This precious little point guard of girl came flashing through the lane. She was completely out of control and no teammate moved to get open so she could pass off the ball. In consequence, the poor dear child tripped herself, threw the ball over her shoulder, twisted in midair to fall on her dignity rather than her face and skidded across the floor.
Good friend, there is no call for this situation. There is no foul for falling down, no violation for scooting on one's posterior across a hard wood court.
The protocol is simple. No whistle, ball in play, one team secures the ball and play continues. You do check the player on the floor to detect injury.
There was none, the other team got the ball and nine players fled down the court.
I looked at the girl on the floor again before giving vain chase to the nine retreating figures.
"Bull—–," she told me.
I was taken aback.
"Young lady," I chastised her, "You would not talk to your Papaw that way."
Without blinking, she answered, "My Papaw wouldn't have blown that call."
Oh, for the life of a basketball referee.