Questionable Calls

By John Howard

John Howard lived in Chicago and in the San Francisco Bay Area, two areas with enthusiastic football fans. While teaching history, his love for sports and an avid season ticket holder led him to spend several years coaching basketball and football. Like many fans he thought bad calls changed the outcome of some games albeit few in number. All sports rely on the integrity of referees and with a touch of imagination came the thought of what would happen if any one referee purposely overlooked infractions or intentionally made bad calls. With retirement came the story: Questionable Calls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2008
• ISBN: 9781453565964

John Howard

John Howard is an internationally recognized therapist, wellness expert, and educator who uses the latest science to help couples have stronger relationships. He is the host of The John Howard Show, a wellness podcast, and the creator of the Ready Set Love® series of online programs for couples. John is a Cuban American whose first language is Spanish and thus prioritizes diversity and inclusion, drawing on multicultural influences from years of traveling and studying indigenous traditions. He has presented on the neuroscience of couples therapy at leading conferences and developed a couples and family therapy curriculum for the Dell Medical School in Austin. In 2019, he developed Presence Therapy®, an integrative mind-body approach to couples therapy taught to psychotherapists worldwide. John is also the CEO of PRESENCE, a wellness center in Austin dedicated to helping you achieve optimal physical, mental, and relationship health.

Book preview

Chapter One

Todd Jensen loves a young woman less than half his age, and on a September Sunday in Minneapolis he stood before a mirror in the official’s stadium locker room. He donned a black cap and tucked in a vertical black-and-white broad-stripe shirt in his white trousers. For an instant he visualized the black stripes as prison bars and his body crammed in a tiny cell. Though having a disturbed conscience, he would still help steer the Minnesota Vikings to a win over the favorite Miami Dolphins.

Jensen, a university professor and professional football official, had a coach’s knowledge, understanding the game physically and psychologically. He knew underdog teams entered a game with an intensity that dwindled late in the first quarter, when the better team began to dominate. He could call penalties that favor the underdog, helping them build a false confidence. Football, a game of momentum and field position, was at the mercy of a corrupted ref who purposely called penalties that could change the direction of a game, turning a loser into a winner. Today’s game would not be a contest between equals. The superior Miami team had to be hit with critical penalties to bring about a Minnesota victory. He must control momentum, see that Minnesota gets field position and given chances to score. And to stop Miami’s offense he would overlook infractions and call timely, generally disputable penalties.

He trotted on the field of a crowded domed stadium with Referee Pete Keller and five other officials to the standard chorus of BOOS. His body tensed, not confident he could make Minnesota a winner. Miami, a disciplined team, had played penalty-free games.

As a Field Judge he stationed himself behind the defensive backfield to observe plays entering the secondary. He, being outside the range of other officials, looked for infractions developing downfield, primarily pass interference and holding. He managed time-outs and helped judge the accuracy of field goals and the point after a touchdown. Renown as a by-the-book official, Todd had always been thought tough but fair. Then, the beautiful Darla came into his life.

*

On millions of television screens across the country an overhead view of Minneapolis came on; the picture zeroed down to a domed and inside a fan-filled football stadium. Clips of action scenes, exceptional runs, unbelievable pass receptions, bruising tackles and energetic cheerleaders stimulated a viewer’s interest. In the broadcast booth the pregame hype began with predictions, pointing out what today’s teams must do to win. Although favored by ten points, Miami might be overconfident; and with this being the first scheduled game of the season, Minnesota shouldn’t be taken lightly.

Colorful insight and opinions were aired by the celebrities of football, former players reliving past experiences, desiring recognition as commentators. The game gave them a chance to impress a network. Other than sandlot football, the game can no longer be thought of as anything other than a business complete with executives and agents.

The starting teams were introduced and followed by a local vocalist singing the National Anthem. Television cameras zoomed in on the players gathering at the sidelines, rallying spirits, looking tough, ready to crush the other team. Miami won the toss, elected to receive; and seven officials ran to their designated places. Minnesota’s fans cheered. Players were positioned. Twenty-two determined men—Goliaths, trained better than ancient gladiators—wore as much protective gear as did knights of the Middle Ages. One side prepared to charge and tackle, the other to block and break away. All awaited the shrill of the Referee’s whistle.

