National Panel Referee Kurt Weaver. Photo courtesy of Richard Every and USA Rugby

Some readers here may know that I have a thing for jerseys. I have a photo project on Facebook where I talk about why I have so many jerseys, and what each one means to me. Some of you also know that I am a rugby referee. Though my reffing career has come in fits and starts due to delays related to school and managing the Deaf team I have started to get higher level assignments again in the last year or so.  For me one of the cool things about these assignments is getting free jerseys. I always wanted to get a USA Rugby jersey, but for some reason could never bring myself to lay out the cash. Now I have three USAR shirts that I got for free for officiating at USA Rugby events. Of course, all of this is another rambling prelude that only loosely brings us to today's post. There's a trend in rugby referee jerseys that has been going on for a while now that I wanted share. Refs are going pink, and not just for October, but all the time.

At first I thought it was just an odd pro league here and there.

Ben Tameifuna pushes referee Glen Jackson over before getting yellow carded.Dumbest play of the year?
Posted by Just Rugby. on Sunday, August 31, 2014

JUDICIAL: A SANZAR Judicial Hearing has accepted a guilty plea from Jean Deysel of the Sharks and suspended the player for three weeks http://bit.ly/1jSEDXz
Posted by Super Rugby on Tuesday, May 20, 2014

But then USA Rugby and some of the local societies started getting in on it too.

USAR National Panel Referee Kurt Weaver (center). Photo courtesy of Richard Every and USAR

Left: Northern California Refs;   Right: Potomac Refs

But it didn't stop there. This past weekend I worked at the ACRC7s/URugby 7s tournament in Virginia Beach where we were issued another pink jersey.

Some of us from Potomac had pink socks with us. Another ref had his girlfriend run out and buy pink socks for the other guys. Long story short (too late), we looked awesome.

 

Click to enlarge, Photo courtesy of URugby.com

That's me in goal in the background. I can't find any pics of me reffing but I'll post some if I find them. The best I have is this screen shot from the webcast.

I promise I can see the entire defense from this position. I do get my shoulders up field in the next frame.

For this tournament the organizers said they chose pink because they figured it had the least chance of overlapping with any of the teams' uniforms. Last year the refs wore blue/gold and had to change out of the jerseys for some games. For the webcast, and for televised games they want the tournament jerseys worn, not only for the look (it's more professional if all the officials look uniform) but also to please the sponsors. By going to pink they could get the look they wanted without having to consider multiple jerseys. Of course this was the year a team showed up with a pink strip. But luckily they had black alternates, which they wore throughout the tournament.

Tri-Tip 7s 2009

Despite its popularity not everyone is happy with the trend. The NRL referees got rid of the pink jerseys for fear that they were not being taken seriously. Personally, I haven't noticed any difference in player compliance when I wear pink. (Though that may say more about faults as a ref than it does about my shirt).

I love the pink jersey trend. I've always liked to peacock out a little bit on the pitch. Not to draw attention away from the game or the players I'm there to facilitate for, but just to have a little fun. When we got these pink Polo shirts at Tri-Tip 7s I paired them with purple socks. I felt like an Easter Egg. This was actually the first pink ref shirt I received.

Click to enlarge

I've also reffed in stirrups at a Halloween 10s tournament. They matched up with the 2008 Saranac CanAm jersey really nicely. But I'm starting to stray off topic.



The other tip of the spear came at the 2009 Women's Club 7s Championships in San Francisco. The hosting club, San Francisco Fog provided these salmon colored numbers.

Pink Pelicans

What started as a one off, or what seemed like a way to get rid of extra shirts has become a trend. We'll see how long it lasts

The next event where I'll get kit (translation for non-ruggers: "a free jersey") will be at the CRC 7s. If it's pink I'll post an update.

I'm hoping for pink.

UPDATE: You can read the CRC 7s update here.

Regarding Marty

I was on the sideline that day at the Bingham Cup in June 2006.  In fact I had just returned to the sidelines after having been removed by a teammate a few minutes earlier for getting a little too chippy with the opposition players and supporters.  The game had been back and forth with each team holding slim leads for short intervals.  My boys were losing by two in the final minutes to a team we had beaten handily just a few months before.  As the game went into stoppage time my club put on a furious attack, one that gained a few meters at a time but which constantly threatened to be stopped by a penalty, or a lost ruck, or any other number of things.  There was desperation in the air on both sides as the next whistle would certainly be the end of the game.

What happened next is far and away the greatest moment I’ve ever been a part of as an athlete.  With our attack stalled just shy of the half way line our scrum half Marty stood back from the ruck and called for another player, any other player to throw him the ball.  Somehow one of our flankers was able to toss the ball out Marty who stood approximately fifty-five meters out from the posts.  In one fluid motion Marty caught the pass and drop kicked the ball, it seemed, directly into the sun. 

Two years later I was on the sideline again.  I had missed most of the tournament due to my brother’s high school graduation, a ceremony I wasn’t going to miss as it was a bit of a miracle itself.  Still, I had managed to play in parts of two games that day.  Our boys had lost to our rivals from New York in the quarterfinals.  It was a bitter defeat.  As we watched the final Marty, our little Irish fireplug who’d be showing us around Dublin later that night, remarked, “Y’know Berto, I don't know if I can keep doin' this.  Every year we get close, but we never get over the hump like. I’m tired of just showin' up and playin' well.  I want to win the damn thing and I just don't know if we can do it.”

