Winging It
By Peter Jackel

Tim Higgins is old school officiating, commanding the floor like few others, controlling the game with his presence and swagger. If you’re a fan of college basketball, you’ve seen him work hundreds of times. But that guy on the floor – despite less-than-crisp mechanics – is all business. Away from the game, he’s good-time Timmy, nicknamed "Bullet" by his pals, and he has a voracious love for his buddies, his family, pizza and hot wings – not necessarily in that order!

He reveals himself only in brief snapshot images that are intentionally presented as underexposed or slightly out of focus. His laugh is quick and his voice is East Coast cool, as he talks about his 25-plus years working D-I men’s basketball. Then he frustrates us by abruptly turning another page in his life’s scrapbook just as he captivates us once again with another of those distorted, yet compelling, images.

It’s all really no big deal to Tim Higgins. If there’s more brewing beneath the surface of the man who has whistled 10 Final Fours, including four championship games, he ain’t letting you in. Higgins is much more comfortable in his role as a regular guy. He’s a helluva partner, to hear his peers talk about him, and he’s a fun guy after the game. On the court, he’s all business.

"There’s a lot more to Tim Higgins than Tim Higgins will tell you," longtime friend and fellow official John Cahill says. "He minimizes his own self-importance, I think. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, although he takes officiating very seriously."

If you insist, Higgins will take you back to his blissful childhood in Providence, R.I., where he joyously ran through the Atlantic Ocean surf a half hour from his home with kid brother Jim and neighborhood buddies. Just be prepared to settle for a brief guided tour.

"We used to go to the beach on Rhode Island when we were kids," the 59-year-old Higgins said. "It was like the whole neighborhood was your family. Basically, you knew everybody there. Everybody did the same things. Nobody had a lot of money, so you couldn’t do much better than that."

When he turns the page to perhaps the most compelling chapter of his life – a kindly golf pro named Ben Parola who, in 1965, intervened to get a directionless Higgins into college – you’re again left wanting so much more. Yeah, sure, the late Parola was a central figure in Higgins’ life. Then again, Higgins insists, so were many others.

"I’m indebted to a lot of people and he’s one of them," Higgins says with a familiar voice inflection that conveys an undertone that much more is being made of this than necessary.

And then you try your ace in the hole, the story of his brother-in-law, Patrick Hoey, who perished in the north tower of the World Trade Center when it collapsed during the 9-11 attacks.

Sorry. Those speed bumps are once again in place.

"I will tell you this," Higgins says in a cordial but firm tone. "Patrick was certainly one of the heroes of 9-11 because Patrick worked for the Port Authority and he was the one who converted the building after the first bombing (in 1993) to make it safer if it ever happened again. And, of course, it did and a lot of people got out because of what Pat did."

Any other thoughts about your brother-in-law, Tim?

"What do you say? What do you say?" Higgins answers. "There are a lot of people who probably owe their life to him. He could have walked out of there any time he wanted and he wasn’t going anywhere."

One of the last original members of the first Big East Conference officiating staff from 1979 even discusses the craft he has perfected with a somewhat clandestine sense. As much as his fellow officials laud him for his uncanny ability to defuse tense situations during games, as masterful as he is at what he does, hey, it’s all just part of a day’s work for Higgins. No big deal.

Any favorite stories, Tim?

"Not really," he responds when asked about a body of officiating work at the NCAA Division I collegiate level that spans more than a quarter century.

Working ourselves inside Higgins’ consciousness, quite simply, is one tough nut to crack.

So tell us, Tim. Why does it have to be that way?

"You’re a lot better off keeping your mouth shut and your ears open," he says. "I just think you learn a lot more listening rather than speaking. That’s what my parents always said, too.

"You make your mistakes and you say things you shouldn’t say and you get involved in a level you probably don’t want to be at. When you look back on it, the best thing you should have done is keep your mouth shut."

Based on character sketches from his cohorts in the officiating profession, this much can be ascertained about Higgins: If you’re among the fortunate ones who make it into Higgins’ inner circle, the person you know is not that decent, yet guarded, individual, but rather a loosey-goosey fun-loving guy who is a friend in the truest sense of the word.

The Higgins who reveals himself only in that inner circle is the guy you’d love to have a few beers with. He’s the guy who graciously shares stock tips and gives generously to charities, but who will also needle you relentlessly for a wayward golf shot. That is, until he turns that playful wrath on himself for making a similar errant shot.

