Dad-Turned-Ump Discovers Life Behind Mask

My two sons live for baseball, and they wanted to play Little League this year. But we live in south Orange County, where the population of ball-playing kids has exploded in the past few years, and when the time came to sign up last winter, there were dire warnings that some kids might not get in.

The only way to guarantee that a child would play in the San Juan Capistrano league was for a parent to volunteer to manage a team or be an umpire.

Managing a team in Little League is almost a full-time job, but umpiring seemed feasible.

So, despite all the stories about crazed coaches and rabid fans, I signed up.

And survived. The season is over now, except for the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pa., later this month.

And I have decided that despite those crazed coaches and rabid fans, I will umpire again.

Here are some excerpts from my journal of my rookie season.

Indoctrination

Twenty of us are huddled on the baseball diamond waiting for the clinic to begin. It’s a cold, blustery Saturday in late January--not a great day to be thinking about baseball, but this is Orange County, where Little League season begins a little early, just over a month away.

With a couple of exceptions, we’re the new guys, the new crop of volunteer victims. We look like what we are: a bunch of dads from early to late middle age.

Rich Wordes, an attorney and the chief umpire for the San Juan Capistrano Little League, welcomes us, thanks us for volunteering, talks about how much fun umping can be.

Then he stops talking like a lawyer.

Ignore the rumors about Little League coaches and parents, he says.

Nervous laughter from the group.

It’s a good league, and if we do our jobs right, we’ll have no problems.

Wordes moves on to equipment, starting with the most vital.

“Take my word for it, especially with some of the pitching at this level, you gotta wear a cup,” he says.

Even more nervous laughter from the group.

He shows us the mask, the throat protector, the chest protector, the shoulder caps, the biceps protectors, the shin guards, the instep protector. . . .

Have I signed up to umpire or play linebacker for the Raiders?

Wordes asks a couple of veteran umps to offer injury testimonials. One tells of losing his big toenail last year to a wild pitch and urges us to think about getting steel-toed shoes.

I’m convinced.

Wordes says it’s important that we dress for success. If we look like umpires, we’ll have an easier time maintaining control.

Control. There it is again--that hint about rampaging fans.

Our uniform will be gray polyester pants and blue shirts with a black belt, black shoes and a navy-blue cap that reads “SJC UMPIRE.”

Finally, Wordes passes out booklets entitled “Little League Baseball, Official Rules and Regulations.”

He sends us home with the admonition, “Read it, read it, read it some more. It can save your butt.”

The Rule Book

Baseball has always seemed to me such a simple game. Hit, run, throw, catch. I now know otherwise.

For two weeks now, I’ve spent a little time each day wrestling with the labyrinthine 40 pages governing everything from the distance between the bases (60 feet) to the proper ruling should a fielder throw his glove at a batted ball (runners advance three bases) and many situations more or less complicated in between.

This is my favorite passage, instructing the umpire on what to do if players bat out of turn:

“Daniel walks, and Abel comes to bat. Daniel was an improper batter, and if an appeal is made before the first pitch to Abel, Abel is out, Daniel is removed from base and Baker is proper batter. There is no appeal, and a pitch is made to Abel. Daniel’s walk is now legalized, and Edward thereby becomes the proper batter. Edward can replace Abel at any time before Abel is put out, or becomes a runner. Edward does not do so. Abel flies out, and Baker comes to bat. Abel was an improper batter, and if an appeal is made before the first pitch to Baker, Edward is out and the proper batter is Frank. There is no appeal, and a pitch is made to Baker. Abel’s out is now legalized, and the proper batter is Baker. Baker walks, Charles is the proper batter. Charles flies out. Now Daniel is the proper batter, but Daniel is on second base. Who is the proper batter?”

Got me.

I know that when I step out there in a couple of weeks to ump my first game, I’m not going to worry about being nailed by a pitch so much as not knowing how to rule on catcher’s interference.

Behind the Mask

Spring is almost here now. This time the Saturday is bright and warm, and the season is under way.

I told the head umpire that I would start slowly, that I would work as a base umpire, calling plays at first and second for a while before I tried to run the show from behind the plate. I’d get a feel for the rhythms and rules of the game, and maybe three or four games down the line, I’d don the mask.

