Erica’s Wong Number At The Scorer’s Table

When my daughter Erica was in elementary school, I was her basketball coach. We spent a couple of seasons together, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Since we didn’t get a lot of extra time together, the hoops togetherness was special. And we were able to drive through many a McDonald’s for an ice cream.

One day she decided she wasn’t all that interested in playing hoops anymore. “It’s not you, Dad,” she said. “It’s just that I don’t like playing anymore.” Erica was the reason I was coaching the girls, so with her leaving, I stepped aside, too. But this would not be the end of this father/daughter combo.

An absolute necessity in basketball is for the coach to have someone reliable and competent keeping the scorebook at the scorer’s table. Too many times while coaching and reffing, I have come across well-intentioned people at the scorer’s table who are in charge of their team’s scorebook; unfortunately, when they are the “home” book and inexperienced, the contest can turn into an unmitigated disaster.

Courtesy: Nate Smith

One of “The” best scorebook keepers was Rick Wong. He was excellent at keeping up with the score, fouls, timeouts, and shots taken. If you listened closely, you could hear him give a running play-by-play, just loud enough for the other scorebook person to double check his own work.

Rick kept the book for several teams I coached, and in all the time Rick kept my book—four years for two different teams—I  never once recall him getting anything wrong.

Ever.

If an opposing coach or bookkeeper questioned the officials, the refs would walk over to the table and ask, “Rick, what have you got?” Rick would answer something like, “Well, blue team has only one timeout left. They took a thirty at 2:30 in the first, a full at 4:17 in the second.” You get the idea.

During one game, I asked at halftime how it was going.

“I never get it right, I always get it Wong,” was Rick’s reply. I turned back to my bench giggling. I looked over my shoulder and there was my bookkeeper, hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh.

One year I began coaching a varsity team in another town. Rick would no longer be my scorebook keeper and that left me in a world of hurt. It was about this time that Erica asked, “Dad, would you like me to keep your book?”

“Erica, do you think you can do it?” It was a fair question because I knew how important it was to have someone mature and capable keep the book. I also realized my daughter was only 13 years old.

“Yes, Dad,” she replied. “I learned a few tricks on how to keep the book from Rick Wong.”

Cool. My daughter and I would be hitting the roads and gyms again.

I coached that particular varsity boys’ team for three years, and for all three years my daughter kept my book. Even though she was only 13 when she started, she had definite control of the situation.

“Young lady, are you keeping the home team book tonight?” asked referee Jim Armantrout.

“Yes, sir.”

“Coach, do you think she can handle the work and keep up with the game?” Jim now turned his question to me.

“Jim, yes she can. Rick Wong helped teach her.”

“Oh, Rick did? Okay. If you run into any trouble, just let me or my partner know.”

And that, as they say, was that. If Rick taught someone the ins and outs of a basketball scorebook, then you could bet your bottom dollar that person would do a good job.

It was funny watching some of the reactions 13-year old Erica would get from the visiting teams. Some bookkeepers would ignore her; others would try to talk over her. There were even those unfortunate few who would think that due to her age, their own visitor’s book would be the “official” book.

Nope.

One game, a visiting team tried to bully her. Since I was a mere three feet away, I had a ringside seat.

The clock keeper tapped the horn, and the refs came over to the scorer’s table.

“What have ya got?” asked Jim, who happened to be working another of our games.

The visiting book said, “She has it wrong. Her book is wrong.”

I looked at Erica and could just about see the steam starting to slowly make its way out her ears.

“I do not,” replied the little engine that could.

Uh-oh.

Jim stepped closer. “What is she supposed to have wrong?”

“The little girl has us down to one timeout left. I’m sure we have at least three.”

Uh-oh. Uh-oh.

“What have you got, Erica?” Jim stepped up to the table and spun her scorebook around to read it.

“Well, they took a thirty-second timeout at 2:10 of the first, a sixty at 4:12 in the second…” You get the idea.

Erica had each of the visitor’s timeouts written in the book and circled.

“Do you have the time and quarter marked for all of your timeouts?” Jim asked the visitors.

“No, no, we don’t” responded the owner of the red face.

“Well, you should. Erica does, and it helps keep the book straight. Alright, we’re going with the home team’s book, and the visitors have one timeout left.”

I looked at Erica, who was sporting a supreme, ever confident, ever blunt, tell-it-like-it is, look of “duh,” and then had to look away to keep from laughing.

During Erica’s last year keeping my book, we hit the road for a trip toward Flint. The game began and during the first quarter, a player from the home team checked into the contest.

“Dad! Dad! Dad!”

I looked over at the table and saw Erica pointing at the player who had just checked in. I looked at the guy, shrugged my shoulders, and mouthed, “what?”

“He isn’t rostered in the book. He’s not in the home book or mine,” whispered she who just earned an ice cream after the game.

“You sure?” asked the coach who was anxiously awaiting the two free throws.

“Yep.”

At the next dead ball, I called the lead ref over and pointed out the problem. “He’s not in the home book nor our book. That should be a technical,” I confidently said.

As the referee looked at both books, Erica wore a wide grin on her mug. I matched the grin and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Well,” began the lead ref. “This player is not in the home team’s book and he should be in the book. Normally, this would be a technical, but we’re going to say it was an administrative error and therefore no technical. We will play on.”

“Sir,” began the coach who just saw two freebies slip through his fingers, “this is a technical foul situation. The home team is the administrator of the home book, it’s their responsibility…”

“I said play ball,” barked the guy who just botched the call.

As both teams made their way back onto the court, I heard, “He’s a homer!”

I recognized the tell-it-like-it-is voice immediately but was afraid to take a peek at the scorer’s table.

I didn’t the call I so richly deserved, I’m not sure if my scorebook keeper ever got her ice cream, but we had some father-daughter time on the trip home.