Every Whistle Builds to This: Lessons from the 1A/2A State Tournament

Every assignment, every whistle, every rotation—it all builds toward moments like the State Championships. The State Boys 1A/2A tournament in Yakima, Washington from March 5th–8th wasn't just a reward for a season of work. It was a full-spectrum test of preparation, professionalism, leadership, and mental toughness.

The truth is, no matter how many years you've been officiating, the State experience will teach you new lessons.

Lessons you can’t get from a rulebook or a camp. Lessons you have to live through.

Here’s what I learned.

Before you read further, remember this: experience isn't just what happens to you — it's what you do with what happens to you.

Playoffs Are a Progression—And Every Step Matters

Officiating the State Basketball tournament is a journey that doesn't merely commence at the grandeur of the finals; it ignites the moment the playoffs begin, with an electric anticipation crackling in the air like a charged storm waiting to burst.

The district games initially feel like a warm embrace—familiar gyms, the comforting presence of players and coaches whose faces reflect a shared history. Yet, lurking beneath this surface of familiarity lies a palpable undercurrent of tension.

Each passing moment heightens the awareness that a single misstep or an off night could spell disaster, collapsing an entire season in a heartbeat. Every sharp whistle from the officials cuts through the noise of the crowd, each call weighted with significance, amplifying the stakes and demanding unwavering focus.

As the tournament advances into the regionals, the atmosphere shifts dramatically. You find yourself journeying farther from the warm glow of home, into the unfamiliar yet exhilarating confines of gyms alive with the fervor of devoted communities—each spectator eager to rally behind their teams.

The very air crackles with intensity, crystallizing the realization that you’re not merely officiating a game; you’re stepping onto a battleground where the lines between victory and defeat blur into a fine, electrifying thread. In this high-pressure arena, you’re paired with officials who once lingered as distant figures on the court but now command your immediate trust and camaraderie in an instant.

I vividly remember sitting in a cramped locker room just moments before a regional clash, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of sweat mingling with the tang of polished wood. Outside, the distant yet rhythmic thud of basketballs reverberated through the hall, a constant reminder of the upcoming battle. Each bounce resonated like a drumroll in my mind, building towards a crescendo that could determine not just the outcome of a game, but the very trajectory of our season itself.

Takeaway: It’s not about seeking comfort. It’s about cultivating capability. Adapt swiftly. Listen twice as much as you speak.

Championship Energy Is in a League of Its Own

Walking into the arena, you feel it.

The lights are brighter, almost buzzing above you. The court gleams under the dome's spotlight. The crowd’s already alive, even an hour before tip-off. Bands pound out fight songs, cheerleaders snap into motion, and the buzz of media crews with cameras and recorders fills the sidelines.

You smell popcorn and sweat. You hear the rhythmic squeak of sneakers, the pop of the ball against the hardwood, the murmured tension in the stands.

Parents cling to every movement. Coaches pace like caged lions. Players lock eyes with the rim, bouncing on the balls of their feet, tuned for battle.

And you—the official—step into all of it. Calm. Unflinching. Ready.

Before the games, I took a walk alone up to the top of the Yakima Dome. From there, the court looks small, but the energy feels massive. Sitting in those cheap plastic seats, you realize: your whistle isn’t just heard—it’s felt.

At State, you don’t “ease into” the game. You arrive already inside the storm.

Reminder to myself: Trust your training. Trust your instincts. Stay composed. The work you’ve done gets you through.

Understanding the Spotlight: Media is Everywhere

What many officials often overlook is the immense visibility we attain at the State level. Cameras are omnipresent—mounted on the baseline, strategically positioned in the stands, streaming live broadcasts, or perched high above to capture every angle of the action. There are microphones and radio stations buzzing with excitement, alongside local and regional news outlets eagerly vying for a story.

This is the pinnacle of attention in high school basketball, and every movement, every interaction is being scrutinized—and frequently recorded.

Even in moments that seem casual and off-the-court, such as standing near the scorer's table before warm-ups, engaging in a friendly chat with a fellow official, be aware: you’re very much on display. I revisited game footage from Yakima, and to my surprise, I picked up on a conversation I had before tip-off. It was innocuous enough—a simple exchange about rotations and reflections on a previous game—but it struck me that if someone had intended to misconstrue our words or misinterpret our tone, they certainly could have.

Body language is telling. Your position in the room has significance. And yes—people can read lips. If you're someone who tends to express frustration openly, that could land you in hot water even before the game begins.

The takeaway? Maintain a standard of professionalism the moment you step into the gym. Assume everything is under scrutiny and being recorded, because in many instances—it truly is.

