Refereeing Stories ... Good, Bad, Ugly, Funny, Whoa, Hey Now, Eew, Awesome, etc...

[Mauler]

Hi all,

I really could use a reminder that referees are truly awesome people who would go to ends of the earth to get things done and make it happen. That for the most part, they have a strong camaraderie and they do all they can to facilitate what they believe is essential for the good of fencing. That, in their own quirky ways, make it bearable for the fencers, coaches, parents, etc to somehow make it through it all and stay sane when they leave.

I need a reminder that there's a difference between a "referee", who does everything technically "right" and still be wicked, unethical, and stand totally opposite to ideals of refereeing community. And real referees (i.e. the Travelling Circus, I miss you all), who can be totally wacky and darn outright "unprofessional" and still be exactly what the event needed.

PLEASE... Lighten up my heart a bit. Good stories, bad, horrible, inspirational, OMG-WTF, never-again, etc. All are welcome!


These are a few of my favorite things~~~ Following are examples of how otherwise highly trained and professional referees can go ... "askew" at times and somehow "make it work" for the crowd.

Merry Christmas!

A couple of well-travelled, and well-fed referees show up to a holiday youth event fully dressed as Santa!

Happy Mexican

Div I (or was it Div IA?) MS pool. A fencer begs, pleads that the referee shows off his acting skills and eventually convinces the referee to ref one of the bouts as a caricature gay Mexican. The fencer who requested the act breaks into hysterical laughter and can't focus enough to fence the bout well.

Halloween Costume

A referee shows up to a Halloween tournament dressed as ..... a referee (think zebra polo). Interestingly enough, the referee is asked by a passer-by spectator (never seen fencing before) why he's the only one dressed properly in uniform.

I didn't teach you that

The referee is also a coach of one of the fencers in a bout. Following an exchange of random acts of ugliness, one of them (ref's student) miraculously scores a touch. Referee declares that he never taught him such foolishness and he will penalize him for any further disobedience.

Mais oui...

A Quebecois referee penalizes an epee fencer for turning back. Upon the fencer's inquiry in protest, he elaborates, "Eheheh.. He could've had sex with you."

Fairness for all

Referee gathers all the little munchkins at the beginning of pool. He informs them that he hates them all. Pause and scared looks. He then explains that, however, he hates them all... EQUALLY. Big smiles from all the little ones.

Hey, aren't you a foilist?

As sabre fencers approach in order to test at the beginning of a bout, one asks, "hey aren't you a foilist?" His opponent, who's never picked up a sabre before that day, replies in affirmative. First touch: Foil fencer sticks out a line, and sabre fencer, upon losing sight of his opponent's weapon which has seemingly vanished from this Universe into his blindspot, proceeds to locate it with his chest. The referee literally bends over laughing so hard. When he's done (and it takes a while), he stands upright, well-composed, poker-faced, and simply commands, "On Guard."

This thing we call fencing

Regional Youth Circuit. Couple of totally clueless 9-yrs old fencers (as opposed to properly trained 9-yrs olds) somehow make the lights go on. Referee chuckles. To the fencer on the right: "You tried to do something... It didn't work!" To the fencer on the left: "You! ... I don't know what you did!?" Back to the fencer on the right: "You! You tried a ... fencing action! And it WORKED!" (raises arms and smiles)

Damn you, Roche!

Immediately following the timing change, couple of Div I fencers go at it during a pool bout and disproportionate number of hits fail to register. Referee comments, "Yeah, what can you do? That damn Roche..." Both fencers, as well as their pool mates and coaches on the sidelines mumble in agreement.

Sigh...

About a year after the timing change. One of the age group Women's Foil. Both fencers are locked in a seemingly endless remise match. "Halt! Attack misses, counterattack misses, remise, remise, remise, remise, I miss old timing, remise, touch!"

