I’ve finally discovered my calling.

This one won’t make me financially independent in a year, or two, or a hundred, and therefore you haven’t heard the last of me. I’ll be knocking on the door to offer you the world’s most powerful, allergen-killing vacuum cleaner, satellite TV service, high-speed Internet or frozen foods any minute now, so thank you for your support.

In my suddenly extensive spare time, however, you’ll find me in a new gig that leaves me in a doubly blissful state of being: Connected to sports and above reproach.

I’m going to be a lacrosse referee.

Right now, you’re wondering what I know about lacrosse or officiating. Say, how do you spell diddley-squat?

But I can learn, so if they can find a striped shirt suitable for my girlish figure, I’m on my way to becoming a pillar of the lacrosse establishment more quickly than you can say Johns Hopkins.

You’re wondering what suddenly piqued my interest in a game that I’ve formerly dismissed as field hockey on steroids.

Well, a funny thing happened. I actually watched a game, and let me tell you, those are some mean steroids. They could cure a notoriously surly baseball slugger’s bum knee and lousy attitude in five minutes. Most of the belly-scratching, beer-drinking, belching macho men I associate with wouldn’t survive one quarter of a lacrosse match.

But the toughness isn’t the primary attraction of lacrosse. It’s the quietness.

Over the last five years, lacrosse is the hottest game in America this side of “Fear Factor” and “Survivor.” The exponential growth of Maine high school lacrosse holds true across the map.

There’s just one dramatic difference between watching grown men eat maggots and seeing kids slap each other with sticks. When it comes to lacrosse, nobody knows the rules.

It’s a beautiful thing.

“The hardest thing right now is finding officials,” said Lewiston boys’ lacrosse coach Tom Fournier. “I encourage all my friends who want to stay involved in sports to become lacrosse officials. It’s great money. And the best thing is, everybody leaves you alone.”

Had the pleasure of seeing the Lewiston-Mt. Blue boys’ lacrosse game in Farmington last Saturday morning. Stood on the teams’ sideline and watched roughly 125 people mill around the far side of the field during that two-hour span. Swear that I heard a defenseman clear his throat during an infrequent lull in the action.

Call me crazy, but I think these kids are on to something.

You see, most dads played for Burger Barn in the Sunnyvale Little League. A majority of grandmas tried after-school basketball long before good ol’ boy administrators had the brainstorm that it was OK to treat the girls like a varsity program and let all five of them run the full court.

They presume that their rudimentary understanding of the infield fly rule or vague interpretation of the traveling violation also makes them an expert on how many innings Johnny should pitch or whether or not his hand check really was a foul.

As for lacrosse, let’s just say they’re confident Johnny is trying to chuck that little ball into that cage. As for how he gets it there, they’re pretty sure anything less than felonious assault is permissible.

Amazing how rapidly the young man’s skills develop when there aren’t 52 adult voices shouting out what he should or shouldn’t do. Exciting how sensitively his coach or an official is able to latch onto a teachable moment without a frustrated ex-jock berating both about how to do their jobs.

“It’s wonderful,” Fournier said. “It doesn’t matter if we win or lose. Nobody criticizes me.”

Fournier compared the happy problem of finding qualified grown-ups to coach and adjudicate lacrosse to the obstacle soccer faced in the 1980s.

That’s what worries me. Eventually, bandwagon fans will conclude that they’ve learned the difference between a slash and a check. Or this trend-setting generation will breed lacrosse players of its own, and human nature being what it is, turn those youth league games into a more competitive, louder, less serene environment.

But I’ll be gone, anyway. I’m planning to make hay while the sun shines and before the throng starts telling me to stow my whistle where the sun doesn’t shine.

Hey, maybe they’ll pleasantly surprise me, or maybe they’ll be too busy enjoying the satellite dish I sold ’em to get out to games.

For now, I’ve discovered the last bastion of innocence in student athletics. Darned if I’m going to miss that.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].