We’re underway. A high kick is taken by Harris at the six. He’s running to the far side of the field, to the fifteen, the twenty, dodges a tackler and spins up to the twenty-five and is hit hard. He fumbles! The announcer’s voice erupted. And Minnesota recovered. He vividly vocalized what every fan saw on television.

Minnesota played with exceptional efficiency, running and passing with precision on offense, tackling with tenacity on defense, scoring two touchdowns, and dominating the first quarter. They had the momentum Todd anticipated until the beginning of the second quarter. Miami, with short hammering runs, began moving down the field, slicing through a waning Minnesota defense. On a third down, Miami’s fullback skirted around right end for fifteen yards and for what seemed a touchdown; but Todd tossed his yellow flag. He called a holding penalty on a wide receiver attempting to throw a block. The call raised the ire of Miami’s coaches but delighted Minnesota’s fans.

That was a questionable call. It didn’t look like Perkins was holding, the announcer said.

I’ve seen worse holds that weren’t called, claimed the commentator.

Miami settled for a field goal and trailed 14 to 3 at the half.

*

During halftime, Todd drank mineral water while Pete Keller, the Referee, reviewed the penalties called. He wasn’t in position to see Todd’s holding call that prevented a Miami touchdown, but he did chastise the side judge for failing to call what seemed an obvious motion penalty. He brought up every complaint aired by both coaches for calls made or missed.

It’s the same every game. Penalties are our fault, not the players.

*

To Todd’s liking, Minnesota held an eleven point lead until the end of the third quarter. Then Miami executed a screen pass with absolute precision, resulting in a 65 yard touchdown. Todd, on the opposite side of the field, saw nothing that could be called a penalty. The game entered the fourth quarter, 14 to 10—Minnesota’s favor.

With nine minutes remaining and with the crowd yelling DEFENSE, Miami sustained a drive to the Minnesota’s goal. To stop them Todd called a penalty, offensive interference on a pass play in the end zone.

That looked like defensive pass interference to me, the announcer objected.

It sure did; it looked obvious from here.

Miami, forced to kick a field goal, was now one point behind Minnesota.

The aggressive defense of Miami made it easy for Todd to call unnecessary roughness on a pass defender. Three plays later he made another pass interference call, both calls allowed Minnesota to continue a drive to the Miami goal line.

That pass was too high for anyone to catch. It shouldn’t have been called, the announcer protested.

Perkins had a hand on Tyler’s back; that was a tight call. It gives the Vikings a first down, the commentator added.

Minnesota couldn’t make another first down and attempted a field goal with two minutes left. They missed. Standing under one of the goal posts, Todd was in no position to call a penalty. The score remained: Minnesota, 14; Miami 13. In the few minutes left plays developed away from Todd. He felt helpless, unable to call a penalty without making it look willful. If Miami scored, they’d win; and he would be at the mercy of Al Rega and his gambling associates for failing to make Minnesota a winner.

Miami failed to move the ball into field goal range. The ecstatic crowd cheered the Minnesota victory, and Todd Jensen relaxed, feeling safe, feeling no guilt.

What are you smiling about? Pete Keller asked Todd as they left the field.

It was a good game.

I didn’t figure Miami to lose this one, Keller said. Their coaches blistered my ear about a couple of penalties they felt you failed to call, claiming you have a blind eye.

They’re looking for excuses, Todd replied, pondering Pete’s concerns. Was Pete getting wise to the calls he made or didn’t make?

Keller started to review each penalty called when every official seated themselves in the conference room. There were twenty-one penalties called, fourteen against Miami and seven on Minnesota.

Of the seven penalties Todd called, six were against Miami. He knew the League kept track of every call, especially the questionable ones. Will they warn him or suspend him? It didn’t matter; in an hour he would be with Darla.

Chapter Two

Angelo Sorranto believed nothing could be said of Las Vegas that hasn’t been said, especially on a stinging hot mid-September morning. He knew after his first visit that Vegas was a city of bad luck where fools lose their hard earnings, thinking they’d get rich quick and enjoy doing it. Instead, they paid for the building of lavish casino hotels. The money visitors lost built a city defying laws of economics, importing more money than many countries, exporting more grief than happiness.

