Chapter 3

: Andi

M y alarm sounds, waking me for my flight home from Baltimore to Boston at way too early of an hour. I was so keyed up after the game last night that I could barely sleep, let alone analyze the day. Even with the lack of rest, I am still on cloud nine.

I am officially part of history.

Someday, sometime in the distant future, some inebriated dude will feel like a million bucks because he supplies my name during a heated round of trivia at a pub.

I will forever be seen and remembered.

That’s not the reason why I wanted to officiate a MUSSSL game. I was just doing a job that I loved. And then, I saw I had more room to grow, so I grew. It’s just gravy that I got to shatter a glass ceiling in the process.

I might even get to quit my day job.

Now that— that —would be a true victory.

Only the most successful and upper-tier referees get to do this full-time. Me, I’m working for a health insurance company, reviewing letters of medical necessity and either approving or denying coverage whenever I’m not on the pitch.

I actually went to school for physical therapy, but it’s hard to have a practice when you have a second job that requires lots of travel. Plus, it wasn’t a job I loved. My parents thought it would be a good fit for me, and not knowing what else to do, I became a physical therapist. That is until I started traveling so much for soccer.

So, I went to work for the enemy because I can read letters and write judgments anywhere.

My day job is the antithesis of everything I wanted to do in life. But maybe, just maybe, things will change now.

And also, maybe, since the game was a success with no incidents or controversy, the MUSSL will employ me more frequently in the head position. The salary rate is higher for MUSSL games than for WUSSL games.

Don’t even get me started on that.

Maybe it’s hazard pay for dealing with all those uber inflated egos.

I get that the MUSSL has better viewership and better sponsors, but it’s not like the game is less work. It’s the same amount of time. The same amount of running. It’s the same amount of physical training. The same amount of prep work. Just for less money because it’s women’s sports.

But with the higher salary rate the men’s games pay and more games, I might be able to swing this as my only job. Maybe.

It’s a lot of maybes to base my life on.

It’d be nice though. I’ve burnt my candle at both ends for so long, I’m not sure I even have a wick left.

I definitely don’t have time for dating or a social life or anything fun. The expression “I am the job” was meant for me.

Once I’m through security at the airport, I have a few minutes to think, but I’m interrupted as my phone dings with a text alert.

Benj: Not too many boos.

Of course, my brother would lead with that. There were only a few when I emerged from the tunnel, game ball in hand, to perform the coin toss at midfield to start the game.

Me: I expected more .

Sad to say, but I totally did. There’s a reason there haven’t been female referees in the MUSSL. Good ole misogyny at its finest. This sport, and this league especially, don’t think women are equal to men.

Me: Mike tried to talk me out of doing it.

Benjamin is not a fan of my ex-husband. On more than one occasion, he’s offered to “accidentally” run Mike over with his power wheelchair. One of these days, I may take him up on it.

Benj: That made it better, him running the lines.

Considering the closest to a traditional wife I’m ever going to be is a Petty Crocker, I totally agree with my brother. It was great to be the official with Mike being the assistant ref.

Me: Pretty spotless game, I’d say.

Benj: Ehh, not quite.

My brother’s body might not cooperate most days, but his eyes and brain are sharp. What did he see that I didn’t? His favorite hobby is to tell me about my missed calls.

Me: What’d I miss?

I start to worry. It’s hard enough officiating a game. It’s doubly so as a woman. I know my performance will be under heavy scrutiny. It’s another one of those double standards. Sure, male refs will get put on notice for bad calls, but the tolerance of judgment narrows considerably when one has a vagina and breasts.

Our professional league, the United States Soccer League Referee Association, has an entire staff that watches our games and judges our performances. We’re scored on our calls, receiving points for correct calls and losing points for incorrect calls and missed calls. They have the benefit of watching recordings and replays, while we have to make snap decisions on the spot with only one point of view. The USSL and the USSLRA are looking to keep up with the British Football League by introducing video replay next season. Until then, we have to try to improve our skills based on this points system.

Me: How many points?

Benj: No points. The whole thing with Nix.

Pfft.

Me: That’s not a thing. That’s him in practically every game. He’s a blowhard. I don’t know why the Buzzards keep his contract.

Benj: Because he’s their best scorer. But that’s not what I’m talking about.

Me: ???

Benj: I hope I’m wrong, but you know I never am

Brat, he’s right about barely being wrong.

I shrug as if he were here to see me. The thing about Nix is a non-issue. If it didn’t cost me points, then I don’t care. The more points I have, the more likely I am to get primary referee jobs and to be able to move up to a Level 2.

Me: It is what it is. I called what I saw. If he doesn’t want to be ejected from games, he should play clean. That’s on him, not on me.

I might sound confident in my texts, but I’m sure Benj can see through it. I spend the entire flight home, as well as the next day and a half, obsessively watching the game tape just to review my calls. If I’m not working, I’m looking at every minute of play. I don’t even turn the TV on.

