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CHAPTER 2

The Education of an NBA Referee

I’ve loved basketball for as long as I can remember. When I was growing up in Havertown, Pennsylvania, I lived for the game. Morning, noon, and night I was somewhere, anywhere, shooting hoops, perfecting my dribble, working on my jump shot, and always dreaming of playing in the NBA. If there was a game on television, I was watching. I knew all the teams, each player, and every recorded statistic. Living near Philadelphia, I was a huge fan of the 76ers. In those days they had Dr. J, Moses Malone, Billy Cunningham, Mo Cheeks, and Andrew Toney. My favorite players were Doug Collins and Mike Dunleavy; they were scrappy guys who always hustled, real gamers with lots of heart and respect for the game. I played competitively through high school, but at 5’9”, a college or pro career was not in the cards. Of course, no one could convince me of that back then. I had a dream to play in the NBA and I was determined to go all the way.

A true love of the game was instilled in me at an early age by my father, Gerry Donaghy. For upwards of 30 years, he officiated basketball games in high school and college. For the last 20 years of his career as a referee he worked big-time Division I college basketball. He was a regular in the NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Tournament and had the privilege of working the Final Four on four occasions. My dad was respected by everyone—the very epitome of honesty, integrity, and impartiality.

Being a referee was not my dad’s primary job, however. He worked for more than 30 years for General Electric in Philadelphia, retiring in 1996. Still, from late November through early March, my dad had a second full-time job, one that kept him on the road and away from his family. He worked games primarily in the ACC, Conference USA, and the Atlantic Ten Conference, typically reffing six games a week. After finishing his day at GE, he would immediately jump in the car and travel to a game destination, often making a four-hour, one-way drive. It was not unusual for him to get home at 2:00 in the morning, get a few hours’ sleep, and then start the cycle all over again. During basketball season, nothing got in the way of his commitment to the game—not the winter in the Northeast, not the long hours on the road, and not his wife and four boys back in Havertown. It seemed to me that he was gone all the time, and for those months during the season, he was.

Until I finally figured it out, his time away from home was a puzzle to me. He certainly didn’t need the headaches of monotonous travel, bad weather, angry coaches, and boisterous fans. It was something deep within him that called his name and inspired him to get in his car and drive or fly to faraway places like Chapel Hill, North Carolina, or Morgantown, West Virginia, week after week.

He knew of my enthusiasm for basketball and began bringing me along with him to road games when I was seven or eight years old. Night after night, I studied him on the court very closely: how he moved, where he positioned himself, the quiet confidence he projected, the manner in which he handled the tough situations, and the commitment he made to letting the players, not the refs, determine the outcome of the game.

My father has always been larger than life to me; a serious man with a firm hand, a big heart, and an unimpeachable character. And there was something else. Watching him in action and listening to the reverence with which he spoke of the game, I discovered his true passion. I think that’s when I made the transformation from mere basketball fan to something more. Basketball became a metaphor for something larger to me. It was about hard work, discipline, talent, tradition, fairness, and integrity.

By allowing me to get a glimpse of his world on the court, my dad unwittingly groomed me to follow in his footsteps. He knew I was nuts for everything basketball, and when he talked to me about the game he could plainly see that I hung on his every word. I like to believe that he thought I had what it took, that intangible instinct that is sometimes passed along from father to son. Although he never told me so, perhaps he wanted the Donaghy basketball legacy to continue—and I was his best shot.

If there was one thing my dad stressed to me more than basketball, it was the value of a college education. He was aware of my dream to play in the NBA, but he also knew it was a fantasy, not reality. On many occasions, he reminded me that precious few players, even talented ones, ever made it to the NBA. On the other hand, a college degree lasted forever and was something that could never be taken away. I recall driving through poor neighborhoods with my dad on frigid winter nights in Philadelphia. He would point to a homeless person huddled over a steam vent trying to get warm and say, “See that guy over there? He thought he was going to be a first-round draft pick in the NBA, so he didn’t bother with an education. See what happens?” My dad knew just how to drive a point home and, as a young boy, it made me think. The only problem was school was never my strong suit.