[Dev]

An excerpt:

That there are, in fact, national championships for ten-year-olds is the stuff of nightmare Little League or tennis or figure-skating parentage. It's not always--that usually gets reserved for the quarterfinals or, if one is unlucky, the round of sixteen. The bout before me is buried somewhere in the slower, lower-stress peasantry of the round of 128. As such, nothing is happening.

I don't mean that in the sense of there currently being a break in the action. The two young boys before me literally have no idea what to do. Through either nerves, inexperience, or a lack of training, they have mutually decided that their best course of action at present, despite my ritualized commands to go "on guard, ready?, fence!", is to do nothing. The rules prevent me from penalizing them for non-combativity, but even if I could, would I want to peremptorily throw such cards at nine-year-old children?

These aren't the scary kind of ten-year-olds, the ones who resemble miniature World Cup competitors in fitted, obscenely expensive German fencing gear that they're probably going to out-grow in six months, the ones who actually supply a vocal exhortation after scoring and argue with referees just like their older counterparts. The kids on my strip are tentative, less coordinated, more wary of the "bad" things that could happen if they get too close to one another. Two and a half full minutes of "fencing" have gone by and the score is knotted at zero.

The child on my left, more sure of his movements, lighter on his feet, seems mostly inhibited by nerves. He spends a lot more time backing up than seems necessary given the threats--or lack thereof--that he faces from his counterpart. The other, for his part, appears to have next to no idea what he's doing; his father constantly counsels him to "grab his [opponent's] blade, grab his blade" but seems to have no further plan afterward. Youngster-on-the-right might as well be fencing against a static weapon hanging in the air--he is obsessed with tapping his adversary's foil with his own and then immediately abandoning his position, much like a curious child would poke a dead raccoon with a fallen stick and then immediately run away.

After three minutes--the allotted time for a bout to five touches--the clock beeps insouciantly, locking out the scoring lights that were never once used in the previous 180 seconds. I instruct the fencers to halt. Two curious faces turn toward me, neither appearing to have considered this particular deadlocked outcome. I explain to the boys that the bout will now enter its overtime phase, during which one of them will be assigned "priority." They have an additional minute to fence, and at the conclusion of that minute (if nobody scores), the prioritized fencer, determined randomly, will be the victor; otherwise, it's sudden-death. I toss a U.S. one-dollar coin I keep in my pocket for just such an eventuality, and the more confident child on the left is assigned the priority. The net effect of this rules means that one fencer--in this case, the muppet on my right--will be compelled to attack lest he lose the bout by default.

My explanation doesn't appear to make much of an impression. I get them started again--"on-guard, ready, fence"--and nothing much changes. For the first forty seconds, they continue to stare at one another, making a minimum of movements, most of which are only vaguely fencing-related. The young man on my left continues to give ground, nearing the end of the strip; should he wander off of it, he'll be handing the bout to his opponent. Fortunately he notices the painted warning-area at the piste's last meter and begins to hold his ground as the clock ticks down to twenty seconds.

Things begin to happen rapidly. The fencer on my right now knows he's got to attack (as exhorted by his father's coaching), but clearly has no idea how, or when; he simply inches closer and closer, not really lunging, using the entire front half of his body to cast long, lurching foil-pokes in the general direction of his opponent. His adversary has sufficient presence of mind and control of hand to use his own foil to deflect each attack, but he's either unwilling or unable to respond in kind; right-of-way theoretically protects his riposte from another mindless jab, but the primal instinct to defend against the incoming point proves too much.

For a relative eternity--funny how one's concept of time changes depending on the situation and an inability to note the clock--they carry on in various different postures of attack (on the right) and defense (on the left). The blades fly in wider and wider arcs as they tire, the parents' voices rising in pitch, the strip rattling ever more with the shuffling of tiny feet in overpriced size-four fencing shoes. Finally, mercifully, the scoring box emits a beep--but it's just the clock expiring. For four minutes, minutes I would later describe as "three minutes and forty seconds of abject boredom followed by twenty seconds of furious slapstick comedy," nobody managed to strike any sort of target with a foil point. I have borne witness to the inverse pinnacle of youth fencing: the V0-0 bout.