Angelo played a dollar slot while doing his own security check. He knew the minute he walked in he had been checked by every surveillance system known in the electronic world. The casinos rarely missed a gambler’s trick or a cheating face. That didn’t matter for he was unknown in gambling circles.

His eyes searched for the man or woman showing little interest in the roll of dice or the spin of a roulette wheel. He looked for prying eyes, that telling expression of an undercover cop, a casino security agent. When no one raised his suspicions, he stepped in an empty elevator, riding it to the sixteenth floor. There he slowly walked the corridor until it cleared of guests, then knocked four times on the door of suite 1610.

You must be Angelo. I’m Al Rega, the man answering said.

At five-ten, Al looked like a stocky linebacker—squared face, pug nose, mean eyes, and a mass of wavy black hair. He gave Angelo a family-like hug, then directed him to an opulent room decorated with red flocked wallpaper, black velvet drapes, brocade chairs, and a white high-piled rug. Angelo saw it as a suite furnished for sex, not a meet.

You know Jake, Al began. Anyone who’s a friend of Jake is a friend of mine.

Good to see ya. Jake Bazzini slowly struggled to his feet and hugged Angelo. Jake appeared older than sixty-two—deep facial wrinkles, droopy eyes, and in bad health.

When Jake, Angelo’s mentor of times past, was present big money would be involved along with trouble.

And Joey Vascolotte, Al said, pointing at a fancy man rising to his feet.

Joey highlighted his trim body features with tight pants. He wore a fitted shirt, cutesy earrings and a half-dozen gold chains looped around his neck. Angelo judged him to be a slick good-for-nothing pimp and ignored his extended hand.

Al stepped to the wet bar. Can I get you a drink?

Bourbon on ice, Angelo answered and sat facing them.

Jake struck a match to light a cigar, puffing a cloud. Did anyone follow ya?

Before Al opened the door he knew it was me. I figured the surveillance cameras in the casino, the ones in the elevator and the hallway told you I was coming. You got someone in hotel security looking out for you.

There’s no foolin’ ya, Jake said, coughing.

You wouldn’t be calling a meet in a casino if it wasn’t safe. He sipped his drink. Who checked the place for bugs?

I went over it this morning; it’s clean, Al answered.

Angelo picked up a brassiere off the floor and pointed to the bedroom. What about the whores?

Vascolotte laughed. I can’t get them to keep their clothes on. They’ve been here since this morning. They know to keep their mouths shut, but I prefer them with their mouths around this, he said, grabbing his crotch.

Angelo looked away, placing his drink on a side table. Jake called saying you have a problem. He thinks I can help.

Al leaned forward. "I learned from playing football in high school that refs control the game. Everyone’s concerned about the honesty of the athletes—do they take drugs, steroids, but no one questions the honesty of a ref. They’re like a judge. He calls the penalties or overlooks them; nothing changes his mind. You can win or lose a game on one bad call.

How many times have you heard an announcer say, ‘They missed that call,’ or, ‘That’s a tacky call.’ Huh, Angelo, how many times?

I’ve heard them say it.

I figured if I had a referee in my pocket I could control games, and there’s gotta be one who’d take the risk if the price is right. Hell, the way I see it there are lawyers, politicians, judges, doctors, priests, and cops on the take. So I ask, ‘Why not refs?’ Since a helluva lot of money is bet on pro games, I set my sights on finding a ref with a weakness.

After a game, Al or one of his boys would pick one of the game officials to follow, Jake beamed. They’d find out his habits, where he lives an’ works. Maybe he’s fuckin’ someone besides his wife, or he’s a big spender, a gambler in debt. After a couple of months, we found one we could get our hooks in.

Al sat back. I tell him what he has to do, then we scatter our bets so the books, the casinos, or the League won’t pick up on what we’re doing.

That’s right, Jake nodded, an’ we make a bundle.

Okay, why do you need me? Angelo asked.

Our ref is a professor living in Phoenix. He talks about quitting an’ telling League officials. We’ve threatened him saying his daughter or son will get hurt. It doesn’t bother him and his pain-in-the-ass invalid wife means nothing to him.

