This fall, Deserae has spent every non-sleeping, non-working moment coaching her sister’s high school volleyball team. Even though she falls face-first onto the couch every night from exhaustion, she has enjoyed it very much because it combines two of her favorite things in the whole world – volleyball and winning.

Unfortunately, there are times when volleyball also brings her least favorite thing in the whole world. Deserae’s least favorite thing is not scary movies or lima beans or a small puddle of gasoline spilled in her car (although one would be forgiven for thinking that during a few tense hours this past Saturday) or even losing. It is injustice.

Deserae is very into justice. If you are a customer service representative who has said one of the following phrases to Deserae – “We ended that promotion early” or “It’s only a 50-cent difference” or, heaven forbid, “I’m sorry, but the computer says you’re wrong” – you already know how much justice means to Deserae. If you’re not, just understand that there is nothing on God’s green earth that makes Deserae angrier than a person who won’t admit he’s wrong.

That’s why Deserae has a hard time with line judges.

Volleyball line judges work with the referees to call balls in or out. I’m sure professional line judges are handpicked for their excellent eyesight and undergo weeks of training to make impossible split-second decisions, but line judges for small high school games are a bit different. The sole qualification for high school line judges is “must possess at least one eye.”

As a result, Deserae’s season has been plagued by a parade of one- to two-eyed line judges making incorrect calls. Last month, Deserae came across a particularly troublesome line judge. Early in the first game, the ball landed out of bounds. The line judge called it in.

Deserae jumped. “WHAT?!” she yelped.

Then, in the second game, the line judge made another unpopular decision. Deserae made another yelp.

The line judge struck again in the third game. She called a ball in that was clearly, clearly out. This time, Deserae was having none of it. “NO!” she yelled. She took a step closer to the court and drilled a laser through the line judge’s head with her eyes. “NO! NO! NO!”

Deserae’s sister, Breanna, looked at her from the court. “It was in, Deserae.”

This seems like a good time to let you know that the line judge was a sixth-grade girl with braces.

Deserae’s face turned bright red, and she sat down on the bench for the first time all season.

That night while we were getting ready for bed, I had a heart-to-heart with her.

“Look hon, as the coach, whatever you do, you cannot yell at the line judges.”

“I know, I know, I just thought it was out.”

“Even if it’s out by 10 feet, you cannot yell at them.”

Deserae glared at me.

“You can’t yell at kids.”

“But when they’re wrong…”

“You can’t yell at kids.”

You can’t yell at kids.

Deserae glared again. “UGGGGGH! FINE! Why does coaching have to be so hard?!”

Two games later, Deserae’s team was locked in a bitter battle with Community Christian School. Community won the first two games. We won the third. Late in the fourth game, with the score tied, the line judge (whose daughter played for Community) decided to do his part to make Senior Night a success. The ball landed two feet past the line. “In!” he said, as he pointed his flag at the court. The referee concurred and awarded Community the point. I looked at Deserae.

Now, I know I use this figure of speech a lot, but Deserae’s head appeared ready to explode. Literally. Like in one second, brains would be everywhere and Senior Night would be ruined and the rest of the season would get cancelled. But she didn’t yell! At the line judge at least. She just looked to the heavens and yelled “Noooooooo…”

The ref looked at Deserae.

“…oooooooooo…”

Then back at the spot where the ball landed.

“…ooooooooo!!!”

Then reversed her call.

Justice was served. Deserae could breathe again.

That would be a happy end to the story, but unfortunately, Deserae had one more run-in with a line judge.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting on the bleachers, minding my own business before a game. Then someone jammed a flag in my face. “Want to be a line judge?”

“Well, it’s not my favorite,” I said. “If someone else wants to do it…”

The flag didn’t move.

“Fine,” I said, as I grabbed the flag. I took my place on the back line and waited for the inevitable. Deserae’s team lost the first game. They lost the second. Then, at 11-11 during the third game, it happened. The ball hit the back of the line. I called it in.

“NOOOOOO!”

I looked toward the sideline. Deserae was already charging.

“NO NO NO NO! THAT WAS OUT BY A MILE!”

Apparently I was a husband, not a line judge, so Deserae was free to yell all she wanted.

“It hit the line.”

“NO! DUSTIN, NO!”

“I’m sorry, but…”

“NO!!!!” Her eyeballs burned with the fury of a thousand suns.

I looked around helplessly, but Deserae had turned the entire gym against me. Now EVERYONE was firing lasers at me.

After that call, we lost five more points in a row. Deserae called time out and glared at me one more time. I walked over to Deserae’s mom in the stands and whispered, “Pray for me.”

“You’re going to need it,” she said.

Through the rest of the time out, I rehearsed my defense. “You lost by eight points, I don’t think one call was going to swing it.” If I played this perfectly, perhaps I could even sleep inside the house again someday.

That defense didn’t last long. We rallied back, tied the game, fell behind and tied it again. Can you imagine what would happen if we lost by two points? If I got a head start, perhaps I could skip town before it was too late. I prayed harder.

Fortunately, improbably, we fought back and won. Then we won the next game. Then, against all odds, we won the final game. As Deserae stormed the court like a crazy woman, I breathed a sigh of relief and brought my flag to the scorer’s table.

While I was walking, the ref caught up with me. “Hey,” she said. “I thought you made the right call back there.”

“Thanks.”

“That coach shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. That should have been a yellow card. I would have given her one, but I forgot mine at home.”

Too bad. That would have been sweet, sweet justice.

LIFE LESSON #90

Everyone ends up on the wrong side of justice some day.