Petaluma's Reischling: Survivor of basketball officials

PETALUMA

It's a moment of horrendous clarity, is what it is, when the basketball official realizes the anxiety. It's a big game, quite likely a NCAA tournament game. A few ticks are left on the clock. The outcome is in the balance. Everyone is watching. From everywhere, it seems. With magnifying glasses. The stress is consuming him, eating his confidence. No one else can see it but he can feel the tension sucking out his very breath.

"It gets close," said Petaluma's Mark Reischling, "and then it does this . . ."

Reischling circled his throat with his hands and then slowly he closed the circle around his throat, slower and slower but with even more deliberate certainty until he locked his hands around his throat.

"And then you wind up like this . . ."

Reischling stuck his tongue out, tilted his head to one side, gagging.

The poor guy then calls a foul that isn't there or misses one that is. Or it's a phantom travel. However, whatever, it is the nightmarish ending that stalks every basketball official. He has just succumbed to the pressure of Big Game, Last Seconds, No One Breathing. He has just blown a call that decided an important game.

"It's the human element," Reischling said.

No official really knows how he will handle the Moment until it's there.

On March 20, 1981, Reischling was there. A teacher and golf coach at Petaluma High School, Reischling was in Atlanta, officiating an East Region semifinal between Brigham Young and Notre Dame. Notre Dame was loaded, a Final Four team, people thought. Future NBA stars Kelly Tripucka, John Paxson and Orlando Woolridge were on that team. BYU? BYU plays football, not basketball.

Six seconds were left. Notre Dame was leading, 50-49. What happened in those six seconds has become NCAA basketball lore. It is ranked typically in the Top 10 all-time tournament highlights.

Reischling still can see BYU's Danny Ainge taking the in-bounds pass.

"He dribbled around Paxson, then Tripucka," Reischling said.

Ainge was coming toward BYU's basket, toward Reischling, with the entire Notre Dame team in front of him. Twenty-seven years later, Reischling still says it felt like slow motion, the way it unfolded. Ainge did this slalom thing, going around the Irish like they were downhill ski gates, only to find someone five inches taller, the 6-foot-9 Woolridge. He laid the ball up over Woolridge as time expired. He went 92 feet in six seconds.

Reischling's reputation grew dramatically.

Why?

Because he didn't screw up.

"There was no foul," he said. "It was a clean play."

Come on, Mark, you can tell me. Clearly I was baiting him. Come on, it's 27 years later. You can tell me if there was a foul and you missed it.

"There was no foul," he said. "It was a clean play."

Yes, that's one of the things college coaches always have liked about Reischling. Consistency.

But what if anxiety had grabbed Reischling around his throat. What if he called a phantom foul, something that didn't happen? What then?

"Obscurity," he said simply.

A bright young official would have been tagged as someone who couldn't be trusted with the game on the line. No bigger black mark exists. Reischling wouldn't have lost his job but he might not have ever made it back to the NCAA tournament. As it turned out, respect washed over him like warm water.

"I could feel things change around me," said Reischling, 61.

He had opened eyes. He handled the Moment like a pro. Afterward, sure, he took a breath that could have drawn the air out of The Omni. But when it mattered, he fought the human element and won and the game assigners took note.

He was viewed as dependable and upright in time of need. Reischling made the Final Four that year. In 27 years of officiating college basketball, Reischling has been invited to the NCAA tournament 21 times. He has officiated 35 tournament games.

Number 36 is this Friday in Tampa. He won't know until he gets there, which one of the four Friday games he will officiate, the NCAA's cloak of secrecy unfortunately needed since gamblers represent one of the darker sides of the human element.

But Reischling, now a retired teacher, has been guaranteed two tournament games. That in itself is a tip of the cap to Reischling. Young officials or officials who have yet to engender complete confidence get only one game.

Reischling will fly home to Northern California on Monday to await a phone call. If he gets one, he's off to a Region somewhere. If he doesn't . . .

"It's time to start cleaning out the garage," he said. "They are looking to rule you out, not rule you in."

No letter, text message, phone call or e-mail explaining why. It's Survivor for basketball officials.

He'll try to figure out why, not let it affect his self-image and go back to walking up to 90 minutes a day with Terri, his wife of 40 years. He'll eat right, save his knees by not running and get ready for autumn, when he'll spend another 18 weekends on the road officiating in six conferences: Pac-10, Conference USA, Big West, Big West, West Coast and Western Athletic.

Reischling will enter his 31st year of college basketball officiating well aware every game official has more weight on his shoulders than ever before. It's the technology. Reischling has less time to make a decision that it takes for a fan to scream "Blind Man!" Yet the slow-motion camera can pick out every nuance on a controversial play. An official can look like an idiot.

"Fifty percent of the people will boo you on every call," Reischling said. "It's not like anybody says, 'Gee whiz, that was an interesting call' ".

Because of a couple of controversial calls in the Pac-10 tournament, officiating is under siege once again. Not as many good officials anymore, say the critics. It is a litany as old as the game itself. Put a few bad calls together and call it a crisis.

"I just think we are more scrutinized than ever before," Reischling said. "I wouldn't be surprised that in the next 25 years a computer chip is implanted in the head of every official with a connection to a replay official that will tell him if it was the right call."

He made that predication tongue-in-cheek but the techies want to take the human element out of the game. Long-time guys like Reischling officiate through what he calls "a feel" of the game, the ability to see players, personalities, rhythms, flows, philosophies, styles -- all things a computer and camera can't see.

It's people with whistles working with, not against, people in shorts and sneakers. It's people dealing with the human element, or not dealing very well with it. Kids like Danny Ainge dribble the ball toward officials like Mark Reischling and everyone watches to see if anyone suffocates from the pressure.

It's the real reason why March Madness has its catchy name.

This is basketball with real people under real stress. It shouldn't be turned into a real-time video game.

"Ten times, I guess," Reischling said.

Ten times in the 1,600 games he's officiated has a coach come up to him after a game and thanked Reischling and his crew for doing a good job.

"Three times, I guess," he said.

Three times in his 1,600, Reischling believes, has he officiated a perfect game.

Imperfect, ignored, underappreciated, invisible on a good day, his every move captured by an unblinking camera free from harsh judgment, Reischling shouldn't be feeling anxiety. He should be wearing it every day, like a stinky shirt that never comes off.

So the next time you hear someone yell "Blind Man!" at a basketball official, ask that fan if he would like to wear that stinky shirt, even if only for a day. One doesn't even have to walk a mile in that shirt to know what that pressure feels like. Just 92 feet will do.

You can reach Staff Columnist Bob Padecky at 521-5490 or at bob.padecky@pressdemocrat.com