Angelo held up his hand. Okay, back up. How did you hook him?

We found he has a weakness for young girls, so we sent one of my girls to trap him. Darla’s twenty-two, looks eighteen, and has a body you’d kill for; she’s a knockout, Vascolotte boasted. About a year and a half ago we forged transcripts and enrolled her at the university where he works. She registered in one of his classes, played up to him and the old fart fell for it. When he goes to ref a game she goes with him. We got them on video, a professor fucking a student; it scared the shit out of him. She puts on like she loves him and keeps us informed on what he’s doing.

He knows exposin’ him would end his professor standin’ an’ officiatin’, Jake voiced. We’ve warned him about keepin’ our arrangement to himself. The health of his family, especially his daughter, Sandy Seeger, depends on it.

What’s so special about his daughter? Angelo asked.

Darla tells us she’s his favorite. Sandy’s the oldest and is married to a bigwig in some electronic company in Tucson, Joey answered.

Al’s eyes concentrated on Angelo. It’s time we do more than make threats. We need an adjuster like you.

Apparently, your tape no longer scares him, and hurting his family might drive him to the cops, Angelo reasoned.

He’s our bread ‘n’ butter, Jake said, squinting. We need him.

Joey rose and poured himself another drink. How about roughing him up?

Angelo, shaking his head, answered, You don’t hurt him if has to ref games. As for his wife, beating up a cripple will bring media attention. Do you know if he has seen a mouth and left evidence to give the cops if anyone in the family is hurt?

Darla said he hasn’t seen a lawyer, Joey answered. What do we do?

He’s educated; probably thought of reprisals for whatever you do to him or his family. If you’re going to hurt him, you should pick on his daughter or son.

Jake slouched in his chair. Maybe we rough up the bitch he’s in love with.

Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Vascolotte exploded. No one touches Darla without my say-so.

Easy, Joey. Al’s eyes zeroed in on the playboy. He loves her; he’d be worthless if we harmed her. Okay Angelo, who’d you go after?

Since he favors his daughter, go after her.

Vascolotte’s eyes widened, a grin coming to his face. You ought to rape her.

That’ll attract bad publicity, Jake protested.

Rapes aren’t always newsworthy, Angelo countered. You can scare the hell out of her without raping her.

Okay, what’s it going to cost for you to take care of it? Al asked coldly.

If your ref goes to the cops, a trail can lead to me. I don’t like it. Angelo placed his hands on the arms of his chair and stood up.

Wait, we can work this out. Al jumped up, his arm draped over Angelo’s shoulders. Let me pour you another drink. He walked Angelo to the bar. You insult me if you think we’d make trouble for you—we’re like brothers. I’m offering you fifty Gs to bring him around and 5 percent of our operation starting with next Sunday’s game.

"I know nothing about your setup, or how much the Feds are on to you. Do the families know what you’re doing here?"

"The Feds know nothing. As for the families, they’re why Jake’s here." Rega gestured at a confirming Jake Bazzini.

Angelo’s eyes concentrated on Al. I would think all game officials are under surveillance by the Pro Football League. How do you know they’re not on to you?

I’ve got an inside source. Al raised his drink, giving a knowing smile. I know in advance of any changes and what games my guy will call.

What’s his name, and who’s your source?

His name is Todd Jensen. I can’t tell you my source; it’ll shut her up if I gave names. Are you with us?

I decide who to hit and how?

Rega looked to Bazzini for approval.

Ya call the shots—Jake re-lighted his cigar—an’ ya make sure Jensen gets the message.

Rega handed Angelo a manila envelope. Here’s fifty Gs, a list of addresses, phone numbers—all you need. There’s also a video of Darla fucking Jensen.

I want to talk to Darla. Where is she?

You leave her alone. She’s mine, Vascolotte objected.

She’s your contact with Jensen. I have to know everything she knows.

It’s all right, Joey, Jake assured. Angelo’s all business. He ain’t gonna be humpin’ ’er without your okay.

Al and Jake laughed. Angelo and Joey’s eyes were fixed on each other.

She’s in 342. Joey angrily flipped Angelo a card key. She’ll be leaving for Phoenix tonight. She’s got a morning class.