I grew up with three brothers who had all the brains in the family—they breezed through school with straight As while I struggled to get Bs and Cs. Bringing home my report card was not something I looked forward to. School was tough for me, and I learned at an early age that I couldn’t compete with my brothers’ grades. My options were simple: I could either be the family screwup or the funny guy. I chose the latter. A sense of humor was my way of glossing over my academic shortcomings, and for the most part it worked. People saw me as the practical joker, the guy who made everyone laugh. In my senior year of high school, I was voted class clown.

From first grade through high school I attended Catholic school where everything was very black and white—and I’m not just referring to the traditional habit worn by the sisters. Things were done one way and one way only—very strict, very orderly—which was not the best environment for a funny kid who liked to shake things up. Most of the trouble that came my way was because I was always goofing off, and I usually didn’t think of the consequences before I acted. Oh, there were other kids my age that pulled a prank or two, but for some reason I was usually the one who got caught. I suppose it was all self-inflicted. Besides, me being the master showman, my stunts were usually first-rate and always over the top—vintage Timmy Donaghy.

Sadly, my teachers never appreciated my sense of humor. In sixth grade, I once waited for Miss McNulty to walk out of the room before grabbing the only other kid in class who was smaller than me and shoving him in the closet. Then I opened the window of the third-floor classroom and waited. When Miss McNulty returned, I started screaming at the top of my lungs, “Oh my God, Miss McNulty! Richard just jumped out the window!” I thought Miss McNulty was going to die of a heart attack; she ran to the window with an ear-piercing scream. When Richard came out of the closet in one piece, she realized what I had done. Everyone in the class was laughing their ass off, but Miss McNulty wasn’t too pleased. Neither was my father when he came to pick me up that day.

Like any kid, I wanted to make my dad proud, but I could never get my act together. Growing up with three brothers didn’t make it any easier. We were very competitive, and regardless of the sport or activity, the goal was to bring home the first-place trophy. In my family, you simply didn’t come home with anything other than first place. I remember once in high school winning second place in a three-on-three basketball tournament. On the way home, I rolled the car window down and chucked the trophy over the side of the Walt Whitman Bridge in Philadelphia. It was better to come home with nothing than to be second place. I hated the feeling of not winning and would do anything to avoid it.

My parents weren’t openly affectionate, but my brothers and I knew they loved us. My mother Joan taught me the importance of family and friends. She put her family and friends above herself in a very selfless way. Mom was always there for me; she checked my homework, helped me through school, and came to every one of my baseball and basketball games. From my dad I learned the importance of a strong work ethic. Both my parents had strong values and taught us by example. For whatever reason, I didn’t always get the message. But when I messed up, my parents were adamant that I take responsibility for my actions. I was never allowed to cover anything up because “it would make it worse down the road.” How prophetic those words would turn out to be.

After finishing high school, I went to night school at Villanova University and cleaned fish in the seafood department at Super Fresh Food Market during the day. After my first semester, I transferred to day school and stopped smelling like grouper and red snapper. My friends and I had some great times at Villanova. The campus was small enough that everybody knew each other, and it was close enough to my home that some of my friends from high school would come up to visit and party.

Tommy Martino was one of my friends who’d swing by Villanova from time to time. He was a lot of fun and really knew how to make the girls laugh. Tommy was the guy who had what every college kid wanted—the car, the money, and the cute girl. He didn’t go to school and didn’t work, so partying seemed like his main occupation. I didn’t really know how he supported himself back then and I never asked. At the time, it didn’t seem like it mattered.

I graduated from Villanova in 1989—not bad for a guy who never read a book and survived almost exclusively on CliffsNotes. During college, I did some refereeing on the weekends, mostly high school games and park ball, nothing serious. But a year or so after graduation, I was sitting at the kitchen table with my parents when my mom suggested I pursue a job in the NBA. Talk about out of the blue! But for some reason her suggestion hit me right between the eyes. I had three “real” jobs after college and I hated each one. I was a sales representative for a packaging equipment and supply company, an insurance adjuster, and a sales representative for a cellular phone company. There were many days when I feared growing old behind some office desk, wilting away right along with my dreams. One thing was for sure: I never stopped dreaming about the NBA, and my mother’s suggestion was the only push I would need. So I took a shot, sent a letter to the NBA, and made a few follow-up phone calls. I never heard back.

