My Wife's a Ref — Now What?

A Personal Story By Noell Wolfgram Evans

What is the hardest job in officiating? Line judge at the Super Bowl? Plate umpire in the seventh game of the World Series? Working the World Cup or the NBA Finals? In my experience, the hardest job in officiating is actually being married to an official. It’s a truth I learned last year watching my wife, Cara, in her first year as a field hockey official.

Cara had been a field hockey coach for seven years when she decided that she needed a break. She didn’t want to leave the sport, just the sideline. After some thought, she decided that the best way to stay involved and further her knowledge and understanding of the game was to see the sport from the inside, so she became an official. She took the requisite classes, studied the right books, took the test, worked out, got a whistle and was ready to go.

As she prepared, I’ll admit that I was somewhat skeptical. First, I knew how tolerant and friendly some fans were to a referee. I also had come to the conclusion that she was not an “official” type of person. An official is, by nature, steady and sturdy, with intense focus and an uncanny ability to stay level-headed in the storm of intense stress. An official is not, I never imagined, someone who would scream and run out of the house as she prepared for a game at the sight of a spider being spidery on the ceiling. From a more personal perspective, what was I supposed to do? When she was coaching a team I had someone to root for, but now? Who, I wondered, cheers for the official?

The season started a little rough. You should never have a job that always ends in tears. It pained me to see her those first few games methodically broken down by the sport she loved. She hadn’t factored in the stress of making the correct calls, of remaining totally impartial or of dealing with fans. Thankfully she had a large amount of support and advice from her striped-shirted comrades.

As the season wore on, she grew more confident in her calls, more instructive to the teams and deafer to the catcalls of the crowd. Unfortunately, I had no such talent. Whenever I would go to a game, I would have to watch from the corner of the field, away from the hyper-critical moms and years-removed-from-the-football-field fathers who all seemed more interested in what the official said or didn’t do than whether their daughter even understood the game. It was hard to divorce myself from the fact that much of the displeasure was being directed at the persona, not the person. My mind would drift and I saw those parents at school functions and dental appointments attacking the event with the same ill-informed vigor and myopic parental drive. “You call that a root canal?” “Come on, didn’t you see that plaque buildup?!”

That is not to imply that things were horrible — Cara learned a great deal about the game, made some good friends and came, I believe, to a greater appreciation of the sport.

There are those who believe you become an official when you get tired of being picked last on the playground. Others say officials are born from a variation of the old “If you can’t do, teach” saying. I know though that the person who chooses to be an official is the one who truly loves the sport, the one who is willing to put themselves up for abuse and exhaustion, under anonymity and a general disdain, all for the opportunity just to go out and be on the field.

While I never fully reconciled myself with the idea of living a Lifetime movie — “My Wife, the Referee” — I did grow to appreciate what she was doing and what it said about her. I am proud of my wife. Every time she slips on the black-and-white stripes I smile, not only because she looks so good, but because she has persevered, stood up for herself and worked so hard for the sport she loves.

Noell Wolfgram Evans lives in Columbus, Ohio. His wife, Cara, has been involved in field hockey as a player, coach and official.