I was watching the news the other day and there was a story about what today is proper cellphone etiquette. I have to say, I was as surprised as the two female anchors to learn what is appropriate by current standards.

“It is not okay to call someone on the phone, prior to texting,” said the guest talking-head, who was some kind of media specialist.

I, like the two anchors, said, “What?”

Yep, it seems that Millennials, as well as Gen Xers, are horrified when they receive a phone call without warning. It seems people in these age groups get flustered when they actually have to pick up the phone and mutter “Hello.”

I thought this quite strange, so I put on my old reporter’s cap to see what’s happening, and it turns out the talking-head was spot on. According to the Forbes article, “Millennials Hate Phone Calls, And They Have a Point” by Brianna Wiest, “…phone calls seem invasive because it demands an instant response. In a world where their messages, emails and DMs pile up, they are at least afforded somewhat of a buffer when given time to respond on their own terms.”

Got it! Millennials are afraid to have to make a quick decision, because the idea of having to deal with something immediately is too stressful. That had me wondering where the next generation of air traffic controllers or brain surgeons or any other career that is based on quick thinking might be coming from, but I digress.

And there’s more. The Antsy Labs article “Why Millennials Have a Fear of a Phone Call” by Alex Jeffries, points out that, “While 75% of Millennials say they’re avoiding phone calls because they’re too time consuming, there’s an even bigger reason they don’t like to talk on the phone. It turns out that, according to BankMyCell, 81% of Millennials get apprehension anxiety ‘before summoning the courage to make a call.’”

As a person who spent endless hours on the phone as a teenager without a hint of anxiety, I wonder what these young people are so afraid of. Turns out that on top of the aforementioned avoidance of decision making, they’re panicky that the person on the other end of the phone might disagree with them in some way, the idea of which is apparently appalling.

As a former teacher of 20 years, I worry that perhaps we have failed these young people in some monumental way. They are completely ill-equipped in the niceties of small talk, which they consider “awkward”, so if you want to get in contact a text or email are preferred. That way they don’t have to use that silly old skill called conversation.

Sadly, I now understand when my kids, all now in their 20s, say they are “talking to someone.” This phrase means they are texting another person who they are interested in dating, which is quite the misnomer, as there is zero talking involved. My daughter explained that this is how two people get to know one another. When I suggested coffee or a drink she rolled her eyes.

I know it makes me sound old, but I don’t understand how you can become acquainted with another person with a few lines of text. In my world we look one another in the eye and have a conversation or…pick up the phone and have a chat.

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I’m excited to announce that I recently signed a contract for my historical fiction novel Your Forgotten Sons. Next Chapter Publishing, the same company that released my book Wild Horses on the Salt, will publish the novel June 6^th, 2024, the 80^th anniversary of the storming of the beaches at Normandy: D-Day.

How did I learn about Sgt. Bud Richardville? My dear friend Gina Liparoto was facing a risky spinal surgery, one that could have left her paralyzed from the waist down. Her soldier husband— traumatized by two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq—was uncomfortable in hospitals, so I was tasked with being Gina’s healthcare power of attorney.

The evening before the surgery, Gina handed me a Ziplock bag containing fragile, 75-year-old letters from her Uncle Bud, a man who served in the Graves Registration Service and who never returned at the end of the war. Then she made me promise that, no matter what happened to her, I’d tell Bud’s story.

Your Forgotten Sons is a departure for me, as it’s my first book that takes place outside of Arizona. Still, I had the great fortune of studying World War II and its aftermath in depth when I went to school in Luxembourg at Miami University’s branch campus, so when I was asked to write the story, I decided to take it on.

We are currently heading into the editing phase of Your Forgotten Sons, so I have my author’s cap squarely on.

Find below a little about Bud’s story.

Your Forgotten Sons

Inspired by a true story

Anne Montgomery

Next Chapter Publishing

Release Date: June 6, 2024

Historical Fiction

Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to the Graves Registration Service where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Loryane, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?

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There’s been a lot of news lately about young people and their deep-down desire to own a home. I get it. We’ve all been raised on the hankering to have a nice house with a beautiful yard surrounded by the proverbial white picket fence. But, as with all dreams, I thought you should know, there can be a downside to home ownership.

