Personal Foul. Tim Donaghy
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!”
CHAPTER 3
Down the Rabbit Hole
“Hi, my name is Tim, and I’m a compulsive gambler.I placed my last bet on March 18, 2007.”
That’s how new members introduce themselves at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting. It’s how I did it. Obviously, I didn’t just wake up one morning and realize I was a gambling addict. No, that discovery took some time. So how does a nice Catholic boy from suburban Philadelphia end up as the poster child for illegal sports gambling in America? That’s a great question.
Jack Concannon and I have known each other for a long time. During our teenage years, he was a star on the Monsignor Bonner High School basketball team in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania. Bonner was a big rival of my school, and we got to know each other on a casual basis. We never really hung out together; Jack was a couple of years older than me. I would see him at basketball games and around town on occasion, but that’s about it.
At 6’5”, Jack had an impressive game and led the Bonner team to the Philadelphia Catholic League Championship in 1983 and 1984. Jack was all about defense, a rugged guy who completely dominated weaker opponents. He always struck me as the kind of guy who would sink his teeth into something, or someone, and never let go. He just didn’t quit; a real determined, win-at-all-costs competitor.
Beneath the ruthless exterior, Jack was one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. We reconnected in the late 1990s on a golf course, of all places. My wife and I became members of Radley Run Country Club in West Chester, Pennsylvania, in 1998. I had been working in the NBA for four years and the pay was getting pretty good. I always loved golf and liked the idea of belonging to a private and exclusive club. Enter Jack Concannon. Jack was also a country-clubber just down the road from Radley Run. It was common for area clubs to invite each other to golf tournaments and social gatherings, and as it turned out a mutual friend and fellow member invited Jack to play with us. I hadn’t seen him in several years, but he still looked the same, with one exception. Now in his midthirties, he had distinctive salt-and-pepper hair that complemented his boyish looks. We hit it off right away and reminisced about the good old days in high school. Jack had heard about my job in the NBA and said everyone back home was very proud of me. He had married his high school sweetheart, Ann, and they had two girls and a boy. By that time, Kim and I were a happily married couple with three girls of our own and a fourth on the way.
It was amazing how much we had in common. Jack owned a successful insurance agency and was doing well financially. He was a devoted family man still living near his Pennsylvania hometown. Jack was a huge sports fan and an avid golfer—a nouveau country club social climber. He was Catholic, with a middle-class upbringing and a real soft spot for the hometown team. All just like me. And I was about to find out that I would soon share one of Jack’s greatest passions: gambling.
While playing golf that first day, we had a blast and became fast friends. Jack and I played every chance we could, talked on the phone regularly, and even attended parties and family functions together with our wives. Kim and Ann became friends and our kids played together—the whole thing was like Philadelphia’s version of Leave It to Beaver.
Since Jack owned his own business, he could play golf anytime he felt the itch—and he was always itching for a game. I had summers off, so I was always ready to go. We became so close that whenever he called on the phone and my wife answered, she would sarcastically say, “Tim, your girlfriend is on the phone.”
Jack drove a big black Mercedes-Benz with a trunk full of Polo, Izod, and Tommy Hilfiger golf shirts. I used to call him “Superman” because he would fly into the country club parking lot, change his clothes out of the trunk of his car, play a fast round of golf, down a few beers, play some cards, change back into his work clothes, and still be home in time for dinner with June, Wally, and the Beaver.
Naturally, the golf course was where my gambling adventure with Jack began. We started out with modest wagers of $20 per hole and gradually got carried away to the tune of $200 or $300 per hole. It was exciting and a bit nerve-racking the first few times I stood over a $2,000 putt on the 18th hole, but I quickly realized that I had a steady hand under pressure and didn’t rattle easily. After all, what could be more pressure-packed than reffing an NBA playoff game with the score tied and 1.8 seconds left in regulation? No sir, I didn’t rattle easily, and the action was a thrill.
After 18 holes of golf, it was off to the clubhouse for a shower, dinner, and a friendly game of blackjack. The country club set is always flush with cash—guys we used to call “heavy pockets.” The stakes were high and the bourbon smooth, just the way Jack and I liked it. Talk about Butch and Sundance! We were in our element and loving every minute of it; two downtown guys rubbing elbows with the uptown crowd and draining their pockets dry, at least most of the time. Winning or losing $5,000 or $10,000 at cards was par for the course. The lawyers, bankers, and traders never batted an eye. They just casually pulled a diamond-studded money clip out of their pocket and counted off the C-notes, one at a time. They’d mutter, “One, two, three, four, five,” with little or no emotion. Jack and I were a little less polished. “And a one, and a two, and a three,” speaking loudly in our best approximation of Lawrence Welk.
One of the big events at Radley Run was the Member-Guest Golf Tournament. Held every summer, each participating member invited a nonmember to join him in a two-man best-ball competition. The golf was fun and the cash prizes were sizeable. But it wasn’t until after dinner was served, the prizes had been awarded, and the three-piece jazz ensemble had played its last set that Jack and I got down to business. The real action was on a table in the back parlor. And yes, the room was smoke-filled and players swished their brandy in expensive snifters. For Jack and me, however, it was a couple of longnecks and a shot of Jack Daniels.
I walked up to the table that night with $10,000 in my pocket and a firm understanding that I would either double or triple my wad or lose it all. This wasn’t a penny-ante card game with the in-laws around the kitchen table on Christmas Eve. No, this was all about the thrill of laying our hard-earned money on the table and rolling the dice, so to speak. We took turns dealing—a very risky venture. A player loses only once per hand, while the dealer can lose as many hands as there are players in