In 1990, I decided to attend a camp in South Carolina for referees who wanted to improve their skills. Dr. Aaron Wade, who worked for the Continental Basketball Association and also helped train referees for the NBA, also attended the camp. Dr. Wade was the kind of no-nonsense guy you didn’t speak to unless he started the conversation. So when I noticed him watching one of my games, I was hesitant to approach him. I was only 22 years old, and he was an intimidating figure. Little did I know that Aaron Wade would ultimately be a tremendous help to me over the years for which I would owe him a great debt of gratitude.

Two weeks after I got back from the camp, Dr. Wade called me. “Can you go to L.A. for two weeks?” he asked. “I’d like to watch you referee in the L.A. Summer Pro League.”

I could hardly believe it. “Sure,” I said. What I wanted to say was, “Hell yes!” A few days later I received a FedEx package with a plane ticket to Los Angeles. I was on my way to the big leagues.

When I arrived in L.A., I met Darell Garretson, the NBA’s Supervisor of Officials. Darell closely watched all the games, and I knew that if I did well there was a chance I might snag a spot on the CBA’s roster of referees. The CBA was the official minor league of the NBA. Minor or not, the league earned the reputation of being the toughest to referee because it wasn’t, let’s say, quite as civilized as the NBA. It was the Wild West of basketball: small towns, raucous fans, and coaches and players who were desperately trying to escape the CBA and make it to the Promised Land. The L.A. Summer Pro League was challenging, but Darell was there for me every step of the way. He helped all the guys and truly wanted us to succeed. For a referee, the name of the game is confidence, and Darell Garretson’s unwavering support helped build my confidence, without which I never would have been hired by the NBA.

During the camp in Los Angeles, I kept my mouth shut and tried to listen and learn. Though I was the youngest referee there and by far the least experienced, someone must have seen some potential. By the end of the two weeks, Dr. Wade told me he was going to use me in the CBA’s upcoming season. I was so excited I could have flown home without a plane—I was walking on air. If I did well in the CBA training program, I knew I might eventually get a roster spot in the NBA. I wasn’t going to make it as a player, but my dream of making it to the NBA was about to come true.

During my first year in the CBA, I only worked weekend games—usually Fridays and Saturdays. The travel was exhausting and the pay was low—just $125 per game—but I knew I had to pay my dues. The grind took a toll on my social life as well. I’d been dating a girl named Ann for five years when she came to me one day with an ultimatum: “Tim, this just isn’t working for us. It’s either me or the games.” Wonder whatever became of her? Actually, it was a tough decision, as I had contemplated asking Ann to marry me. But I loved working as a referee and I wasn’t prepared to give up on my boyhood dream. In an act of serendipity, two weeks after Ann and I broke up, I met the woman who would eventually be the mother of my four beautiful daughters.

Kimberly Strupp was the sole flight attendant on a 6:00 AM commuter flight from Rockford, Illinois, to Chicago. From the very moment I looked into her big blue eyes, I was a goner. During the flight, we exchanged some small talk and she gave me her phone number. She had an easy manner about her and a spirited sense of humor. I thought we made a real connection during the short flight and I couldn’t wait to see her again.

Our first date was at Bookbinder’s restaurant in Philadelphia. She was based out of Chicago at the time and caught a flight to Philly to meet for lunch. We talked and laughed for hours, and in the process discovered we had much in common. She was a sports fan, liked to travel, loved to laugh, and was very family-oriented. From that day forward we were a couple. Kim eventually transferred to Philadelphia so we could be closer to one another. She traveled with me to many CBA games and supported me in every way. My dream of making it to the NBA became her dream, too.

I worked a full slate of games during my second year in the CBA. The travel was rough, the schedule grueling, and the pay still lousy—but I was getting closer to my ultimate goal. I was constantly on the road, making stops at small arenas in towns like La Crosse, Wisconsin, Rochester, Minnesota, and Wichita Falls, Texas. To make ends meet, I worked a variety of odd jobs, anything to pick up a few bucks to pay the bills.