I’m not saying this just because a few months back my air conditioner quit. I can’t say it was entirely unexpected. The old girl had been pumping out cold air for over twenty years, quite the life span for an appliance of that sort, especially when you consider I live in a desert. After she died, some nice men arrived with a crane to replace her. While I gasped as I handed over my credit card to pay that $8,200 bill, I was mollified when I remembered that all those dollars would transfer to travel points. Still, as you might expect, the total stung.

Today, since we are still in the midst of the hottest summer on record here in Phoenix—we’ve had 55 days over 110 degrees so far—I have never regretted the expense. However, it’s been all downhill appliance-wise since then.

Recently, we were on vacation when our son Troy called and said the refrigerator had died. Anyone who has dealt with that particular nightmare knows it’s best to be as far from said appliance as possible if it’s been down a while. The thought of sorting through rotting fish and meat and vegetables made me glad I wouldn’t be home for a few days, so that lovely chore was left to the kid. (Thank you, Honey!)

When my sweetie pie and I arrived home a few days later, imagine our surprise when we discovered the dishwasher had quit, as well. So, Ryan and I trudged off to Home Depot and handed off the credit card again, charging a little over $1,500 this time. We lived out of two coolers for a week, before the replacement fridge arrived. But the thing was damaged and had to be returned.

“We’ll have to order another one,” said a Home Depot supervisor. “It’ll be delivered in three weeks.”

Ryan was not amused and insisted they provide us with a loaner, which they did. But it’s a wee baby fridge and not much fits inside. Still, at the moment, it’s all we have.

And our appliance woes weren’t over. This morning, as I was preparing brunch for week one of the NFL season, I noticed some water by the backdoor. I wondered where that moist stuff had originated— we hadn’t seen rain here in Phoenix since March 22—and was stumped, until I considered that just inside the sliding glass door was the water heater.

“It’s done,” Ry said after looking through the cobwebs at the appliance that is probably the most ignored in every home. “But the good news is it was only supposed to last seven years. We replaced it 16 years ago.”

That’s my sweetie pie! Always thinking positively.

I just watched Ry and Troy head off to find a new water heater. The good news is the baby fridge is still cold and the air conditioner is working. On the downside, the dishwasher functions, but it’s not much good without water.

The point, of course, is that all of you hopeful home owners might want to rethink that dream, because sometimes homeownership can be a nightmare.

In all honesty, right now, I’d rather be a renter.

Just sayin’.

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“Don’t judge me!” students would often say when I was a teacher. And that always made me laugh, though not outwardly. I usually wanted to respond, “Well, of course I’m judging you. That’s what they pay me for.”

I don’t know when everyone decided that judgement was a negative thing. And before I go on, please note that I’m not talking about destructive critiques like I hate your new hair style or that dress you bought is really ugly. I’m talking about being evaluated for the work we do and our personal behaviors that might interact negatively with others.

Because of the career paths I chose, I was often criticized loudly and in public. I spent 40 years as an amateur sports official calling football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball games where I regularly fended off angry coaches and fans who didn’t like my calls, which sometimes resulted in me needing a police escort to my car. I was also a sportscaster, and whenever I erred on TV, local writers and viewers would have a field day pointing out my stupidity.

Did these attacks hurt my feelings? Of course, they did. But I had to learn to accept the fact that I wasn’t always right, and even though the delivery method was sometimes cruel, I often realized later that those critiquing me had a point. I did make a bad call and I needed to do better.

The fact is we need judgement if we are to grow and become better people. However, most of us bristle when someone tells us we should change.

“Very few people can take criticism graciously,” said Dr. Leon F. Seltzer in his Psychology Today article “Why Criticism is so hard to take”. “ For most of us, being criticized is uncomfortable at best — and de-stabilizing (or even devastating) at worst. The ability to take criticism in stride, it seems, is almost universally elusive.”

If you’re wondering why most of us struggle with criticism, feel free to blame the people who raised you.

“Very few parents are enlightened enough, or sufficiently skilled, to carry out the kind of “loving correction” that doesn’t end up making us hypersensitive—and therefore over-reactive—to criticism,” Seltzer said. “As a result, negative judgments we receive as adults can automatically remind us of the inadequacies we so keenly felt when criticized as a child.”

While we can’t change the past, we can consider ways to improve how we handle judgement. First, don’t take criticism personally, especially if it comes from a boss or peer. Consider the interaction an opportunity, and remember that sometimes we don’t have the full story. Pause and try to understand the other person’s point of view. Focus on what they need from you, and see if you can do something to improve the situation.

