Who’s the Ref?

For quite some time now, I’ve been a proponent of the reality that two seemingly opposite things can be true at the same time. That a good person can do terrible things just as much as a terrible person can do good things. Or the reality that my husband can feel fine watching a movie in our family room while I’m freezing my a$$ off, covering myself in blankets. Or when an infant is screaming and crying from exhaustion, but is too tired to go to sleep.

It’s not a new phenomenon. Life is full of nuance. And leadership requires it too.

Context matters.

Intent matters.

Scale matters.

Prevention is different from reaction.

And yet, if you’ve been paying even casual attention to the world lately, you may have noticed that sometimes the explanation shifts just enough to leave you wondering whether you’re witnessing careful moral reasoning… or an impressive ability to stand comfortably on both sides of the same argument. 

This week, while trying to make sense an issue, my brain did what it often does when something feels too big and too abstract. It went to writing a story.

My brain takes in what it sees/reads/hears and what my body feels. Then it ruminates in a back cupboard of my brain for some time - could be minutes, hours, days, weeks, or more. Then suddenly, I’m inspired to write a story and I’m either pleased with the correlation to the mess that had been left in the back cupboard, or sometimes surprised and, dare I say it, even impressed and excited with how I worked it all out. Other times, I worry I’m just batshit crazy.

Anyway, things seem upside down and scary right now (as I’ve been writing about for some time). But there’s a specific situation that my government has currently expressed support for, which I’m surprisingly pleased about, when something similar that occurred in the recent past, involving the same people, was not supported and in fact vilified and became the basis of the wide-spreading of a lot of hate.

And here’s the story my brain created in an attempt to process it…

The first time I watched Ozzy play hockey, I thought the referee’s job was simple.

See foul. Blow whistle.

Apparently, I was adorable.

Over time, I understood that referees were not simply enforcing rules, they were interpreting reality. And according to my husband, interpretation is “part of the art of the game.”

We were wedged into the cold metal bleachers of a rink on a Saturday morning yet again, coffee in hand, surrounded by the usual symphony of cowbells, screams of “Skate!!!”, and whispered parental analysis.

Ozzy’s team was down by one.

Midway through the second period, one of the opposing players drove Ozzy hard into the boards. It wasn’t malicious, but it wasn’t gentle either. Ozzy stumbled, caught himself, and skated on.

No whistle. 

The mom in me felt anger - that was my baby boy who’d been assaulted. I turned to my husband…

”Was that not… something?” I asked.

He squinted at the ice. “It was borderline. Ref’s letting them play.”

”Letting them play what? Demolition derby?”

He gave me the look he reserves for when I accidentally (though honestly purposely) use the wrong hockey term. Like calling a goal a touchdown or home run, or calling the goalie a guard.

”It wasn’t boarding. It was shoulder-to-shoulder. Good physical play.”

I nodded, storing this away in my growing file of Things That Apparently Don’t Count.

Five minutes later, Ozzy’s teammate, Noah, who has the emotional regulation of a shaken soda can, shoved the same kid after a puck battle.

Whistle.

Two minutes for roughing.

I blinked. “Okay. That looked identical.”

My husband sighed slightly. “It’s about escalation. The ref doesn’t want things to get out of hand.”

I looked back at the ice, where the scoreboard now reflected our team's penalty kill. “So, hitting someone first is fine,” I said slowly, “but pushing back is a problem.”

”It’s not that simple,” he said.

It never is.

Later in the third period, the opposing team delivered another heavy hit, this one clearly designed to send a message.

No call.

My husband leaned forward, analyzing like he’d been handed a telestrator. “See?” He was smiling. “That’s game management.”

I turned to him. “Game management?”

”Yeah. The ref’s trying to keep control. If he calls everything, the game gets choppy. You have to read the temperature.”

I watched the temperature rise in real time. “And the temperature is what exactly?

”Intensity.”

”And intensity is different from escalation?”

”Yes.”

”How?”

”It just is.”

There is something deeply fascinating about watching a man who can explain tax brackets, engine trouble, and playoff statistics in fluent detail suddenly rely on “it just is” as a thesis statement. 

On the ice, another scuffle broke out.

This time, both players got sent off.

My husband nodded approvingly. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s balanced.”

”Ah,” I said. “Now balance matters.”

He glanced at me sideways. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

”Nothing,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand the framework.”

He laughed. “There is a framework.”

”Okay. So if someone hits you first, that’s acceptable physical play. If you respond, that’s escalation. But if both of you escalate at the same time, that’s balance.”

”That’s not…” he paused. “You’re oversimplifying.”

”Am I?”

He hesitated.

“If someone pushes you unexpectedly in the grocery store and you shove them back, you’re the problem..”

”Well…”

”But if someone decides to shove first because they think it might prevent future shoving, that’s good crowd management?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

”That’s different.”

”How?”

”Because… “ he stopped.

I waited.

”Because context matters,” he said finally.

”Yes,” I agreed. “It does.”

We both watched as Ozzy’s team scored on the penalty kill.

The group of parents erupted, including my husband and I. We jumped up. He smiled at me. “See? Momentum shift.”

I smiled. “So retaliation worked.”

”That’s not what I said.”

”But it’s what happened.”

He exhaled through his nose, the way he does when he knows he’s trapped in logic but refuses to surrender stylistically.

”Look,” he said, softer as we sat back down. “The ref isn’t trying to be unfair. He’s trying to prevent chaos.”

”I know,” I said.

And I did.

Nobody thinks the ref wants the game to unravel. 

Nobody thinks he’s malicious. He’s managing personalities, pressures, parents, possibilities.

He’s trying to stop something bigger before it starts.

But from the stands, and especially from the ice, it can start to feel like the definition of “defence” changes depending on who moves first.

Or who the ref thinks might move next.

Or who he believes poses the greater threat.

The buzzer sounded. Game over.

We gathered our coats, waited for Ozzy to emerge from the change room, filed out of the arena, and piled into the car.

Ozzy asked from the backseat, “Dad, when are we allowed to hit back?”

My husband and I locked eyes in the rearview mirror.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

”Play hard,” he finally said. “Play smart.”

Ozzy nodded, satisfied enough.

I stared out the window at the grey parking lot melting into February slush.

Same rink. Same rules. Same ice.

And yet, somehow, everything depends on who’s wearing which jersey… and who’s holding the whistle.

Ⓒ March 2026. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.