I was asked to referee the NBA preseason before my third year in the CBA and again just before my fourth year in the CBA. It was an unbelievable experience, one that gave me reassurance that I was up to the challenge. At the NBA level, the game is lightning-fast and all the players are enormously talented. It’s the ultimate level of basketball competition, where only the elite survive.

I never made it to that fourth season in the CBA: the NBA finally called my name after all those years in darkly lit gymnasiums in two-dog towns, all those soggy sandwiches eaten out of a bag with one hand while driving down a lonely highway, and all that time away from home. It was a dream no more. It was real, and I was right where I always belonged—center court, ready for the tip-off. My starting salary that first year was $69,000—not bad for a guy who’d been cleaning fish in a supermarket just a few years earlier. I was floating on air and finally doing something that made my dad proud.

My relationship with Kim continued to blossom, and on Christmas night of 1994 I asked her to marry me. Of course, the proposal came in a hotel room in Detroit, where I was scheduled to work a Pistons game in a couple of days. In those days it didn’t matter where we were as long as we were together. We later eloped to Barbados and became husband and wife. For the first time in my life, I had a partner who loved me, supported me, and shared my dreams.

Just minutes before my first NBA game, I remember telling myself, “I made it! I’m here! Stay calm, do the best job you can, and rely on what got you here.” I was extremely nervous, but at the same time I was thrilled to be on the court with the greatest athletes on the planet, running up and down the floor beside them, watching them do amazing things with 20,000 fans cheering wildly. I was one of a select group of officials who were given the honor of wearing an NBA referee’s uniform. It was a job I was born to do, and the uniform fit like a glove.

My first regular-season game as a referee was memorable, to say the very least. It was November 9, 1994, and the Houston Rockets were playing the Indiana Pacers in Indianapolis. My boss and mentor Darell Garretson was at the game, and I was working with referees Paul Mihalik and Blane Reichelt. The NBA had just established new hand-checking rules—no one could put a hand on an offensive player who had the ball beyond the foul line. The league was trying its best to clean up a game thought to be getting too physical; the idea was that the new rule would make the pace of the game faster, and both scoring and ticket sales would go up—always the NBA’s main concern. Since this was one of the first games of the year, Garretson really stressed the hand-check rule during our pregame meeting.

We called so many fouls during the game that the fans went nuts. It seemed as though we were blowing the whistle on every other play, usually for fouls that wouldn’t have been called the previous year. Between the three of us we called 69 fouls, an extremely high number for an NBA game. As a result, there was no flow to the game and the fans were noticeably irritated. And they were right—play stopped so often that the whole purpose of the rule was totally defeated.

Still, the only thing faster than Reggie Miller’s trigger that night was the beating of my heart. Every time I blew the whistle, all 20,000 pairs of eyes were on me. I liked it, the same way I liked getting a laugh from my friends back in school. Talk about showtime!

At the tail end of the game, things got intense. Indiana was losing in the final minute and Reggie had the ball in the corner, about to attempt a three-point shot. He was defended by Houston’s Hakeem Olajuwon, and after pump-faking him into the air, Reggie buried his shoulder into Olajuwon’s neck, trying to draw a foul but knocking Hakeem down in the process. Instinctively, I called an offensive foul on Reggie. The place went nuts—as did Reggie and the rest of the Pacers. He thought I would call a foul on Hakeem and that he would go to the foul line for three shots. He was wrong.

Things got so chaotic that it took more than 20 minutes to finish the last minute of the game. The fans were throwing anything they could grab onto the court including water, beer, soda, and coins. Every time we got it cleaned up, they’d just throw more. I was standing in the center of the court to stay out of range of the flying debris; Mihalik and Reichelt stood on the baseline under the basket. Even the announcers at the scorer’s table were covering their bodies and microphones with whatever they could find. I remember thinking to myself, How the hell are we going to get this game over with? Finally it ended, and we made a run for the locker room. During the exodus, somebody threw a full cup of beer on me. Tasted like Miller Lite.

In the locker room, Darell Garretson wasn’t happy. He came down pretty hard on Matt Winick, who was in charge of assigning referees for the game. Garretson was furious that Winick had chosen such a weak crew for my debut. For the first few years, most young officials are paired with experienced refs, the type of guys who work the NBA Finals. That didn’t happen in my first game. We watched the game tape back at the hotel and league officials ultimately defended the call I made on Reggie Miller—but I am sure they wished I had called a foul on Olajuwon. That night, I was one of the lead stories on ESPN’s SportsCenter, featuring highlights of me standing on the court, debris flying all over the place. Not exactly how I envisioned my first game.