It’s also important to realize that all criticism is not created equal. Everyone is periodically faced with comments that are destructive and you should feel free to ignore those taunts. However, embracing constructive criticism, learning from it, and making improvements is one of the best ways to get ahead in the world.

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I’ve written before about the power of failure. How we learn our best lessons from falling down and lifting ourselves up again. As a teacher of 20 years, I encouraged my students to try new things, even if it meant feeling awkward in front of others. A few took my advice, but many did not.

It’s strange that this fear of failure is sometimes caused by well-meaning parents who seem convinced their job is to protect their child from any form of disappointment. Their kid must be happy and fulfilled every moment of the day. Children must be shielded from frustration and stress and told how great they are on a regular basis.

But what does that teach them? Imagine the 18-year-old, fresh from graduation, who was gently shepherded through school by parents who defended them against teachers who wanted the child to work harder in class, insisted the coach put them in a starting position, and asserted that the drama teacher was a dope for not giving their child the leading roll. Now, when it’s time for the kid to enter college or the business world, they have not learned to deal with criticism or disappointment. They know nothing about taking responsibility for their own actions and trying again. Then they’re lost because they should have been practicing these important lessons all their lives.

Now, I’m not saying adults shouldn’t stand up for their children when need be. I’m just asking parents to let out the reins a little. Let your child know that failure is just another learning experience, that everyone fails, and you’re proud of them for trying.

Note that this over-protection begins early. For example, many parents often play too strong
a role in organizing children’s playtime. Perhaps if kids are given a little more latitude to interact with other children without adults hovering nearby, kids might be forced to work through difficult or uncomfortable situations themselves. They won’t always get what they want, but when they’re older, they’ll have the basics for dealing with challenging issues, which just might help them develop enough self-esteem to feel comfortable trying new things.

The bottom line is we learn little from success. I challenge you to look back on your life and remember the mistakes that changed the way you did things. With that in mind, give your kids
the freedom to fail. Ask them what they learned. Then encourage them to go back and try again.

It’s the best gift you’ll ever give them.

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I have a home on the small island of St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands, a place I don’t get to be very often because of family obligations.

That said…I’m a plant person. Ever since I was a little kid and my parents gave me my own small strip of ground behind the garage, I’ve marveled at the way things grow. I planted my first rock garden—rocks being my other love—when I was 12. And the interior of the many of the homes I’ve occupied during my travels through eight states always had plants pretty much everywhere.

I mention this because there are no plants in my home in St. Croix. The logic is simple, really. My sweetie pie and I haven’t been able to stay in our little place on the hillside overlooking Christiansted Harbor for more than a few weeks at a time. Whenever I would look longingly at an orchid in full bloom or some happy, glossy-leafed tropical, he’d say, “It will just die when we leave.” So, I’d gently put it back on the shelf.

Until yesterday.

I was walking through Home Depot, one of the only big-box stores on the island, where we were in the garden center looking for a new hose. Out of habit, I perused the plants and as I rounded one corner I noticed a garbage can filled to the brim. On top of that pile of dead and dying plants was a little bonsai tree in a gray ceramic pot.

I don’t know why I fished it out of the trash, but when I held it up, I noticed some brown leaves, though certainly not enough to indicate the tree was dying. I held the pot in both hands and looked around, wondering why anyone would have thrown the little tree away. Then I carried it over to Ryan. I was surprised when he didn’t remind me that we would be headed back to Phoenix in a few weeks.

I walked over to the customer service counter and was directed to a man named Dane. I explained that the tree had been dumped in the trash and wondered if, under the circumstances, he might lower the $22 sticker price. He looked at me like I was a bit odd, then pulled a black marker from his top pocket and scrawled $6 on the bottom of the pot along with his name.

When I got home, I plucked the brown leaves, checked the moisture level, and then placed the pot on the table on the porch. I must admit here that I haven’t had much luck with bonsai trees in the past, but I’m willing to give it another try. And, when I head home to Phoenix, I’ll leave it with a friend who will tend to it while I’m gone.

The bonsai seems quite happy right now. But it’s funny that sometimes when I look at it I don’t see a tree. I see second chances. I have failed and tried again on many endevours over the years, but I’m not sure I’ve always appreciated the opportunity to give things another go.