I Should’ve Hit Reset Sooner

After my first game ended early, I lingered courtside, wanting to cheer on fellow officials. The arena was a furnace—loud, hot, relentless. The energy was suffocating in a way that slowly seeps into your mind. I stood there with the best intentions, watching, nodding, clapping—but inside, my own mental battery was draining by the second.

Without realizing it, I started replaying plays in my head. Was that call as clean as it felt? Did I rotate quick enough on that transition? Little doubts began sneaking into spaces where confidence had lived just hours before.

The body language of the crowd, the commentary from the stands—even though none of it was directed at me—started to create noise inside my head.

Mistake: I should have gotten out. Gone back to the hotel. Taken a cold shower to lower my body temperature and reset my mind. Sat down for a quiet, healthy meal. Closed my eyes for even twenty minutes to breathe and recalibrate.

Being “supportive” turned into being “exposed”—exposed to doubt, fatigue, and mental clutter.

Takeaway: In high-pressure environments, supporting your colleagues doesn’t always mean physically staying in the chaos. Sometimes the greatest show of professionalism is stepping away early, preserving your edge, and ensuring you’re ready when the next whistle calls for your full focus.

Resetting isn't selfish. Resetting is survival at the championship level.

Watcing Film and Avoiding the Trap of Overanalysis

If you're like me, you'll most definitely want to go back and watch film of your games. And yes, watching film makes you better—but sometimes, especially at State, I found it could also be mentally exhausting.

I experienced a weird discomfort—not because I felt like I wasn’t doing things right, but because I was overanalyzing everything. From how I stood, to the way I walked, to every subtle gesture—it felt like I couldn’t turn off the critique switch. It drained me.

There came a point where I didn’t even want to rewatch certain games. Not because I was avoiding accountability, but because the intensity of the self-review was overwhelming.

Here’s my advice: balance it. Don’t let perfectionism rob you of perspective.

And while we’re here—stay off social media during State. I get it, we want to share the experience or post something uplifting from our officiating journey. But if it’s public, and if you’re tired, your words or pictures can be misinterpreted. Even if what you’re saying is positive or encouraging, someone out there may twist it or criticize it. That’s reality.

Worse yet—by rule, you shouldn’t be posting during tournaments. And if you’re someone like me who runs an officiating education platform, know this: the better your intentions, the more someone with a negative outlook will try to dissect them.

Just log off. Don’t let a comment section or a misread post spoil your whole State experience.

Don’t Experiment Under Pressure

At State, every possession, every whistle, every rotation is magnified under a microscope.

In an effort to be "perfect," I caught myself trying to adjust—subtly shifting angles, tweaking positioning, doing just a little extra. It felt harmless at first. Maybe even smart.

It wasn't.

What it did was pull me out of the automatic rhythm I’d built all season. Suddenly, I was second-guessing where I should be instead of flowing naturally. A half-second of hesitation at State feels like a full second to the coaches and fans.

Lesson: Trust your foundation. Championships aren’t won with experimental upgrades. They’re earned with disciplined execution.

Deliver the version of yourself that got you here. Nothing more. Nothing less.

How Far I’ve Come

Back in 1997, I was working a holiday JV tournament—barely my second year officiating in California. It was at a small high school in the valley, and I showed up with mismatched gear, a hand-me-down whistle, and more nervous energy than skill.

During one game, a coach barked at me after a no-call. I froze. I looked at my partner for help. None came. My voice cracked trying to explain what I saw. Later, I overheard a fan say, “That guy’s not ready for varsity.” I agreed with them.

Fast forward to this year, standing at center court of the Yakima Dome, partnered with two of the sharpest officials in the state. Cameras. Evaluators. Packed stands. Tight game. And I felt—centered.

That’s the power of reflection, repetition, and growth. State doesn’t just show you where you are. It reveals how far you’ve come.

Crew Chemistry Is Still King

No matter how fierce your individual skills may be, at State, your success hinges on the strength of your crew.

In the high-pressure environment of late-game chaos—amid the deafening roar of passionate crowds, the fiery energy of intense coaches, and the swift 60-second momentum swings—there’s no room for lengthy discussions. What you need is an unshakeable, silent trust; a simple nod, a knowing glance, or a subtle signal can mean the difference between victory and defeat.

The best crews move in perfect harmony, like a well-oiled machine, responding instinctively to one another’s movements and intentions.

Lesson: The State games aren’t just a rigorous assessment of your knowledge of the rules; they serve as a profound examination of how selflessly and seamlessly you can synchronize with the team around you.

Crew trust is cultivated play by play, possession by possession. Cherish it like the most precious treasure.

Time Alone Is Not Selfish—It's Strategic

The allure of blending in, of joining in laughter, and of "being one of the guys" is undeniably strong. As a combat veteran, I have earnestly strived to assimilate into civilian life, yet time and again, I come to a stark realization: no matter the adjustments I make or the masks I wear, I remain fundamentally different from them.