[downunder]

the V0-0 bout.

That has still never happened to me. Very close to it... within a few seconds, but never the magical VX-X.

[dberke]

I know I've posted this story once before, but it seems fitting to post it here again:

San Jose last summer, reffing Y14 Men's Foil. It's the second round of DEs (128 or 64, can't recall which.)

fencer on the right is the higher seed, seeded in the 30s. Clearly he knows what he's doing. Fencer on the left is a very low seed - his higher-seeded opponent in the first round of DEs apparently withdrew, so he got a free trip into the shark tank.

I'm reffing what is a fairly straightforward bout. Fencer on the right keeps making simple attacks that land. Kid on the left doesn't seem to have a clue what to do.

After awarding a touch that makes the score 9-1, the kid on the left raises his mask and asks, "Sir, wasn't there supposed to be a break at 8 points?"

I politely informed him that rule was only for saber and continued the bout, trying to keep from laughing out loud as I called the final 6 touches.

Dan

[Allen Evans]

In the days of the capteur...

On the command "Fence!" two saber fencers come together in a near simultaneous action in the box, and both score to the mask. The fencers stop, and look at the referee, who has not began to make a call. Puzzled, the fencers look at the box, where there are NO lights.

The fencer on the right tests to the head, immediately followed by his opponent, who also tests to the head. The referee finally speaks: "Halt! Attack from the right, counter-attack from the...."

Both saber fencers immediately turn on the referee, waving their arms, pointing at the box, and shouting protests.

The referee is laughing very hard by this time. It takes him several seconds to tell the fencers he was joking, and then put them back on guard.

[Purple Fencer]

In the days of the capteur...

On the command "Fence!" two saber fencers come together in a near simultaneous action in the box, and both score to the mask. The fencers stop, and look at the referee, who has not began to make a call. Puzzled, the fencers look at the box, where there are NO lights.

The fencer on the right tests to the head, immediately followed by his opponent, who also tests to the head. The referee finally speaks: "Halt! Attack from the right, counter-attack from the...."

Both saber fencers immediately turn on the referee, waving their arms, pointing at the box, and shouting protests.

The referee is laughing very hard by this time. It takes him several seconds to tell the fencers he was joking, and then put them back on guard.

Ok....now THAT is funny!

I had a similar experience about a year back....youth sabre out in San Bernardino. I get asked away from my sales table to directkids a lot because I have no problem making funny comments if the action warrants it.

2 strips on either side of the table. Both strips go at the same time...on the command to fence and their attacks (both sides had ALL fencers do an advance lunge/cut....it waslike looking into a mirror).

The guys on the other strip hit....MY guys miss, but both stop and look at the box....and tiiimmeee....ssslllllllloooooooooowwwwss...ddddddd ddddooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnn................

Heads whip around to look at the box....both stand there for a moment, then stand straight up, weapons lowered, and continue to stare at the un-lit box with that cute little head-cock to the side that puppies do when confused.

I just stand there...whoever reacts first is gonna get the point, I can tell.

Nothing happens for a couple of seconds, then you can see the eyes bulge as reality hits and they think "Oooooooooohhhhh nnnnnnnoooooooooooo" (again, in slo-mo)....and they both start going.

"Halt! You both go, you both MISS, you both look at the box, vogue, vogue, vogue ($1 to Madonna), then attack right, counter left....touch right."

[HDG]

the V0-0 bout.

I have endured one of these. VWE - nothing funny or even entertaining about the bout, just wicked dull…

[Purple Fencer]

I have endured one of these. VWE - nothing funny or even entertaining about the bout, just wicked dull…

Almost had that in an epee bout I saw...1-0 with 7 seconds left in priority....in DE! OY!

[edew]

Almost had that in an epee bout I saw...1-0 with 7 seconds left in priority....in DE! OY!

Was it with Bill Gelnaw?

