On the silent, overhead video screen, a Michigan State tackler hammers Indiana quarterback Antwaan Randle El to the turf.
With a whir of the VCR, the video reverses. Randle El springs crazily off the turf as defenders backpedal away from him. The VCR clicks and the play runs forward, one frame at a time.
There appears to be a late hit, but no flag is thrown. Brandishing a light pencil, David Parry points to the Indiana quarterback, then pivots to address the eight men sitting in a cluster of blue-backed chairs, looseleaf binders splayed on desktops.
“His feet are unbelievably quick,” Parry says of Randle El. “You have to stay with him because sometimes it looks like he’s down, but he isn’t. Sometimes he’s down and (tacklers) get there a little late.”
It’s Friday night, 15 hours before Randle El will lead the Hoosiers against Michigan at Michigan Stadium. This gathering takes place in a second-floor conference room of Schembechler Hall, headquarters of the Michigan football program, but these aren’t Wolverine defenders.
This is the officiating crew going through its weekly pregame film session. Parry, the Big Ten’s supervisor of football officials, has put together a video of “hot looks,” many of which irate coaches have sent.
Parry takes the crew through 75 plays in about an hour, pointing out the good, the bad and the ugly. On one play culled from Penn State’s 31-13 victory over Purdue on Oct. 17, the officials made the right call on a disputed fumble the Nittany Lions recovered. But their hesitance to signal the change of possession caused a furor on the Boilermakers’ sideline.
“We got the play right,” Parry says with a frown, “But we looked bad doing it.”
Getting the play right is what it’s all about. But looking good is important too.
“You have to make a strong sell,” Parry tells his refs.
Perhaps that’s why the Big Ten agreed to allow the Tribune unprecedented access to an officiating crew–which the newspaper selected at random–during its entire pre- and postgame routine last weekend. At a time when major-league umpires and NFL officials have come under fire, the weekend provides a glimpse inside the workings of the third team on the field.
It’s the team with no fight song and few fans. It’s the team whose only hope of making the SportsCenter highlights is to commit a monumental blunder.
Friday, 9:30 p.m. Having devoured an hour of film, the officials are ready for something sweeter. They meet for dessert at a coffee shop near their hotel on the outskirts of Ann Arbor.
The crew is drawn from Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Minnesota and Michigan. The referee, Bill LeMonnier, 50, is a principal at a Tinley Park middle school. Back judge Tom Herbert, 54, of Merrillville, Ind., is the league’s senior official, with 21 years of experience. His father, Eddie, was a respected Big Ten ref.
Five men on this crew work in education or have done so, while two others are businessmen and another is a federal probation officer.
Many are ex-athletes, including LeMonnier, who played football and ice hockey at Mt. Carmel High School in the 1960s. He likens officiating to competing.
“It’s a natural high when you step on that field,” LeMonnier says. “It’s a challenge. You’re doing it for yourself, for your crew, for your family.”
Few do it for the money. Big Ten referees are considered independent contractors and hired on a game-by-game basis. They’re paid $650 per game, plus $280 for expenses for the weekend. They also are reimbursed for mileage or coach airfare.
Saturday, 10:21 a.m. Kickoff is still nearly two hours away when the crew gathers in a small locker room in Crisler Hall, across a parking lot from Michigan Stadium.
It’s too early to take the field, but also too late to do anything constructive. So Herbert tells a visitor why he carries two whistles–one with a pea inside, one without. He prefers the sound of a pea whistle but goes pea-free when wintry weather blows in like an unblocked free safety.
“The pea freezes, and then nobody can hear you,” Herbert explains.
Some of the officials jog in place. Others sit and stare into space, alone with their thoughts.
“You look up at the second hand, it’s on 3. You look up a minute later, it’s on 4,” says Dennis Goettel, a 53-year-old head linesman from Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
Says Parry, a former NFL official, “This is the lonely time.”
In nearby locker rooms, the Indiana and Michigan players also play the waiting game. Outside, the largest college football crowd in America (110,863) is making its way to the stadium.
