Last Friday, I got to referee the two boys’ subvarsity basketball games between Deer Lodge and Anaconda in the Smelter City.

Refereeing high school hoops is almost always fun because you are right in the middle of the battle. You are there with the players, and you get a great sense of the emotion of the game.

You also get to experience the cosmic balance of officiating. That is to say that there is never a time when everyone is happy with the call you make. Even if it is an obvious call, you get some grumblings from the side the call was against. That comes from the players, coaches and, more often, the fans.

Just when you might be feeling good about your call, you will hear some parent yell out, “That’s bulls—.”

That back and forth goes at least double when you are refereeing a rivalry game, and rivalries do not get much better than when the Copperheads play the Wardens from just down the road.

I worked the C squad boys’ game at the Fred Moodry Middle School gym. Then, along with the teams, I rushed over to the Snake Pit to be part of a three-man crew for the junior varsity game.

Both games were intense from the tipoff to the final buzzer. Each call drew praise from one side and disappointment from the other.

Both sides are well coached from the varsity on down. But both sides really wanted to beat the other. So, there was a bit of chirping back and forth from the players and coaches, but nothing that crossed the line.

Fans from both sides yelled at calls that did not go their way. It was so much fun. That is, it was fun right up until I had a brain cramp early in the junior varsity game.

No. 15 from Deer Lodge was fouled while scoring an inside basket. He was hit on the arm by No. 13 from Anaconda. I found out days later that No. 13 is Owen Krum, a boy I talked to a little bit during the C squad game about his new haircut.

Since my partner on the baseline had the same call as I did, I knew it was the right one. So, I went to report the foul with the confidence of 12 Mike Andersons.

“Count the bucket. Foul is on blue No. 15 … oh shoot.”

I put into my head the number of the boy who made the shot and was going to the line to shoot the free throw. I completely forgot which player from Anaconda committed the foul.

So, I ran down to my partner, who was getting ready to administer the free throw.

“Who was that foul on?” I asked as discretely as I could.

I was about to panic when he gave me a blank look. “I can’t remember,” he said.

We could not just guess or make up a call in that situation. We were about to look like buffoons when I looked to my left and saw Owen sheepishly raise his left hand about half way up.

“Was it on you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said as he nodded.

“Thank you.”

I was so relieved. I was bailed out by a player’s honesty.

Now, I would never accuse any basketball player of being dishonest, but most of the players I have refereed have never committed a foul. At least 70 percent of the players seem genuinely shocked when you blow the whistle and call their number.

My favorite thing is when players reach out and make contact, and then put their hands straight up after they hear the whistle. That makes them look more guilty than O.J. when he pretended the glove did not fit.

I don’t blame the players for that. I also never committed a foul in my life, even though I fouled out quite a bit.

Back when I played freshman basketball, players were supposed to raise their hands to acknowledge the foul. I never raised my hand.

In grade school, I almost killed Josh Paffhausen as I tackled him into the stage in the Hillcrest gym during a basketball game. Then I argued the foul call.

Players are competitive, and sometimes that makes them argumentative. I have no problem with that as a referee. That is why in four seasons of officiating high school basketball, I have not called a single technical foul.

While I work as hard as I can to know the rules and get the calls right, I am not officiating for me. I am not trying to compete with other officials for votes to work tournament games.

I am officiating because I was asked a few years ago to help when the Butte pool was down in numbers. I do it so the players can play the game. Plus, it is fun.

So, I am perfectly content working subvarsity games for as long as my body will hold up. Give me two subvarsity games. Then I’ll shower and eat a pasty and drink a Mountain Dew while watching the varsity game.

Maybe that is why I do not get mad when fans yell at me. Usually, I just laugh at the comments.

I never get mad when a player argues a call. I did not even get mad a couple of weeks ago when an out-of-town player in a sophomore girls’ basketball game bounced the ball off my face. Sure, it hurt. My mouth was bleeding a little, and my eyes were watering from the bonk on the nose.

I wasn’t even mad when I saw the video that it looked like she bounded the ball hard at me on purpose. I don’t think she hit me in the mouth and nose on purpose, though. If she was that good, she would have scored more points.

I did not even get mad when that girl’s dad sent an angry message to my friend, who shared the video on Facebook, explaining that she was justifiably frustrated because she was getting fouled all game long and I would not blow my whistle.

Maybe I did miss a call or two, but it wasn’t intentional or from a lack of trying. I understand her frustration, even though her team was about to win when she hit me in the face.

That ball to the noggin, I figured, was just part of the cosmic balance of officiating. It never lets you get too high or too low.

After Owen bailed me out from my brain cramp, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I went back to report the foul a second time. This time, I did not have that Mike Anderson confidence.

“Correction,” I said. “Count the bucket. Foul is on white No. 13. One shot.”

I turned to watch the free throw attempt feeling happy about what happened. Not only did we eventually get the call right, but I also learned that Owen is an incredible young man.

He did not have to fess up to that foul. I probably would not have done so when I was that age. But he did, and I will forever be grateful for that. I owe him bigtime.

But just when I was starting to feel too good about humanity, I heard a woman in the crowd yell at me loud enough for the entire gym to hear.

“That’s bulls—.”

— Bill Foley, who has been accused of being full of BS many times before, can be reached at foles74@gmail.com. Follow him at twitter.com/Foles74 or Bluesky at @foles74.bsky.social. Listen to him on the ButteCast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you find your favorite podcasts.