And then there’s a litany of food stories about a man who has acquired the nickname "Bullet" because of his stocky 5-foot-11, 210-pound frame. To put it charitably, Higgins savors his buffalo wings, pizza and other artery-hardening delicacies. And stories abound in officiating circles of how one must take shelter from all the flying grease and sauce when Higgins gleefully sits down to polish off another high-cholesterol order.

"That’s unfair and I take exception to that, even though it’s probably true," Higgins responds humorously to those allegations. "And let me tell you, those guys (his fellow officials) aren’t exactly Liz Claiborne, either. They ain’t any better."

That friend and drinking buddy is also a loving husband and father who earns what he describes as a "comfortable" living as vice president of sales for Kamco Company, a building materials business, in Brooklyn.

What makes Higgins most remarkable is he has excelled in his demanding role at Kamco while becoming one of the all-time giants among collegiate basketball officials. And all the while, he has steadfastly remained a devoted family man in Ramsey, N.J., who has raised three daughters – Colleen, 24, Meaghan, 22, and Patricia, 18 – with his wife of more than 25 years, Kathy.

"He’s a great family man," veteran official Steve Welmer says. "And he’s a pleasure to be around. He makes you feel that you and your family, or whomever he’s with, are more important than he deems himself. And that’s a rare quality among people."

As much as this gifted man has eschewed self-promotion, as content as he is to cruise in the depths of relative anonymity, it takes minimal investigative reporting to determine he is one special guy. And just as the late Johnny Carson once explained his low-key retirement years by saying that he was content to let his work do the talking for him, one senses that Higgins feels much the same way.

"If you ask me what I would like people to know, I would like people to know that I’ve been really, really lucky and very, very fortunate," Higgins said.

Enough said. Case closed.

Working with the scattered images Higgins offers, let’s imagine a directionless 19-year-old kid not particularly inspired to wake up to a new day. It was early 1965, just when the horrors of Vietnam were starting to become entrenched in our nation’s consciousness. And about all that was meaningful in Higgins’ life was the White Beaches Golf Club in Haworth, N.J., a 10-minute walk away from the house in which his family moved from Rhode Island in the early 1960s.

Higgins had graduated in 1964 from Dumont (N.J.) High School with a nondescript academic record and no compelling career plans. In the back of his mind, he saw himself as a golfer, but in reality, he was nothing more than a caddy at White Beaches and life was rapidly passing him by.

"I would have been a much better student," Higgins said when asked about his biggest regret. "I had the wrong priorities. Didn’t get it. I was never in trouble, but let’s put it this way: I was the kind of guy who would rather go caddying than go to school.

"Caddying and working the clubs were a big deal because that’s the way I grew up and that’s the way I made money."

The upside to Higgins’ first year out of high school was the invaluable social education he was receiving at White Beaches. Al McGuire, the colorful late Marquette University coach, once claimed the ultimate education for any young adult could be realized by driving a cab or tending bar for six months.

Higgins would also vouch for caddying.

"You really had a chance to be around, let’s put it this way, financially successful people," Higgins said. "I learned a lot. I think the golf business, the caddy business, the country club business is the best place a kid could ever learn about the world. I’ll debate anybody about that.

"The first thing was, you dealt with other caddies and all the guys were in the same situation you were. Then you would deal with the people who worked in the management end of the business and then you would deal with the members.

"You got a real cross-section of America. When you caddied out at the country club, you made about three steps higher into the hierarchy of America."

Still, Higgins might have never taken that crucial next step without a helping hand. And that’s where the kindly Parola, a short, impeccably dressed Italian-American with grayish, thinning hair, enters the story of Higgins’ life.

Parola, then the head golf pro at White Beaches, was concerned that one of his prized caddies wasn’t interested in bettering himself. And one day in the spring of 1965, Parola sat down with Higgins and connected with him in a way that the gentle prodding from the kid’s parents, James and Mary, had not.

"What are you going to do for the rest of your life, Tim?" Parola gently asked.

"I don’t know," Higgins said.

"You know you’re not a good enough player to play golf?"

"Yep."

"Did you ever think about college?"

"I sure would like to. I’ve only got one problem."

Forty years after that most pivotal of exchanges took place, Higgins offers the payoff quote in his typically succinct style.

"He took care of that problem," Higgins said.

And Higgins was finally on his way from the streets of Haworth.

"Sure enough, he got me an interview and I was able to get in to college," Higgins said. "I have no idea how he did it. I just know he did it. He told me he had a friend who called a friend and I was fortunate enough to get in."

By the summer of 1965, Higgins was enrolled at Rockland Community College in Suffern, N.Y. Following a six-month stint in the Army Reserves, it was on to Fairleigh Dickinson University in Teaneck, N.J., in the summer of 1967.