[KShan5[PrFC]]

Y10 WE Summer Nationals V0-0....ugh

[catwood1]

Foil fencer attacks, opponent counters. The original guy hitches his hand back.

I call preparation, attack.

The preper looks at me. "I didn't go like this?" (he mimes lunging while pumping his hand)

"Yes, yes you did."

He looks at me. I look at him. He continues to look at me sorta pleadingly. I give it a few more seconds.

"Engarde."

[Purple Fencer]

Was it with Bill Gelnaw?

Nope....wasn't "flapping chicken man"...Bill knows when to attack, even if it takes awhile to set it up....I'll PM you.

[peet]

The Duel, this year:

I'm ref'ing WE, a DE bout. There's an attack, a counterattack, the two fencers close, and start infighting. They miss a lot at very close quarters (but not past or off the strip, or CaC, etc...), and then one of them finally hits.

"Halt! Touch left."
Fencer on the right: "Are you SERIOUS?"
"Yes."
"But that was like her 10th shot!"
"How many would you like me to let her have? Is 9 enough? Is 8 too many?"



...



"Engarde."


-p

[Dev]

As requested, a classic from the "bad" side. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent.

2006, San Jose. It is nearing 7:30 pm on Sunday. I'm all decked out in a brand-new navy blazer I've purchased just for the occasion of the Western SYC and Junior Pacific Coast Championships, a massive conglomeration of children ranging from eight to twenty years of age and one of the world's foremost vectors of cold virus infection. Also, it's a fencing tournament--and my first "real" referee job outside of a local Bay Area fencing club. I've learned a lot over the weekend; namely, that however stylish I think those navy Converse All-Stars may be, they weren't a good choice for one's first encounter with members of the Fencing Officials' Commission.

Still, I probably hadn't screwed up too badly. As the last foil event of the weekend (Youth 12) wound down to the quarterfinal round, I was collared by Bill Oliver, the senior FOC, and assigned as an assesseur along with another junior ref from the area: a short, fuzzy-haired gentleman we'll call "David". An assesseur's job is ostensibly to stand near one end of the strip and watch the fencer opposite for rules infractions, most notoriously the act of covering or substituting valid target. In practice, I've found it's mostly to stand with one's arms folded, look professional, and by one's mere presence assuage the frustrations of some angry coach or parent.

Now, a bit of stage-setting: During the Sunday morning referee meeting, Mr. Oliver has informed us that we are to beware of the older (12- and 14-year-old) youths' habit of covering valid target by ducking their head in front of it. Specifically, he'd like us to crack down and penalize the children who habitually have their attack successfully parried and respond by putting their heads down like tiny bulls and launching an obstinate remise in clear defiance of right-of-way and technique. He even demonstrated the action for us in the hilarious way of exaggerated referee pantomime.

He also refreshed our memory on a certain obscure rule that is now off the books: When an assesseur takes action that results in a penalty card being issued, the two side judges must switch sides. Ostensibly this prevents a certain assesseur, who may be harsher than others, from constantly penalizing one fencer to the exclusion of the other.

That being said, the first two bouts (one in the quarters, the other in the semifinals) went swimmingly, with our own honorable Mauler presiding and "David" and myself serving as assesseurs. Instead of our handshakes and customary thanks, however, "David" and I were reassigned to another ref--flown in from way out-of-state and whom I shall call "Joe"--for the Youth-12 Gold Medal bout.

On the referee's right is Nobuo Bravo, a diminutive right-handed youngster of (I believe) Japanese descent from the Massialas Foundation in San Francisco. Small even for his age bracket and obscenely flexible, at this point in his fencing career he tends to score a great deal of touches by displacing target in various ways. His notorious coach looms in the background. His opponent, on the left, is a larger, squishier, left-handed and red-headed New Yorker named Race Imboden. My position as an assesseur is facing Bravo; David is watching Imboden. As with all Y-12 bouts in direct elimination, the format is best-of-three in five-touch encounters.