This isn’t a deficiency; rather, it’s simply the essence of being a veteran. We communicate, live, and lead in ways that can sometimes be perceived as detached or egotistical. In truth, for veterans, the mission always comes first, driven by a desire to bring out the best in those around us.

Acknowledging this has been a pivotal journey since my transition out of the military, and I’ve grown increasingly attuned to who I engage with and the depth of those conversations.

But here, at State, my role transcends that of a mere referee. I am a professional, bearing the weight of significant responsibility.

I quickly learned that indulging in overly casual exchanges, light-hearted banter, or even the trivial gossip that flutters between games—it was exhausting. It sapped my energy and clarity, blurring the sharpened focus I had meticulously honed over months of preparation.

There lies extraordinary strength in the art of quiet observation—watching intently, listening deeply, and allowing others to express themselves while I remain firmly anchored in my own center.

The takeaway? Embracing moments of solitude isn’t an indication of being anti-social; rather, it serves as a protective measure. In times of greatness, it is in these quiet moments of reflection that clarity is forged, far surpassing any empty locker room chatter.

Assignments Aren’t Random—They’re Earned

From the moment the warm-up whistle pierces the air to the final strides back to the dimly lit locker room, the evaluators' keen eyes are watching every move.

They’re not merely scrutinizing your block and charge calls; instead, they’re evaluating the nuances of your interactions with the table crew. They observe how you maintain composure and confidence, both on the court and off. Every unexpected incident becomes a test of your poise and adaptability.

Remember, one official's misguided ego or overzealous bravado can disrupt the delicate chemistry of a whole crew.

A single careless remark can echo well beyond the game, jeopardizing future opportunities.

Take this to heart: professionalism isn’t a switch you flick on when the spotlight shines. It’s a way of life, especially in those moments when you believe no one is watching.

Finish Strong, No Matter the Assignment

As the tournament draws to a close, and the final games are lined up for selection, it's crucial to rally behind your fellow officials who snag those last coveted assignments. For me, entering the tournament with the aspiration of being among the last nine referees standing felt like setting my sights on a distant summit—and, to my delight, I achieved that. The sense of accomplishment surged through me.

However, there’s an undeniable and very human pang of disappointment that strikes when you’re not chosen for the championship game, especially if you feel your performance warranted that opportunity. Let me emphasize this point: do not allow that bitter disappointment to seep into the game you are assigned at the tournament’s conclusion.

I know this feeling all too well. In a previous tournament, I found myself officiating the third-place game. The sting of not being granted the final assignment weighed heavily on me, and it affected my officiating considerably. I was not in a good place emotionally. That discontent crept into my demeanor—it manifested in my initial calls, my mechanics faltered, and my usual hustle dwindled.

Remember, don’t allow your last performance to broadcast to everyone that you’re a sore loser.

The final game you officiate—regardless of its title—is often the one that evaluators, assignors, and colleagues will remember most vividly. Embrace the journey, no matter how exhausted you might feel. Dig deep, stay focused, and finish strong. The reality is, this might be your last opportunity to grace the State stage.

The Drive Home

The drive home is a time to reflect. For the first time in days, you can finally exhale. Your shoulders loosen. Your heart rate slows. You think about everything—the games, the whistles, the moments you got right, and the ones you’d like back.

And then it hits you: you were part of something that many high school referees never get to experience. That alone deserves gratitude.

When you finally get home, rest matters. Real rest. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. You need it.

But don’t forget this: once you step back on the court—be it rec league, summer camp, or your next association game—you are now a "State ref." That label follows you, and rightfully so. You’ve earned it. The bigger question becomes: can you maintain that same level of grind that got you there?

That’s a question I asked myself a lot afterward. The countless hours of film, the rigorous fitness, the nonstop schedule—it was all part of the mindset that brought me to the State tournament. But here’s the trap: hitting your biggest goal can create a lull.

For me, State wasn’t the final checkbox—it was the launching point. It told me it was time to chase the next level. For me, that’s men’s college basketball.

Checking the box isn’t a period. It’s a comma.

Pushing for a higher level means stepping back out of your comfort zone. And let’s be honest—if you’re a veteran like me, that next level doesn’t always feel welcoming. We’re different. We talk different. We train different. We carry the battlefield

with us in the way we lead, prepare, and process.

Still, I believe there’s space for us. Not just for me—but for every veteran who’s been told they’re too intense, too serious, too "not normal." That bridge to college officiating? I plan to walk it.

It won’t be easy. But I’ve never needed easy. I’ve needed opportunity. And I’ll earn it the only way I know how—by showing up, putting in the work, and doing it for all the veterans who never got the chance.