Later, someone on the NBA staff anonymously sent a football helmet to my house with a note that read, “You may need to wear this for the rest of your career!” Years later I watched the tape of the game with some other referees and we had a good laugh. At the time, however, it wasn’t very funny.

After that fiasco, I started settling into my new routine. On a typical game day, I would have breakfast and get in a workout. The grind of an 82-game schedule is difficult, and physical fitness is an absolute necessity. The referee crew would have a meeting at 11:00 AM and cover a number of topics, including a discussion of players and any problems in the past games between the two teams. We would also watch plays that the league office would send to us electronically to watch on a computer. For example, the league office might want us to watch different plays intended to illustrate what was considered a traveling violation, or we might receive a video demonstrating the difference between a blocking foul and a charge. Sometimes the league was concerned that we weren’t calling enough defensive three-second violations. If the refereeing staff was reticent about making a particular call, all the crews would get video of plays to review so that we would all know what to look for next time. We might hear from the league’s supervisors or other referees that, for instance, Kevin Garnett travels a lot when he’s in the post, or that Chris Webber moved his pivot foot in an obvious manner. This was done casually all year, but when the playoffs started the league office made a major issue of it and wanted us to blow the whistle and crack down on violations.

The tone in our pregame meetings was mostly professional, but that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes a referee might say something like, “I had this guy two or three weeks ago, and he’s a real asshole. If he starts this shit with me again tonight, I’m gonna get him.” Of course, it wasn’t only about which players or coaches we were going after. The flip side was talking about players or coaches we had to protect. Back when Lamar Odom was playing for the Miami Heat, longtime referee Dick Bavetta told me before a game, “The last time I had Miami, Odom had six fouls and the league emailed us and showed us that four or five of the fouls weren’t good calls. We’ve got to take care of him. I can’t have him think I’m fucking him two games in a row.” So I would make a mental note of that. I remember thinking, That’s strange—are we calling a game as we see it or choosing sides?

The pregame meeting lasted about 45 minutes, and then it was off to lunch. Afternoons were pure boredom. We did whatever we could to make the time pass quickly—go shopping, watch TV, go to the movies, or make phone calls.

As time passed, however, I began to realize that our job was more about refereeing specific players as opposed to uniformly enforcing the rules of the game. In other words, we were more concerned with who might be getting a foul and what point it was in the game, instead of just calling it like we saw it. I remember hearing comments from fans, coaches, and other referees along the lines of, “People don’t come to see Shaquille O’Neal, Charles Barkley, or Michael Jordan sit on the bench.” Our group supervisors would tell us the same thing, saying things like, “People paid $1,500 to sit courtside to see LeBron James or Kobe Bryant. Make sure if you blow the whistle on these guys, it’s an obvious foul.”

As a result, referees would huddle up during a game to make sure they were all on the same page. If Kobe Bryant had two fouls in the first or second quarter and went to the bench, one referee would tell the other two, “Kobe’s got two fouls. Let’s make sure that if we call a foul on him, it’s an obvious foul, because otherwise he’s gonna go back to the bench. If he is involved in a play where a foul is called, give the foul to another player.”

Similarly, when games got physically rough, we would huddle up and agree to tighten the game up. So we started calling fouls on guys who didn’t really matter—“ticky-tack” or “touch” fouls where one player just touched another but didn’t really impede his progress. Under regular circumstances these wouldn’t be fouls, but after a skirmish we wanted to regain control. We would never call these types of fouls on superstars, just on the average players who didn’t have star status. It was important to keep the stars on the floor.

I was so young and naïve when I was coming up. When I was a ref in the CBA, Aaron Wade told us that there were no superstars in the league—there was no particular player whom people came to see. Dr. Wade simply told us, “If you see it, you call it.” Darell Garretson would tell us the same thing during NBA training or rookie leagues. So that was the mind-set I had when I made it to the NBA.

