The guilty pleasure of second-guessing refs is no longer mine. Courtesy of the NBA's newest subsidiary, I have worn a blue-piping, double-pinstripe gray shirt and blown a Fox 40 whistle. I have taken true/false tests, studied film, memorized and debated minutiae in the rule book. I have felt a game shift from aggressively sloppy to physically dangerous and back again, primarily because of how I was doing my job.

I have had my back to a bench ragging my last call. I have lost focus for several critical seconds answering back, then felt the embarrassment of having a fellow official remind me I'm out of position. I have had the surreal experience of being completely engrossed in a game without knowing who is winning. I have tasted the delicious satisfaction of signaling an offensive charge. And I have felt the sting of a coach and player (rightfully) questioning my knowledge of the rules. All this transpired thanks to two idle comments, the first by NBA director of officiating Ed Rush. We were in the LAX Marriott health club running on side-by-side treadmills. He saw my sub-seven-minute mile clip and said I was fit enough to be an NBA ref, a compliment for a man age 40. I mistakenly mentioned that to The Magazine's editor-in-chief. The idea now is to make me into a ref for a single NBA exhibition game next season, even though I've never officiated on any level. Much like anyone hoping to make the big time, there are no guarantees I'll get that far.

But having been through three intensive days of training with the National Basketball Developmental League, the NBA's brand-new farm system for players, coaches and referees, at least I now know how incredibly far that is.

Day 1: The camp starts in my rental car. I'm headed for Suwanee, Ga., 40 minutes outside Atlanta, when my cell phone rings. It's Rush wanting to know why I didn't take the NBDL-provided airport shuttle and why I'm driving next to the HOV lane. He's joking, but I feel like a busted card counter in a Vegas casino. I look around but can't find him. I soon learn that surprise questions and close scrutiny are Rush's stock-in-trade.

Less than 30 minutes after checking into the referees' hotel -- think two-star in a strip mall just off the highway -- I'm in a small conference room with two dozen refs for the introductory meeting. It lasts three hours, largely because Rush has brought tapes of the NBA season-opening games. He pops one into a projector, and the Blazers and Lakers are running across the wall. There's a steal and a foul. He freezes the screen. "Somebody tell me about this," he says. Twenty minutes later, those six seconds of film have been replayed a dozen times. Everything from the new rule on clear-path fouls to the position of the trail referee is scrutinized. By the end of the first hour, all of four plays have been reviewed.

The enormity of my assignment hits home. Newly retired NBA players interested in becoming officials are routinely rejected, and now I understand why. I've played the game long enough to run with just about anybody, but that experience is of limited value. On every possession, a ref must watch the game through a prism shaped by his two partners. He has to know the plays being run so he can anticipate where the action in his area might occur. He has to keep track of the shot clock and the game clock, in case either needs to be reset. He also has to have an innate sense of how much time a dribble or a tip-in uses in case he has to reset the clock. All the while, he has Rush's voice and video cuts in his head, making him hypersensitive to whatever violations haven't been called recently. And unlike a player, he's not allowed to make mistakes.

I get my first assignment before we leave: tomorrow, Court 3, evening session. I'm provided with regulation white socks, a blue NBDL polo shirt to wear in the gym (with dress slacks) when I'm not officiating and an NBA referee's shirt with a blank number box on the back. I was told in advance to buy the standard-brand pealess whistle (Fox 40), black hoop shoes and a pair of official's shorts. Mindful of how videotape turns up every flaw, I know what I'll be looking for when I walk into the gym -- cameras.

Day 2: My 37 colleagues are the equivalent of first-round draft picks. They're former CBA or current WNBA or college refs who have been handpicked to work in the NBDL because they have the raw ingredients -- appearance, personality, temperament and dedication -- to be NBA refs. Unlike draft picks, they're still short of the good life. They'll invariably drive to and from one of the eight NBDL Southern cities to make $300-$400 a game for the 56-game schedule and pull down $40 per diem. No more than a half-dozen are likely to make the NBA -- average salary $175,000 -- and because of such fierce competition, there are constant reminders that teamwork is essential.

I spend the early games studying my colleagues in action, then go to another three-hour film session. Rush runs a clip of a blocking foul called on the Kings' Scot Pollard. Even in slo-mo, it's a tough call. I raise my hand and say it's the right call because Pollard is still moving when the offensive player runs into him. "Just like a TV guy," Rush says, prompting a ripple of laughter. A defensive player is allowed to move to better accept the pending blow, he says, calling it "firming up." His opinion is that Pollard actually drew a charge.

I later tell Rush I thought Pollard wasn't just moving, but moving toward the offensive player, which would have been blocking. "You don't want to admit you kicked the call, do you?" he says. Admit I kicked a call on a play replayed half-a-dozen times? Damn right I don't. When I e-mail director of referee development Joe Borgia about the controversial play, he e-mails back: "We don't look at the offensive player. Think like a ref!"

I've only browsed through my three referee's texts -- official's manual, rule book and case book -- as I enter the gym for my first game, my referee's gear under my sweats. Four courts are being used, side by side. The teams are practicing, and the players' size and speed, combined with the desperation to avoid being cut, makes me think of a scene from Gladiator. Some players are wearing numbers in the hundreds. And Borgia has a replacement for me -- just in case.

