Roger Daniels: Snapped Back

Before Roger Daniels earned a single postseason honor, he had to learn how to keep his cool.

It was the fourth game of the 1987–88 season—Scotland County at home—and things were getting chippy. Roger, always a fiery competitor, had been pleading with the refs to call the extra contact. When nothing came, frustration boiled over. A few choice words slipped out. Words that earned him a technical foul, a seat on the bench, and a quiet postgame locker room after a loss that stung more than the scoreboard showed.

Coach John McKinzie didn’t pull punches. “We lost because you couldn’t control your temper,” he told Roger. “Good player or not, if it happens again, you’re on the bench for good.”

That could’ve been it. But Roger went home, told his parents the whole story and together, they came up with a plan.

A rubber band.

Simple, but effective. Snap it whenever the anger crept in. A sharp sting to remind him to stay composed. Roger tried it in practice, and it worked. His dad even found a bigger, sturdier one at work, a thick loop that Roger wore proudly on his wrist.

 Roger wearing a rubber band on is wrist

From the fifth game on, it became part of him. When the temperature of a game rose, Roger pulled back and snapped it. So hard that his forearm would turn red. But he didn’t care.

He never got another technical.

The band wasn’t just a tool. It became a symbol. Fans noticed. Teammates noticed. People in town started giving him rubber bands of all sizes and colors. And in the bleachers, folks began snapping their own in solidarity.

Then came Schuyler County later that season.

Clark County came out hot. Roger played well. But as halftime approached, the Schuyler County players noticed the marks on his wrist and pointed out the rubber band to the referee, arguing that it was jewelry, something that could break, snap, and potentially injure another player. It was a tactic to get in his head. To shake his rhythm.

At the time, officials ruled it couldn’t be worn as it was deemed potentially dangerous. Roger peeled it off.

Roger's forearm is red during the Schuyler County game

Years later, the story still stuck with people. Was that really the rule?

Missouri State High School Activities Association (MSHSAA) was asked to look it up. They pulled the old rulebook to find out.

Turns out, there was no rule against jewelry in the 1987–88 MSHSAA basketball rulebook. The official “jewelry rule” wasn’t introduced until 2002–03, stating plainly that “jewelry is prohibited.” Back in Roger’s playing days, it would have come down to the referee’s discretion, whether he deemed something dangerous to other players.

Was it fair? Maybe not. Was it effective? Not really. Clark County still won that night at Schuyler County.

But the rubber band had already done its job.

Roger finished the season without another technical. The sting of the band gave way to self-control. And in a small community, something so small became something unforgettable.

People still remember it. They remember the snap. The band. The way he’d yank it back...hard.

It might’ve hurt, but it kept him growing. Roger didn’t wear that rubber band to stand out. He wore it to stay in.

The rubber band eventually came off. The awards came later. But what mattered most was what stayed with him. Discipline, awareness, and the will to change. 

In basketball, as in life, the biggest wins sometimes come not from what you do, but from what you choose not to.

Carrying the Whistle

The gym still feels familiar on winter nights. The lights hum overhead. Sneakers squeak across polished hardwood.The band fills the bleachers with sound that feels stitched into small towns everywhere.

But something is missing.

Not everyone notices it right away. There are still games to be played and scores to be kept. Yet across America, high school basketball is facing a growing shortage of officials. Assignments go unfilled. Veteran referees quietly step away. Fewer new ones step in. The reasons are well known—declining sportsmanship, rising abuse from coaches and fans, an aging workforce, but the result feels deeper than numbers. The game is slowly losing the people willing to stand in the middle of it.

Back in 1998, my brother Jaryt and I were asked to do just that.

A local officiating crew in northeast Missouri approached us and asked if we’d ever thought about picking up a whistle. We said yes, at least on paper. We filled out the forms, took the written test, and waited for the packet to arrive. When it did, it felt official in every sense: an official MSHSAA patch, a registration card, clinic schedules, expectations. The only thing left was the mechanics clinic. The final step.

We never took it.

Life moved on the way it always does. The gyms stayed full. The whistles blew without us. Still, all these years later, I sometimes wonder what might’ve happened if we had taken that step forward. If we could’ve helped the game in ways we never imagined at the time.

That question came rushing back recently when I stumbled across that old packet again. Inside was the Journal of the Missouri State High School Activities Association. On page 30, a letter from then Assistant Executive Director Dale Pleimann spoke directly to officials. He wrote about dignity. About responsibility. He reminded officials to “uphold the honor and dignity of the vocation,” and that while rules mattered, “there are other attributes which are equally important.”

I thought about that line a lot.

Because it reminded me of a story my dad once told, one that perfectly captured those “other attributes.”

It was the final Scotland County junior high game of the season at Putnam County. His roster was large, the minutes few. With a strict no-cut policy, every boy was on the team, and my dad had promised them all a chance to play. But as the clock ticked down, one kid — Ryan — still hadn’t checked in. No timeouts remained. The clock didn’t care about promises.

Ryan stood at the scorer’s table, shoulders slumped. My dad leaned over and said quietly, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be able to get you in.”

Then the whistle blew.

Play stopped, and the gym went still. Heads turning in quiet confusion as people searched for a reason. One official stepped forward and bent down to tie his shoe — a shoe that didn’t need tying. 

When he stood back up, he motioned Ryan onto the floor. The boy ran in as the clock resumed and the game moved on.

My dad caught the official’s eye, and the ref smiled. He had overheard the exchange between coach and player.

In that instant, the rulebook stayed closed. There was no argument, no complaint, nothing to protest from the stands.

The call wasn’t about advantage or outcome. It wasn’t about possession or points. It was about awareness and judgment. It was about recognizing the human moment and responding to it.

Those other attributes, the ones you can’t diagram or test for, showed up right there on the floor.

That official didn’t know it then, but years later the game would be struggling to find people like him. People willing to step in, slow things down, and do what felt right.

I think about the step my brother and I never took and the one that official did. He stepped forward, stopped the clock, and trusted his instincts.

That’s officiating at its best. Not just knowing the rules but knowing when to make the right call.