It didn’t take long to realize that my approach to officiating didn’t match up with that of the veteran referees. Once I became part of the staff, I was slowly taught the craft of NBA officiating. The league continued to stress the new hand-checking rules and drummed it into our heads in pregame meetings: “Under no circumstances is a player allowed to put a hand on a ball handler who is beyond the free-throw line.” Throughout that season, I was blowing my whistle all the time—but I started to notice other referees weren’t.

“Why aren’t you guys calling hand checking?” I asked. “They were adamant about it in the meeting.”

“We’re not calling it unless the hand check actually impedes another player’s progress,” the veteran would say.

“But that’s not what they said in the meetings,” I would respond, surprised.

“If you want to survive in this league,” the veteran refs explained, “you’d better back off calling it.”

With that advice, I started to back off. As a new ref, I was obviously receiving mixed signals. The officials in the NBA front office were telling us to do one thing, but the older veteran refs weren’t complying. To fit in and “survive,” I simply did what the older refs did, no more questions asked. I was slowly learning that NBA referees had their own way of officiating a professional basketball game.

After working with veteran referees for several years, I was able to predict how certain referees would call a game. For example, I was at my brother Jim’s house for a birthday party when I was a young ref, and Dick Bavetta was officiating an NBA game on TV. “Watch,” I told my brother. “Anytime Bavetta referees, you’ll rarely see a blowout. When a team gets up by 20, he starts blowing the whistle like crazy.” And sure enough, that’s what happened—one team got way ahead before Bavetta whistled the other team back into contention.

By 1996, I had been in the league a couple of years, still trying to do things the right way. I’ll never forget a pivotal moment in a game in Philadelphia I was refereeing with Ed T. Rush. The 76ers’ opponent was the Chicago Bulls. That year, the league office showed us film of a particular spin move players were utilizing on the baseline. By rule, if the ball wasn’t out of the player’s hand before he lifted his pivot foot, he should be called for a traveling violation. The trailing ref was supposed to watch for that play because the other referee would be under the basket with an obstructed view. I was the trailing ref that night when Michael Jordan made that exact spin move on the baseline, and I called a travel. I waved off his basket and 20,000 people—presumably Philadelphia fans—started screaming at me. I couldn’t believe it.

A timeout was called and Jordan and Bulls coach Phil Jackson rushed over. Jordan was in shock. He wasn’t angry—just puzzled. His attitude seemed to be, it’s okay to call that violation, but don’t call it on me!

By the time Phil Jackson reached me, he had his hands in the air. “What are you doing?” he asked, stunned by the call.

“Phil,” I said, “that’s the travel they told us to call.”

“They don’t want that called on him,” Jackson said, pointing at Jordan. And Jordan added, “You’re gonna call that on me?”

I recall thinking, What is everyone complaining about? The Bulls knew what was expected of them. I was just as puzzled looking back at them as they were looking at me. Nobody had any answers for me, and it was something I definitely wanted to talk about with the other referees after the game. It was strange; the whole place was booing me. Why were the Philadelphia fans upset at me for calling a travel on the Bulls? The simple answer is that everyone—even the 76ers fans—paid to see Michael Jordan work his magic with the basketball. It was basically a show, and my call was getting in the way of the star performer.

After the game, I went over to Ed T. Rush, one of the top referees on the staff, and said, “Ed, that’s the spin move we saw on the tapes. Why did I catch so much heat?”

He shook his head and looked at me as if I had just fallen off the back of a cabbage truck. “You have to think about who you’re calling it on,” he said.

Wow, I thought. I didn’t realize I was supposed to blow the whistle based on who’s playing. However, back in those days, when a senior referee told you to do something, you didn’t talk back. You listened and you kept your mouth shut.

It was a defining moment for me, because the referee’s manual explicitly states, “Don’t call personalities.” But here was a respected referee telling me that’s how the game was played. Sometime later that season, I was given a picture of Michael Jordan and me on the court, both of us standing with our hands on our hips. I brought it with me the next time I worked a game in Chicago and one of my fellow officials said, “We’ll send it in and he’ll sign it for you.”

Sure enough, after the game the ball boy returned the signed photo along with a personal message from Michael: “Next time, do a better job and give me some calls!”