I retired from officiating amateur football six years ago, after throwing flags since 1979. As a women in stripes, there were often issues with my presence inside those white lines, as many felt I didn’t belong, which brings me to the day I was rescued by a spider.

One afternoon, upon arriving at the field, I got what my crewmates referred to as “the look”, a noticeable squint from a head coach. The “Couldn’t they have sent a real referee!” expression announced his displeasure at me wearing the white hat, feelings he made loud and clear on just about every play.

The coach, who resembled someone who might have been sent over by Central Casting—well-over six feet, arms folded over a big belly, hat pulled low over his eyes—complained constantly. Note that no official wants to toss a coach, because it gives the impression that we’ve lost control of the game, and though he hadn’t yet crossed the invisible line that would have had me saddled with paperwork following the game, I was worried that I might have to eject him.

Then, late in the first half of the game, my line judge ran toward me, frantically blowing his whistle and waving his arms overhead to kill the clock. “Tarantula!” Phil stared wide-eyed and pointed downfield where a large spider inched across the field.

The barrel-chested coach spotted the creature, grinned, and crossed his thick arms. “What are you going to do about it?” he yelled in my direction.

Phil and I ran over to investigate and soon crouched over the meandering orange-and-black beast. I envisioning some hapless kid with a fist-size spider wriggling from his facemask. I bit my lip and glanced at the players who eyed me from midfield. Phil and I stared at one another, then he raised both palms up.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“What are you going to do?” he mimicked the coach.

I took a deep breath and watched the hairy animal inch forward, moving all eight legs in a silent ballet.  Then I glanced at the coach and saw he was laughing. At me.

Without thinking, I shot my arm into the tarantula’s path, and cringed as it crawled onto the back of my hand.

Phil stood and backed away.

The tarantula seemed to pick up speed, as it crossed my wrist and headed up my arm, its fuzzy feet tickling my skin.

I stood up slowly. “Please don’t bite me,” I silently pleaded over and over, as visions of old horror movies played in my head. I walked carefully toward the end of the field and when I reached the outer edge of the track I bent over, shook my arm, and dropped the creature near a patch of rocky desert. The tarantula landed upright and marched on.

I swallowed several times, pasted on a confident look, and trotted back upfield as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. I herded the players to the line of scrimmage, took my position behind the quarterback, and blew my whistle to put the ball in play.

But no one moved.

Phil’s whistle sounded. He signaled time-out and doubled over. I thought he might be ill, but then I saw he was laughing.

“What?” I stared as he ran toward me.

He leaned in and looked around to make sure no players were nearby. “The coach said…” Then he started laughing again.

“What!” I glanced at the coach who was now looking at me in an entirely a new way.

“The coach said, ‘She has a pair hangin’ and they ain’t tits.’”

I eyed at the coach, who nodded toward me, deferential, all remnants of his previously condescending attitude having disappeared with the spider.

For the rest of the game, no matter the situation—whether a flag went for or against his team, whether he agreed or disagreed with a ruling—the coach only addressed me with two words. “Yes, ma’am,” was all he said.

No ejection. No paperwork. And I owed it all to a spider. And it wasn’t just the coach. For years after that, fans would come up to me and smile, a gleam in their eyes that seemed to signal acceptance. Then they’d ask, “Are you the tarantula referee?”

And I’d smile back and say, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Wolf Catcher

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction

In 1939, archeologists uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate bead work, was surrounded by wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant. This man, buried nine hundred years earlier, was a magician.

Former television journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archeological looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.

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Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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