Now…I will.

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Once upon a time, no self-respecting sports official would have been caught dead wearing sunglasses. The reason? “Hey, ump, whadaya, blind?”

The simple idea that an official might be judged as having poor eyesight if they were seen sporting shades kept millions of umpires and referees squinting in the sun.

I know this because I spent 40 years officiating sports: football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball to varying degrees, but I spent the vast majority of my officiating career out on fields calling football and baseball games. So perhaps my eye doctor’s response should not have been surprising.

He peered at my eyeballs through his ophthalmoscope. (Just wanted to sound smart there. That’s the round thingy with the little ledge that the eye doctor makes you put your chin on so he can look inside your eyes.) “You need to wear sunglasses,” he said.

“But I can’t!” I whined. “It’s not allowed.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“The officiating group I work for says we’re not allowed to wear sunglasses on the field.”

He moved the ophthalmoscope out of the way and sat back. “That’s ridiculous. We live in a desert. Do you want to go blind?”

I shook my head.

“Then tell your boss you want that in writing.”

While I considered that idea, I looked into how sunlight can damage our eyes. According to Web.MD, “One type of UV radiation— UVA rays—harm something in the back of your eye called the macula. It helps you see detail clearly. It’s part of the retina, which sends signals to your brain to translate light into images. The blue and violet parts of the sun’s rays can also hurt your retina.

“The front part of your eye, where your cornea and lens are, can get damaged by another type of UV radiation called UVB rays. The lens of your eye lets in light and works with the cornea to focus it on the retina.”

I found a whole bunch of bad stuff sunlight can do to your eyes, things like macular degeneration, cataracts, and even eye skin cancer. Sufficiently scared, I asked my boss for a letter explaining why we weren’t allowed to wear sunglasses when officiating. “It’s for my eye doctor,” I said.

He stared at me for a few beats and then a miracle occurred. The policy was dropped and sports officials in Arizona could now wear sunglasses while working games. (I’m still waiting for a thank you from me peers.)

Sadly, the miracle didn’t happen early enough to save my eyes. When I was in my early 50s, I started having trouble seeing baseballs. One evening, while working a men’s league game, I was in the infield when a player ripped a line drive right at me. I couldn’t see the ball and took a shot in the thigh. If you’ve never been hit by a baseball, let me say it hurts. But the nasty bruise on my leg wasn’t the only outcome. I suddenly found myself uncomfortable working in the field, fearful I might get hit in the face. Then I started having trouble seeing footballs on kicks as I would lose the ball in the lights, so off to the doctor I went.

I had cataracts in both eyes. And while many people get the cloudy vision and sparkly glare caused by cataracts, mostly it happens when they’re really old. My parents had them in their eighties. Had I been allowed to wear sunglasses, I too might have gone another 30 years or so with clear vision. Instead, I had surgery on both eyes and can now see a mile or two, but the operation left me needing glasses to read.

Today, it’s common to see sports officials wearing sunglasses. The stigma is gone. That there was ever any concern about appearances seems silly and ironic, because when officials don’t wear sunglasses, they might indeed go blind.

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It’s tough for wildlife here in the Arizona this time of year. Especially this summer, when the heat in the southern half of the state has broken all kinds of records. We recently went 31 straight days when the thermometer rose above 110 degrees, which nearly doubled the record set 50 years ago.

But we humans mostly get to live in air-conditioning. Our wild animals do not. I mention this because despite the fact that our creatures are suited for the heat, these extremes are putting pressure on them.

A case in point: Recently, a man was sitting by his cabin in the woods drinking a cup of coffee and a black bear attacked him for no apparent reason. Both the man and the bear were killed in the altercation. Attacks by bears are extremely rare, and after a necropsy found the bear had no underlying health conditions that might have precipitated the attack, researchers were puzzled. Though the bear was well-fed, the idea now is the animal was just hunting for food, the hot, dry weather having made those searches more difficult. Bears have a great sense of smell and perhaps it was scavenging and sensed a meal at the cabin.

I bring this up because when living around bears and other wild creatures, we should know what to do when one appears. I have spent a great deal of time in wilderness areas and have always prided myself on being ready in case of an emergency. Of course, knowing what to do and actually doing it are two different things.