The first encounter is, without a doubt, all Imboden. Bravo is hit with repeated attacks and drops it 1-5, managing to get himself penalized for corps-a-corps (body contact) in the process. His composure hovers somewhere between "unsteady" and "not present"; also, the Yellow Card for his contact penalty will follow him into the bout's subsequent encounters. His coach, Greg Massialas, is clearly displeased with this turn of events and has some stern (and high-pitched) words for his charge. And, as is dictated by procedure, David and I swap sides for encounter #2, so that he's watching Bravo and I'm watching Imboden.

The second encounter proceeds at a much slower pace. Bravo has regained a bit of his mojo by this point and clings to a one-touch lead for much of the bout. With the score at 3-2 in Bravo's favor and with time running short (around thirty seconds), Imboden is compelled to attack. When he does, Bravo counters with a forward-leaning evasion and a partial crouch that pulls his torso (and with it the target area) nearly parallel to the strip. Imboden's rushed attack spangs uselessly off his mask mesh and Bravo's counter lands squarely on target--one light shows on the scoring box. With only twenty seconds remaining and a 4-2 lead, it looks as though Bravo is about to level the match.

Except that David, across the strip, has raised his paw into the air. Joe, the referee, looks inquiringly in his direction, whereupon David pantomimes the act of ducking one's head in front of one's chest--substituting valid target with the mask. Joe shrugs, reaches into his jacket, and produces a Red Card (subsequent offenses after the first always resulting in a penalty touch). What was a comfortable 4-2 lead is now a 3-3 deadlock with little time on the clock. Massialas immediately erupts. "What? That's ridiculous! That is the worst call I've seen all weekend!"

The tirade draws the attention of nearby Derek Cotton, who looks as though he's just been awakened from hibernation. Loudly (owing to the earphones he's wearing, which prevents him from accurately modulating his vocal volume), he proclaims, "Wow, that would have been 4-2 and now it's 3-3! Oh, that was HUGE!" Both Bill Oliver and I independently wince mightily. And as ordered by the rule covered in the morning meeting, David and I switch sides so that I'm watching Bravo and he Imboden. I lock my hands behind my back, stand up really straight, and try to breathe normally.

Despite the influences of panic, a tear or two, and a livid apoplectic coach, Bravo pulls himself together and scores on an attack with four seconds remaining to salvage encounter #2 and level the bout. And in the final, fateful switch, David goes back to keep tabs on Bravo for encounter #3. I assume my customary position opposite Imboden with my hands locked, my shoulders back, and my thousand-yard-stare; it's a great front-row seat for what comes next.

During the third encounter, Bravo continues to keep the action slow and low-scoring, but he's on the wrong end this time; Imboden nurses a 2-1 lead until only forty seconds remain on the clock. Now, however, he chooses to make an ill-advised attack. Bravo attempts a similar counterattack to the one he used at the pivotal touch in the last encounter, but his timing isn't as good; Imboden's attack goes off-target, and Bravo doesn't hit anything at all. Only Race's amber light shows on the scoring box, so nothing is done.

Except that David's paw has been cast skyward once more. I can't help but look at him with open incredulity; Bill Oliver's head immediately drops. Joe simply shrugs, reaches into his jacket, and produces the Red Card once more. The penalty touch moves the score to 3-1 Imboden. Less than twenty seconds remain in the bout.

Massialas is temporarily unable to speak, but when disbelief subsides and words begin to sputter forth, they're definitely vitriolic. "That's that same guy! Who is that? What the hell does he think he's doing? He's screwing the kid!" Bravo has lost his composure entirely. Realizing that ripping the assesseur will get him nowhere, Greg turns his attention instead to his fencer.

"Stop crying, Nobuo! Come on! It's time to be a samurai!" Despite these compelling exhortations, Bravo looks unenthused to be back at the guard line. At Joe's command to "fence", however, he launches himself unexpectedly into a flat sprint at his opponent. Imboden, for his part, took a single advance off the guard line and then assumed the position of a road-borne deer suddenly faced with a (tiny, Asian) oncoming truck. Bravo smacks full-on into him and both stumble.