Yeah, she’s takin’ a course on how to fuck a professor. Jake laughed and started coughing.

Chapter Three

Darla Adams opened the door, turned, and crossed the mirrored luxury room to a circular bed covered with purple satin sheets. Come on in and close the door.

She faced Angelo standing tall in black stiletto heels, legs spread. A velvet black thong looped down from her waist with just enough patch to cover the gap between her thighs. A silk robe draped from her shoulders and barely covered pointing nipples. Indirect lighting delicately shaded her smooth, dusky skin, accentuating every eye-catching curve on a flawless body. Darla, designed for sex, only lacked a wanton smile.

Angelo never trusted beautiful women who could bring out a man’s foolishness. He foresaw her as a problem.

You must be Angelo. Joey told me you were coming. Without hesitation, her left hand gripped his belt, her right unzipped his fly.

He grabbed her wrists. That’s not why I’m here.

Her befuddled expression changed to a silly smirk. Joey said to give you a—

Get dressed. He released her wrists and zipped up his pants.

She removed her robe, baring full breasts. I don’t want any trouble.

You asked for that the day you became a whore.

Hey! Her voice matched the severity of her look. I don’t need any righteous lectures from—

Shut up and get dressed.

Darla moved to the closet, stepped in a white leather miniskirt, and tucked in a blue silk blouse, leaving it unbuttoned. Okay. She ran her fingers through her golden hair saying, Let’s go.

She walked alongside Angelo to the elevator. You think the room was bugged?

Probably. He thought Vascolotte would do it.

That son of a bitch. A derogatory smile crossed her face. He tells me I’m his girl, then let’s me play Jensen’s lover and orders me to blow you.

You don’t blow me, and it’s best to keep your opinions to yourself. It’s healthier that way, he warned.

Darla turned the head of every male, making it difficult for Angelo to catch the eyes of a shadow not wanting to be caught looking. He directed her to a cocktail table in a casino lounge, far from bell ringing slots. He sat opposite her at a table so he could study her expressions. A cocktail waitress in a bust-bulging pirate costume approached, and Darla ordered white wine; Angelo opted for fruit juice.

How long have you known Vascolotte? he asked.

Her eyes studied Angelo. Ever since I was eighteen I’ve been his. I do what he tells me. The tone of her voice could bring snow.

You being his girl doesn’t bother me as long as you do what I tell you, and what I tell you you keep to yourself. Until your relationship with Jensen is over, you needn’t be concerned about Joey.

He’s not going to like that. You’re putting me in the middle.

When I say you needn’t be concerned, you needn’t be concerned, Angelo said in a you-better-believe-me tone. Tell me about Todd Jensen. I can’t quite figure how a fifty-year-old university professor would get suckered in by a young whore.

She flashed a glance of anger with the word whore, then waited while their drinks were served. It’s not difficult to get a man’s attention. She smiled. As for Todd, he referees football games, and that’s why they’re interested in him. There are times he feels guilty, but he said coaches, proscouts and sport writers weren’t fair. They taught him not to trust them. He thinks all officials make mistakes and have their favorite teams; it’s only human. Some make calls, consciously or unconsciously, supporting one team or another. They usually don’t officiate games in cities where they live, but they, maybe unknowingly, can help their home teams in the standings. It’s confusing to me, she said, brushing back a lock of hair. Sometimes he talks about going to the authorities and doesn’t think that’ll end our relationship. He’s in love with me and is married to a crippled alcoholic wife. Otherwise, he’s kind of nice, respectful—different from what I usually run into.

Are you looking for a white knight to take you from Vascolotte?

I don’t run into white knights. I’m just a mouth and pussy for Joey and his friends. He’ll tire of me when he finds a girl to give him better head.

Will Jensen tire of you?

Never. Fifteen years ago his wife was injured in a car accident while he was driving; it left her a paraplegic. She has made his life a hell. He says he took care of his kids without help. Sandy, his daughter, is his darling, but he neglects his grandchildren. His son, Cliff, one of his wife’s indiscretions, isn’t his; but he treats him like he is. He says Sandy and Cliff are his life, and I’m his love.

You love him?

He’s tolerable, protects me, but I don’t love him, she answered. "He has a shitty wife, and I