Saturday, 11:30 a.m. Four of the refs have been on the field for a half-hour, meeting with captains and making sure the teams are separated during warmups. The rest of the crew makes its way down the tunnel connecting the locker rooms to the field. The sound of the crowd and the Michigan band washes over the refs as they reach the bottom.
“When you’re in this tunnel, there’s no feeling like it,” Goettel says.
To his credit, Goettel doesn’t run for the tunnel when controversy engulfs him eight minutes into the first quarter. As Randle El rolls to his right on an option play, he pitches the ball to the turf.
Michigan recovers on Indiana’s 20, but Goettel has signaled an incomplete pass. Indiana retains possession.
“A horrible call robs Michigan of a scoring chance!” Wolverines radio play-by-play man Jim Brandstatter tells his listeners.
Goettel’s call is debatable. But there’s no doubt Brandstatter, an unabashed homer, blew a call of his own later in the game, after a Michigan receiver was ruled down, averting a possible turnover.
“That was the same official who called the fumble a forward pass!” Brandstatter says.
Actually, the second call was by line judge Tom Hofmann, stationed 60 yards away from Goettel. But both guys were wearing stripes.
“Interesting first half,” LeMonnier says to a reporter as the players file off the field at intermission. “You sure you don’t want to put on a jersey?”
At halftime, the refs down hot dogs and sip sodas and bottled water. They discuss a couple of plays, and someone mentions Indiana coach Cam Cameron has been complaining about Michigan’s blocking techniques.
Afterward, LeMonnier says the feisty Cameron told him, “I’m going to send a tape of all the holding calls you missed right to your house.”
Almost all coaches gripe about officials, though most know better than to whine publicly. Cameron might have been wary on this day because of what happened on his team’s last visit to the state of Michigan. Officials’ mistakes led to nine Michigan State points in Indiana’s 38-31 overtime loss. The league acknowledged the errors to Cameron, who was publicly gracious.
“I respect the fact that they have an extremely difficult job to do,” Cameron says later. “Dave Parry is putting a lot of pressure on those guys to do a good job.”
Saturday, 3:11 p.m. The moment the game ends, the officials dash up the tunnel. One would have to go to Africa to find a faster herd of zebras. They pile into a van and set out for Schembechler Hall behind a Washtenaw County police cruiser, its siren wailing.
Fans turn and wave. An hour earlier they were screaming at the same men, but Michigan prevailed 21-10 so everybody’s going home happy.
Incidents are rare, but a police escort for the officials is standard in the Big Ten.
“We’ve had death threats,” Parry says.
The refs shower, dress and reconvene in a conference room to break down the just-delivered game tape. Glancing at a lined white sheet, Parry goes over every questionable call.
Parry devotes a few minutes to two of the game’s tougher rulings. The first is Goettel’s non-fumble call. Parry says the tape is too close to call, and he tells Goettel, “You’re definitely solid on it.”
The second play involves Michigan receiver Tai Streets, who appeared to push off from his defender before gathering in a touchdown pass. It was second-year field judge Carl Britt’s call. Parry replays the tape a half-dozen times, and everyone in the room agrees: no foul. The night before, Parry had reminded the crew that if there’s any doubt, don’t drop a flag. This logic, he says, applies to Britt’s decision not to penalize Streets.
At almost the same moment, Streets is asked about the play in the interview room.
“There might have been a subtle little push, but the refs did not see it,” Streets says. “So I guess I got away with it.”
The officials eat submarine sandwiches and fish sodas out of an ice chest. Some are rushing to catch flights, while others linger because they don’t want to get stuck in postgame traffic. But before they scatter, Parry has a benediction.
“I think you had a good game,” Parry says. “In my opinion, we stayed out of it. The kids played.”
Later, after the crew has gone, Parry says he expects to hear from both coaches. He may have to soothe them, but he doesn’t plan to apologize for the crew’s actions on this day.
“The coaches will nitpick you,” Parry says. “They see things with their hearts. Hopefully, we see them with our eyes.”