The first quarter is pure chaos. Loose balls, turnovers, body contact everywhere. I'm so preoccupied I keep the whistle clenched in my mouth, even when reporting a call, until the first timeout. My first call is a hand check on a pick-and-roll, but I forget to throw my fist into the air. "What did he do?" asks Huntsville Flight coach Bob Thornton.

"Can't touch him above the free throw line," I say. But the official scorers look mystified by my signals. At the first-quarter break, Mike Eades, my backup, tells me I'm sitting out the next quarter. "Orders from the boss," he says. I'm disappointed -- and relieved.

There's an 18-point difference at halftime. Eades asks if I want to work the third quarter. I do. The game finds a rhythm, and so do I. Now, when my partners, Ed Malloy and Jeff Smith, look for help on a ball that goes out of bounds, I give it. I suddenly understand why someone would want to do this for a living. It demands a jeweler's concentration, but I'm part of the game's fabric. I'm watching games for a living while protecting their integrity. That doesn't mean I don't privately enjoy my first offensive-charge call -- jab with one fist, thumb the chest with the other -- the most demonstrative signal a ref can make. But my mechanics are so odd that Bulls scout Pete Myers asks out loud, "Who is that ref?"

Eades reviews my third-quarter performance, and I'm allowed to keep working. "You know it's going overtime," he says, smiling wickedly. It does. I'm responsible for watching the clock if a last-second shot is released in regulation or OT. It is, both times. Both are also three-pointers, meaning I have to be dead certain the shooter is behind the line and releases the ball before the horn sounds. It looks so simple on TV, with the clock in the lower righthand corner and the overhead camera angle. At floor level, finding an angle to see the player, the three-point line and the clock is a challenge.

I get on the bus to cheers and laughter from my colleagues. I had to find a box score the next day to see who had played, who won and what the score was. I survived. Saving grace: no cameras.

Day 3: The referees are now split -- those complimenting my bravery for accepting this assignment and those consoling me about the previous night's game. Veteran NBA ref Jess Kersey, here to test a healing Achilles tendon, is among the latter. "Jess Kersey, NBA ref, was not made in a day," he says.

A pop quiz on the intricacies of mandatory timeouts and substitutions is followed by discussion of the results from an earlier 50-question true/false test. I got 36 of 50 correct. Peeking at the other refs' sheets, I see a lot of 49s and 48s, but NBA refs, I learn, don't test nearly as well. The more experienced a ref is, the more shades of gray he can find in any rule. Experience, though, also teaches how many tenths of a second a dribble, a double-clutch or a long rebound takes in end-of-game situations. I'm not there yet.

But I'm getting help. In the hotel lobby, Lisa Jones, a D1 women's college ref, asks to see my foul call and my signals to the scorer's table. She shows me how to be more demonstrative and how to signal the numbers backward so they read correctly to the scorers.

I practice in my bathroom mirror. I've got another evening-session game, this time with no one in relief.

A bus ride with refs is no different than with players -- there are stories (reffing wild summer games in the Rucker League or Sonny Hill Summer League) and ragging (one ref is teased for his hair gel, another for his resemblance to Seal). The first night, I was too preoccupied to notice; now I'm feeling more comfortable.

It shows on the floor. I'm rotating properly most of the time, counting off inbounds plays and signaling in the clock. Borgia meets us at midcourt between quarters and says to me, "Let's take this to another level." He wants my signals more authoritative. Zach Zarba, a former shooting guard at SUNY at New Paltz, alerts me that I called a borderline foul with two seconds on the shot clock. "I wasn't aware of the shot clock," I admit.

Nevertheless, when the North Charleston bench rags me about a shooting foul, I say without turning my head, "That was an eeeassssy call." That inspires more sniping. I keep my eye on the action, but somehow I've drifted to the baseline when I'm supposed to be even with the free throw line. A shout from some refs observing snaps me back into position. I shake my head disappointedly, which only compounds the error.

"Whatever you do, be decisive," Zarba had told me before tip-off. "You can make them believe your call."

Not all of them. I call a forearm check on Mobile point guard Mike Wilks. I'm on the baseline and see Wilks apply a forearm several times. I blow my whistle, and as I'm walking to the scorer's table, I realize how wrong I am. Below the free throw line, Wilks is allowed to do that; if he'd been above the free throw line, it wouldn't be my area to officiate. A good ref would know that. A decent ref would have realized his mistake, confer with his partners and nullify the call. Both Wilks and his coach, Sam Vincent, protest. I say nothing, but I'm squirming inside.

A few days later, I get the observer's report from Borgia, graded on a scale of 1 to10. There are 1's (unacceptable) everywhere. Strengths and weaknesses are listed at the bottom. Strengths: Nice guy who has a lot of guts to go out on the court with as little training as he has. Weaknesses: Too many to list. See no future in officiating professional basketball.

We'll see.

This article appears in the December 10 issue of ESPN The Magazine.