One day outside of Greer, Arizona, up in the White Mountains, my outdoor skills were seriously tested, and I failed miserably. Georgie—my beautiful little black-and-white collie—and I got into a jam on a mountain trail. It was a spectacular blue-sky-puffy-white-clouds kind of day. The sweet scent of pine and moist forest earth permeated the air.

Then a noise made me stop and look uphill. I noticed thick vegetation swaying back and forth. My first thought was an elk, but the foliage was not very tall, so an elk would have been visible. The plants continued moving as I remained still on the narrow trail. Georgie stood beside me. I sensed it was a bear heading toward us, because I knew of no other creature that could move those plants with such force.

I’d never met a bear on foot in the wild.  My understanding was that I should make myself look as big as possible by raising my arms in the air and create a lot of noise. Most importantly, I should not run.

I thought about those things, but stood frozen. I glanced at Georgie, who sniffed the air beside me. Our eyes met. Then, to my surprise, my dog bolted back up the trail and disappeared around a rocky bend. I looked toward the swaying shrubs trying to gage the size of the animal that was approaching. I ran over the rules in my head: Stay calm. Stand upright. Make loud noises. Slowly back away. Do not run!

And what did I do?

I ran…skittering over loose stones, dodging roots and rocks. I didn’t turn around, afraid of what I might see. The famous quote from the great Satchel Paige popped into my head. “Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.”

I ran until I doubled over, out of breath.

Georgie was waiting for me on the trail, looking a  little guilty. Other than the thumping of my heart, the woods were quiet, only a breeze pushing through the pines.

Later, Georgie and I made our way back to civilization. Perhaps, because we were both embarrassed by our reactions, we never spoke of our encounter again.

So, the next time you’re out in nature and run into a bear DO NOT do what I did. Follow the rules and be safe. And have a chat with your dog ahead of time.

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I received a large box in the mail the other day. I’d been expecting the package. It came from Vancouver, Washington, from my in-laws.

Like many older people, Arlene and Stanley are downsizing, and with a move on the horizon they asked me and my sweetie pie if there were any of their belongings we might want. Since I’d always admired the guitar that hung on the wall in their living room, I asked if anyone else had expressed an interest in the old Gibson. They said no and that they’d make sure it would go to me.

The guitar belonged to Arlene. “I began guitar classes at The Old Town School of Folk Music on Chicago’s north side in maybe 1967,” she said. “After a year or more of lessons I realized I wanted a better sounding and easier-action instrument. We found the Gibson in a pawn shop I think for $30.”

As I gently unpacked the box, I realized that the Gibson had been on quite a journey.

“The guitar moved with me once in Chicago,” Arlene said. “Then to Phoenix, then Beaverton, Oregon, on to Portland, then the San Francisco area, back to Portland, on to Camas, Washington and now Vancouver, Washington.”

And now back to Phoenix.

I opened the new case that had protected the guitar on her journey to me. She was nestled in soft padding and I thought she looked lovely. Still, though I wanted to pick her up to see how she sounded, I knew I couldn’t. A note inside said she had a cracked bridge and that I shouldn’t tune the strings until that medical problem was addressed. So, I needed to make an appointment with the guitar doctor.

I’d visited the guitar hospital before. I’d traveled to the west side of Phoenix to Atomic Guitar Works when one of my other guitars had a terrible fall onto some concrete.  

“She’s in great shape!” the Guitar Doctor, Tim Mulqueeny, said of the Gibson. “Most of the ones I see that are this old are really banged up.” He explained how he would build a new bridge and give her new strings. Then he instructed me to play her all the time.

Here is where I’ll say that I’m not a very good or consistent guitar player. I played from the time I was 12—when my aunt handed me a little nylon-string guitar—until I was about 22. I got a Yamaha 12-string when I was 15, and it was that guitar that I, like Arlene, lugged from state to state over the years: New Jersey, Ohio, Washington, D.C., Georgia, Virginia, New York, Connecticut, and Arizona.

And still, I never played. That guitar sat in the corner of my bedroom staring at me for 33 years. Somehow, music got pushed into the background, usurped by my everyday life.

Then, at 55, I started playing again.

“Guitars are like parrots,” the Guitar Doctor explained. “They need attention. You have to play all the time.”