During his years at Fairleigh Dickinson, where he graduated in 1972 and earned a business degree in 1976, Higgins took on several odd jobs to work himself through college. One of those jobs was officiating.

"I was doing whatever I needed to do to make a couple of bucks," he said. "Officiating came up and I started doing kids’ games and then it just kept going from there. I was doing things like CYO basketball or whatever the case may be.

"What was it like? You would say to yourself, ‘What in the hell am I doing here?’"

The day would come when Higgins would receive an enormously satisfying answer to that question.

As frustrating as it can be to explore a life that Higgins largely places off limits, his reputation as a college basketball official is there for all to see. And while Higgins typically has little to say about the subject, his officiating buddies wouldn’t hear of not speaking up for a man they respect so much.

"He’s very driven," Welmer says. "His perfectionism comes out on the floor. He strives for perfection in an imperfect game. You can’t be perfect in our game, but he’s one of those guys who does everything in his ability to be absolutely as good as he can be on the floor."

The record speaks for itself. This is a man who has worked NCAA championship games in 1988, ’90, ’97 and ’99. And this is a man who has been assigned to Final Four semifinal games in 1992, ’98, ’00, ’01, ’02 and ’04.

Through it all, though, there’s so little pretentiousness to be found, so little arrogance from someone who has earned the right to be just that. Instead, this giant among collegiate officials is just a meat and potatoes guy off the court.

And speaking of food. …

"When you travel with guys on the road, you really get to know them fairly well and you develop a bond with these guys," Cahill says. "Higs is certainly the type of guy that you can get to know and like in a hurry.

"We were coming back from South Carolina a few years back on Valentine’s Day and we had picked up a pizza for the ride home. Tim remembered it was Valentine’s Day and thought it would be good time, while he was driving the car and eating pizza, to call his wife to wish her a happy Valentine’s Day.

"Well, the only problem with that is while he was calling her and trying to drive, he was eating the pizza. He’s not the neatest guy in the world when he’s eating and the grease from the pizza started to drip down his chin.

"I wasn’t paying much attention to him until I felt a little nudge. He was pointing to his chin and he expected me to wipe the grease from his chin with a napkin! He wanted me to clean him up as he was busy sending his best to his wife on the phone!"

That’s the real Tim Higgins.

"We had a game in Buffalo with a young guy in 1998 and we were staying at the Marriott," says veteran official Bob Donato, who has worked with Higgins for more than 20 years. "After the game, we went in to have a couple of beers and we ordered Buffalo wings.

"We had to eat like five or six orders, OK? This other guy wasn’t eating. He was just watching us. When the waiter came out for the last time and said, ‘Do you want anything more?’ and Higgins said, ‘Yeah, we want another order of wings,’ the guy (the other official) almost fell over!

"Timmy had the sauce up his nose, all around his mouth … he has a propensity of getting stuff on his shirt or on his pants, when he’s eating. That’s Timmy Higgins. That’s a visual of Timmy. He likes to eat the stuff and he doesn’t care where it goes, besides his mouth."

That’s the real Tim Higgins.

"He’s relentless when he gets on people," Donato says. "When you hit a bad golf shot, most guys won’t open their mouth because they know how you feel. Not Timmy. If you hit it in it the other fairway, he’ll make a comment like, ‘That was a great shot. If we were just playing that fairway over there, you’d have a great shot at coming home in two and maybe making par or birdie.’

"It’s just not one comment. He’ll go on and on to the point where you just want to say, ‘Will you shut up?’ We’ve had foursomes where he would get on the guy in the other foursome for making a bad shot.

"But he has the ability to poke fun not only at others, but at himself. That’s the beauty of Timmy. He just likes to have fun, but if you come back on him, he can take it. He loves the banter, he loves the byplay between and among people and he’s just a people guy. He loves people and people like him for that reason."

That’s the real Tim Higgins.

"I can remember vividly listening to a talk radio show probably 12-15 years ago that’s generated out of New York City," Cahill said. "They have a telethon every year to raise money for people who are going through cancer and one of the pledges that was called in that day was from Tim Higgins.

"He had donated his game fee from working the NIT game the night before in Madison Square Garden and had suggested that other officials throughout the country consider doing something along that line.

"So, he’s not only willing to help, but he recognizes good causes and he’s certainly the first one to step to the plate."

And let that, more than anything else, stand as the real Tim Higgins, the former caddy who one day realized he had so much more to offer.

Peter Jackel is a longtime sportswriter from Racine, Wis.