Where, you might ask, is Levant and where was this fabled game played?

According to the semi-infallible folks over at Wikipedia, Levant is a hamlet on the east town line north of Falconer and on NY 394 and County Road 65. You go through it on your way past Kennedy in the town, not country, of Poland to reach Randolph in adjoining Cattaraugus County. In other words, it’s a little past Out of the Way and right before the junction of Off the Beaten Path and South Hooterville.

My dad would invariably refer to such a rural area as being located between East Jahunga and Chicken Coop Switch. The first one you might have heard about. It’s an Urban Dictionary oldie but goodie. The second one would make his four kids laugh every time.

Anyway, the game was played in the Levant Christian School gym back in the early 1980s.

Bill Hammond

I assume the school and church still exist. I just haven’t had the need or inclination to drive there and find out.

LCS contracted with Chautauqua County’s basketball officiating organization, IAABO Board 39, for a couple seasons to staff their home games.

That meant more assignments for my board, and me specifically, as a young official curious about how to get to Levant and back to Dunkirk all by myself.

Back then I relied on my dad for directions and he instructed me to go up treacherous Route 60. I was to drive straight ahead at the flashing light in Gerry. And then, when the curiously named Gerry Levant Road ended, turn left and I would find myself in Levant.

I really hadn’t heard anything about the Levant gig at board meetings. Turns out they were keeping it a secret.

The game I was assigned on a snowy Saturday was scheduled for 2:30 p.m. I had the varsity boys game that pitted the locals against a team I believe was visiting from Ohio. Or maybe Pennsylvania. It’s really not that important to this tale.

The varsity girls game kicked off the doubleheader at 1 p.m. Per protocol, the duo blowing the whistle for the finale, which included me, should arrive at the first game at least an hour early.

That gave those two officials time to catch part of the second quarter and provide some words of wisdom to their peers at halftime.

My partner and I would then watch the whole third quarter and part of the fourth from the stands before heading to the locker room or coaches office to change into our fashionable black and white vertically-striped shirts and black pants. We would accent the stylish outfits with black Acme Thunderer whistles.

As usual, my dad’s directions were flawless and I parked in a more than half-empty lot.

Making my way inside the gym, I was greeted by the LCS welcoming committee. They quickly identified me as a game official thanks to my gym bag then asked me a totally unexpected question.

“Will you be joining us for dinner today?”

“Uh, di…di… dinner?” I stuttered, my brain confused by the highly unusual query.

Noticing my bewildered expression, one of the nice, elderly ladies filled me in on their delightful custom.

“Whenever a team visits we put on a big dinner, enough food for all the players, coaches and fans. Everybody is invited, including referees like you,” she said.

“We need a head count for dinner, so should I mark you as attending?”

Blindsided by the offer, I had to regretfully decline. I explained I would have a hot meal when I got home. Friday night’s pizza plus our fancy new 90-pound microwave oven equaled hot meal in my mind.

Entering the gym, I noticed there were just over four minutes left on the clock.

I quickly found a seat and sat back to wait for halftime and scan the unfamiliar venue. There were maybe 50 people in the stands and they were cheering and applauding every play. That’s what Christians do.

After a couple minutes, one of the referees caught my attention by yelling:

“What are you doing out here? Why haven’t you changed? There’s two minutes left in the game!”

Stunned, I hurried into the changing room to find my partner already dressed and wondering why I was so late.

It was now 1:45 p.m. Games are scheduled for 32 minutes and halftime usually lasted 10 minutes. If the game started on time at the top of the hour, how was this possible?

I soon found out. My official friends burst into the cramped office and started giving each other high-fives.

“We did it, a perfect game,” one exclaimed.

They had completed the game in under 50 minutes essentially by not blowing the whistle. They had not called a single foul. Not one. Nothing but good Christian girls here.

The level of play was so poor they couldn’t, in all good conscience, whistle any normal infractions either. That meant no time lost administering the ball out of bounds for traveling, three seconds or especially double dribble.

The coaches declined to call timeouts and the fans cheered non-stop. They were right, it was a perfect game.

My partner and I weren’t so lucky but you already know my opinion of our game — “best time ever.”

Because each team had a pair of fairly good players, we occasionally had to blow the whistle for fouls and various violations.

But the experience was almost magical. There were no boos, just cheers.

And when we finished in less than an hour, we were met by the LCS head coach who thanked and praised us, then paid us in cash.

Cash, dinner and a stress-free game, it was damn-near, no make that darn-near perfect.

The lone disappointment for me was not celebrating the zen-like experience with my partner. We usually stopped off at a watering hole on our way to our north-county homes.

Not this time, though. He had brought his wife and they were staying for dinner. Told you they were keeping this a secret. I really couldn’t blame them.

——

Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER sports editor.