I stroked the guitar constructed of warm Honduran mahogany and spruce, which was lovingly handmade back in the 1960s. I recalled that not too long ago, after I’d been ill with Covid and spent almost a year recovering from severely broken leg that had to be surgically repaired, I’d completely stopped playing again. I’d stare at the guitar in the corner, but I was sad and could find no music in my world.

And then, one day, for no particular reason, I started playing again.

The Guitar Doctor explained that she’d have to stay with him for a few weeks, but that he’d take good care of her. And when she comes home, I will do my best to take his advice and play her every day.

In the meantime, I’ve named the guitar Chrissy, which is Arlene’s nickname, and whenever I pick up my Gibson, I will think of her and do as she suggested.

“Play with joy!” she said.

And…I will.

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I live in Phoenix, Arizona. I’m guessing some of you might be aware that recently that means I’ve been living inside an oven. Literally. This is record-breaking heat even for those of us who are used to desert extremes with weeks and weeks of temperatures above 110 degrees and overnights in the 90s, so there is no relief. And it’s mainly due to a high pressure dome, one that won’t move on and which is causing us to sear like meat.

Don’t believe me? Last week, a guy was waiting for a bus and thought it might be a good idea to sit on the curb. He got third degree burns, through his clothes.

I mention this because while I whine and moan daily about getting fried by my seatbelt or weeping at the scorched remains of my vegetable garden, I must remind myself of one important thing: I no longer have to go outside and work in the heat.

I was an amateur sports official for 40 years. Twenty-nine of those were here in Arizona. When I had games coming up, I paid close attention to the weather report, because I often had to deal with extreme heat and sometimes that did not go well.

Consider that in baseball, a sport played year-round here in the Southwest, I had to don under armor-type gear, plastic shin guards, a thick chest protector, polyester shirt and pants, a tight wool hat, and a face mask constructed of metal and leather pads. While in football there was no heavy protective gear to contend with, the requisite under-garments, long black polyester pants, striped shirt, and cap were not made with hot weather in mind.

Many people may not realize this, but as a sports official my primary responsibility was to keep people safe. Every year, my brethren and I took classes and clinics, webinars and exams that not only focused on game rules, but on safety protocols, as well. And still, according to the National Center for Catastrophic Sports Injury Research, 51 high school football players have died from heatstroke since 1995, which was the leading cause of preventable death in high school sports.  

Note that high school athletes are primarily young, healthy individuals, while the average age of a high school sports official is about 50. I didn’t retire from officiating until I was almost 65.

While the Occupational Safety and Health Administration issues safe temperature norms for those who work indoors, I could find no such limit in place for those who toil outside. Construction workers, firefighters, miners, agricultural workers, mail carriers, and others must learn to tough it out. And, I learned the hard way, so do officials.

I was working a varsity high school football game in severe heat one evening, when I noticed two of my crewmates were not in their positions. I looked toward the endzone, where both were lying in the grass, suffering from heat sickness. I’d worked with these men for years and had never seen them go down. One was a medical doctor, and when he said he couldn’t continue, I knew we had a problem, because I also felt ill. I’d had heat sickness at least three other times, so I knew the symptoms and realized that soon I might be lying in the grass with them.

It was just before halftime, so I called the head coaches together and explained the situation. For safety reasons the game could not continue with fewer than three officials, so in an effort to finish the contest, I suggested we run the clock in the second half,  which means the clock is not stopped in the usual manner between plays. I considered it a fair and equitable solution. The coaches argued a little, but since neither wanted to return and continue the game at a later date— which would have happened if I went down—they agreed.

I couldn’t have been more surprised when my boss called a few days later and railed at me for running the clock. It seems the losing coach, though he’d agreed on the field, had called to complain.

I held my ground. “I have a right to protect those at a game from harm,” I said. “You know that!”

“Yes, you do, but the rules say your job is to protect players, coaches, and fans. There’s nothing in the book that says you have to protect other officials.”

I almost dropped the phone.

The point, of course, is that it’s not just difficult working in the heat, it can be deadly. In fact, more people die of heat-related injuries in this country every year than in all other weather-related events combined.

So, the next time you head out to watch your children and grand-children play a game, carrying your chilled water bottle and hand-held, battery-powered fan, wearing a floppy hat, T-shirt and shorts, maybe say thank you to an official, if one passes by. Because without them, there’d be no game. And, after all, sometimes they’re risking their lives for your enjoyment.

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