Joe reaches into his pocket for a third Red Card, this time for the blatant body contact. 4-1 Imboden, less than fifteen seconds remaining. Massialas throws up his hands in resignation. "That's it, huh? That's it?" He looks across the venue to Oliver, and then to the referee. "Why don't you just Red Card him out of the bout?"

I see Joe's eyes float to Massialas, just briefly. The faintest flicker of something like a sneer or a smirk crosses his lips. He spreads his hands and addresses the fencers. "On guard. Ready?"

Pause.

Bravo bursts from the guard line, again at a flat sprint.

"Halt!" booms Joe's voice. He produces his fourth Red Card. "Started before the command to fence. Red card. Bout."

The uproar that results is impressive, considering that it's eight in the evening on the last day of a three-day tournament. Massialas is beside himself with rage. His face is almost literally purple. Bill Oliver immediately gathers the referee crew for a huddle beside the strip.

He addresses David first, and though his voice is restrained, he looks a bit like he'd love to smack him upside the back of his head. "Now, I wouldn't have given either one of those cards. Both ticky-tack." He continues over the half-hearted protest that he was specifically looking for "attack-remise, not anything that might look like a duck." Then he turns to Joe. "And you. You know what you did." In response, he receives a derisive snort.

Massialas wanders over to the huddle. He's still discolored with anger, but he's clearly choosing his words carefully. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry... but this is disgusting!"

And then I shrugged, shook Mr. Oliver's hand, and walked away--mercifully unscathed. He did tell me to change my shoes, though.

[Allen Evans]

While sitting at a NAC with another (older and somewhat jaded) épée fencer, we over heard a referee telling another referee this story:

"...so this kid is muttering to himself, and I can't really make out the words, but he's definately not happy about the way the bout is going. Suddenly he gets hit -- again -- and lets out a loud curse.....in Klingon! So I gave him a yellow card....in Klingon!"

Both referees laugh and keep walking. The other fencer turns to me and says: "Some of these guys...they really NEED a life."

AE

[catwood1]

I need to stop reading this thread in class. I'm just asking get called out for not paying attention, as I fall out of my chair laughing...

[swordwench]

Women's foil, some random tournament at my club. Fencer A and Fencer B advance tentatively. Tap blades. Move back. Move forward. Tap. Tap tap tap - I'm thinking of a famous Poe poem by this time, and going out of my head. Finally they both get close to each other. Half-hearted in-fighting ensues. Stab stab stab.

No passing. No CAC. Just a whole lot of ill-executed stabbing at close quarters, and nary a light goes off.

I wait patiently.

They continue for awhile, each looking over at me every now and again to see whether I'm going to call a halt. Finally, both just give up poking at each other and look at me.

"Did I call a halt? Until I do, I suggest you keep poking."

Fencer A considers this. Surreptitiously jabs B in the stomach. One light.

"Good girl! On guard."

Women's foil. *sigh*

[Mauler]

We cannot forget THE Classic... Warm up is very important.

And this evening's entertainment, ladies and gentlemen!

And of course there was that infamous video of How NOT To Referee Fencing that showed a fencing "referee" physically shoving a minor (spectator). I've searched and searched, but I cannot find it.

[catwood1]

We cannot forget THE Classic... Warm is very important.

And this evening's entertainment, ladies and gentlemen!

And of course there was that infamous video of How NOT To Referee Fencing that showed a fencing "referee" physically shoving a minor (spectator). I've searched and searched, but I cannot find it.

I'm guessing it was removed from youtube.

Sigh.. my highschool kids had him reffing us in a big tourny a few weeks back... YIKES.

[Fencergrl]

We cannot forget THE Classic... Warm is very important.

LOL... what have I been telling you??? Canadians are funny! Good post.