Another two years go by, it's 2010 and I’m no longer a player.  Instead I’m back at Bingham as a referee.  It’s different, but I’m thrilled to be involved.  The top four teams roll through pool play leaving no doubt who the class of the tournament are.  The quarterfinals are also unsurprising as all four of the top seeds advance.  Then, in the semis, Marty and the boys are set to face their old rivals from New York.  Again, even though our boys had beaten them easily earlier in the year, New York, as they do every two years, is putting up a tremendous fight.  Some time in the last five minutes Marty gets his bell rung and is forced to come off the field to have bleeding controlled.  At this point his team, our team, is down by seven.  Again they mount a furious charge and with no time left they punch one across dead center between the posts. 

As I come back to the referee’s tent after my match another ref, also a former teammate tells me, “The Renegades are about to go to overtime against Gotham.”  The implication is that the conversion is a given.  It’s directly in front of the posts and Marty is coming back on to take the kick.  It’s a done deal.  Marty is one of the most accurate and strong legged kickers I’ve ever seen on a pitch at any level.  Hell, his nick-name is “Miracle Marty,” so named for how many games he’s won the club with his boot.  I figure I have plenty of time to report my score then go over and quietly, perhaps from a distance, watch the end of the match.

I remember Scott Norwood.  If the name doesn’t ring a bell he’s the kicker for the Buffalo Bills who missed a game winning field goal in the Super Bowl.  The Bills went to four consecutive Super Bowls in the early 1990s, an NFL record, and didn’t win any of them. The closest they came was a forty-seven yard field goal attempt with eight seconds left that went wide right.  The kicker, Scott Norwood is usually associated with only that one kick.  It was part of the plots of the films “Ace Ventura” and “Buffalo 66.”  People blame Scott Norwood.  I feel for him.  I’ve done some kicking in my career.  I would describe my kicking ability as serviceable, sometimes even useful, but I was never great.  I was never Marty, or Scott Norwood.  At the time Norwood lined up for his kick against the Giants in January of 1991 he was the Buffalo Bills all time leading scorer, the next year he would kick the winning field goal in the AFC title game to send Buffalo back to the Super Bowl, but most people don’t remember that.  Most people remember “wide right.”  It’s not fair.  As a kicker I know what it’s like to line up a ball, set your self, approach and strike.  A lot of the time you know as you hit it if it has a chance.  As a kicker I have a particular empathy for the job and the people who do it.  Often disregarded as not being real players, kickers are thought to be nearly interchangeable, until you really need one.  One problem with kicking is that until you miss an important one people don’t really notice you. And because they don’t notice they don’t understand what goes into it, how any one of million different things can go wrong.  A slightly misplaced plant foot, a small difference in your strike point, a sudden gust of wind, tall grass that tilts the tee, ground that’s softer than it seems, any of a million things that can go wrong.  Certainly getting hit in the head and leaving the field for blood can have an effect on a kicker.

I didn’t see Marty’s kick.  I didn’t think I had to.  I was going to report my scores and then go quietly, and perhaps from a distance, watch the rest of the match.  When I got near the fields I heard what had happened.  Marty had missed.  The boys had lost to their rivals 15-13, just two points from a tie.  Not just a tie, but a tie with momentum!  A tie where they had just shown that they could win!  But it wasn’t a tie.  They couldn’t win.  Marty’s kick had sailed wide.  By the time I found him the game had only been over for a few minutes. His eyes were red and swollen.  I embraced him and held him for a good long time.  “Berto,” he said to me, “I fucked it up man.  I really fucked it up.  I cost us the chance and it was an easy one man.  How many times have you seen me make that kick Berto?  How many times?”  A million times.  I’ve seen him make that kick in just about every game I’ve seen him play.  I tried to remind him that even making that kick didn’t promise anything but another few minutes, that the other team could have taken the next kickoff back for a score, that ultimately it didn’t matter.  I knew it rang hollow.  What can you say to ease the pain of player who’s just missed the biggest kick of his life?  What did they say to Scott Norwood?  “You see Berto man, Becky and I are gonna be wantin' to start a family now. Y’see, I know this is my last Bingham Cup.  I wanted to win it.  I wanted my chance and I had it, and I fucked it up.”  All I could think to say was, "I love you Marty, don’t dwell on it, this doesn’t define you," and then go out and make sure we drank safely that night.

Back in 2006 the fields on Randall’s Island in New York are more dirt and needles than grass.  Throughout the three days of the tournament the British and European teams were incredulous about the condition of the fields they were being forced to play on.  The field for this game was especially sparse on vegetation and the dust clouds lingered in the air as strong men fell violently to the ground.  It was though this haze, staring into the setting sun that we watched Marty’s kick sail through air.  It too seemed to hang forever as if gravity was aware of the moment and wanted us to savor it.  I remember following the path of the ball, losing sight of it in the glare and haze, then finding it again just as it descended over the crossbar.  For a moment everything was still.  When the referee’s whistle split the air between what was inevitable and what was possible I remember thinking “Please let it be over.  Please don’t let there be another kickoff.”  The first whistle meant the kick was good, the second meant the game was over.  We had won.  The New York fans ignorant and arrogant began to cheer and rush the field clanging they’re infernal cow bells.  One of them ran up to me and screamed “Yeah! Yeah! How do you like that?”  “I like it just fine.” I replied, “We just won.”  As our sideline rushed out to pay tribute to the fifteen lads on the field the reality set in for the home side supporters.  They had just been beaten by a fantastic play, a 55 meter drop goal with no time left.  We ended up third out of twenty-nine teams.  It was the club’s highest finish in three appearances in the Bingham Cup.  The legend of “Miracle Marty” was now firmly established, and nothing could ever take it away.