Finally satisfied, I text my brother again.

Me: My game was clean. I can’t find any point deductions.

Benj: Have you been reviewing it this entire time?

My brother knows me well. He’s about the only person who sees me this clearly. Ironic, considering I haven’t seen him in person in almost a year. The pang of missing him hits me hard in the chest.

Me: I had to do some actual work and travel back home. But yes, for the most part.

My mind whirring, I open my work calendar and see many more white spots than normal for this time of the year. With the Global Games in Paris right now, there’s a month-long hiatus in seasonal play for the MUSSL.

The WUSSL still has games, but considering I’ve been working both leagues for the past few seasons, it’s enough to give me some spare time I’m not used to having.

Of course, it means the men will play into December this year, instead of wrapping up in November like normal. Looks like no winter holidays in the Keys like in the past.

Maybe I should look at going to visit my brother in Colorado, though December is always a risky time to try to travel there.

Hell, I should visit him now.

I have eleven days before my next game in Birmingham. That’s plenty of time.

I’m looking up flights when Mike calls. Why can’t he just text like everyone else? Or better yet, why can’t he just leave me alone?

“What are you up to?”

“Trying to book a flight to Colorado Springs.”

“What’s out there? There aren’t any games there this week, are there?”

He’s so worried about me getting ahead that he doesn’t even consider the Global Games hiatus. “No, I’m going to see Benj.”

“Benj?”

“Yeah, my brother. Benjamin. You know, he was my person of honor in our wedding.”

“Right. I forgot.”

I’ll bet he forgot. He forgot a lot when we were married, like he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with anyone else. Whatever. It’s in the past, and I really don’t care about him enough to let it bother me. I click a few more options. “Damn, flights are expensive. It’s hard to swallow this price knowing I’m not getting reimbursed from the league for it.”

“Yeah, but the $900 from the game this weekend should help, right?”

I hadn’t considered that. I quickly open my banking app to make sure the money has been deposited before I purchase my airline tickets.

Except the new deposit is for $678.96, after taxes.

This doesn’t make sense. “How much did you say it is for a game? I usually get $650 for a WUSSL game.” A men’s game should be much higher.

“Not for the assistant. For the ref.” Mike was always good at mansplaining. I know what I get paid, down to the penny.

“I’m not talking about the assistant. What do you get paid as a Level 3 ref per game?”

“We get $900 for reffing, $420 as the assistant, and $300 for the backup assistant.”

I open up my USSLRA employee portal so I can look at my paystubs a little closer because his numbers don’t make sense. I got paid $738 for the Buzzards–Terrors game. That’s not an error. I say as much to Mike.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet.

The one time I want him to tell me what’s going on, he doesn’t say a blessed thing.

“What? Why aren’t you talking? What’s going on? Mike, are you still there?” Maybe we disconnected. It would be the only logical explanation.

He lets out a deep sigh. “Andi, you’re not going to like it.”

“What?” I’m on my feet now, pacing around my small apartment.

“What are your rates for ladies’ games?”

“My rates are $650, $305 for assistant, and $217 for backup.”

Another sigh. I swear he’s stalling to piss me off. Even though I wish I could reach through the phone and pull the answer out of him physically. Instead, I wait, not moving and not making any noise.

I’m fairly confident my ex would describe me as infinitely patient. He has no idea I’m practically crawling out of my skin right now.

“I make $793, $372, and $265 for ladies’ games. Don’t make this weird. You don’t want to do anything that could jeopardize your career.”

My mind is working overtime trying to process what he’s saying. We were in the same orientation group with the United States Soccer League Referee Association, so we have the same level of experience. We’re both considered Level 3s, and we have about the same number of games under our belts, give or take a few. I think I may have more than Mike at this time. I don’t tend to request time off for things like fishing trips with my buddies. The numbers he’s reporting to me make no sense.

Unless ...

There’s only one reason for this.

Also, I hate that he refers to them as “ladies’ games” instead of “women’s.” I can’t tell if he’s being passive-aggressive or ignorant. It doesn’t really matter about the intent. The effect is the same.

I make Mike repeat his numbers so I can write them down and then make up some bullshit excuse so I can end the phone call. And then I crunch the numbers.

No matter how many times I look at it, the same answer is apparent. Mike gets paid more than I do because I’m female and he’s male. Eighteen percent more. Not to mention the pay is higher for men’s games than women’s.

I know it shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Rage runs through my veins hot and fast. In the solitude of my apartment, I let my poker face slip. I don’t feel like being the bigger person. I don’t want to be the picture of stoicism. It’s hard enough being a woman. It’s doubly so in an industry that is so openly sexist. In an uncharacteristic move, I open ClikClak, determined to take my outrage to social media.

However, the first post I see is enough to feel like I’ve been doused with an entire vat of ice-cold water.