Today, at my very first game, the plate umpire can’t make it. I’m pressed into service.

“Don’t worry,” says a league official who has come to watch the game. “It’s actually a lot easier behind the plate.”

Is this a guy a lawyer, too?

I duck into the equipment room and emerge as Superman.

I opt for the “inside protector,” a sort of combined bulletproof-vest-and-shoulder-pads arrangement worn under the shirt that makes one look like Arnold Schwarzenegger from the waist up. It doesn’t offer as much protection as the traditional “pillow protector” held in front of the chest, but it gives much more freedom of movement.

On my legs I’ve strapped the hard plastic shin guards like those the catchers wear. My feet are clad in steel-toed black work shoes.

The all-important cup is tucked securely in place.

I call the opposing teams and managers out onto the diamond to recite the Little League pledge. I know it says something about playing fair and loving one’s country, but I am nearly deaf with anxiety at this point.

I pull the steel grid of the mask down over my face and yell the immortal words, “Play ball!”

I squat behind the catcher’s left shoulder, lining up a good view of the plate, readying myself to call the first pitch.

The pitcher winds up, throws, and the batter watches it cross the plate.

Hey, I saw that! I’m thinking. Strike all the way. Except that I’ve forgotten to call it out loud.

“STEE-RIKE!” I shout forcefully, if belatedly.

I’m right there on the next two, a ball and a swung-on strike.

Between pitches, I stand and flash the 1-and-2 count sign on my hands to the pitcher.

This is all right. I’m liking this fine. I’m still nervous as hell, but I’m starting to get into it.

The fourth pitch sizzles by the batter and the catcher and smashes squarely into my mask.

I was told in the preseason umpire clinic that I should never, ever turn my head if the ball is coming at my face. “Let it hit the mask,” said head umpire Wordes. “That’s what it’s for. If you turn, you’ll catch it in the side of the head.”

Nothing prepared me, though, for the titanic struggle against instinct necessary to take a fastball in the face. Part of my brain screams: “TURN! TURN! TURN!” Another part orders: “HOLD! HOLD! HOLD!”

When the crunch comes, I just close my eyes.

The sound of impact is sharp and sudden. Bits of sand or leather spray against my cheeks. But I feel at most only a gentle pressure from the strike. The abundant padding at the edge of the mask has done its job.

I hope I don’t have to find out if the cup works as well.

The Morning After

I had been warned by the veterans, so I prepared several weeks for my first game. I looked up “Thighs” in a training book, climbed aboard my weight machine and sweated my way through what I thought was an ambitious series of lifts and extensions with an increasingly heavy set of weights.

During that first game, I did--as near as I can figure--about 300 deep (and I mean deep , given the size of a squatting 8-year-old catcher) knee bends behind the plate. But the legs felt great: firm, strong, no lag in bobbing up and down as batter after batter went to the full count of three balls and two strikes.

I wasn’t worried.

This morning, I can barely walk.

Pain sears my leg muscles--the ones I exercised and the ones I didn’t know were there. Maybe I’ll get up and walk around, try to stretch out the cramps, but I can’t stand up. I sleep instead.

The Fans

The season is three weeks old, and I had begun to think that maybe this stuff about rabid parents was just myth.

Sure, there has been moaning and groaning and isolated jeering, but nothing untoward.

Today, however, I’m being eaten alive.

I’m behind the plate on the minor-league diamond in San Juan Capistrano, a disaster of a playing field. The lack of grass in the infield and the presence of a parking lot in right field are bad enough, but the backstop is a disgrace.

The Little League rule book recommends a distance of 25 feet from the plate to the backstop. On this field it’s about six feet.

Unless I keep nudging the catcher forward toward the plate (at this level of play, many still shrink from the bat), I can end up pressed against the chain links with some parent so close that I can tell what he had for lunch.

Today, it’s a suit-type--white oxford shirt, purple power tie, gold watch--and lunch was heavy on the garlic.

“TWO!” I bellow, jabbing my right hand out in strike call in the second inning.

“A mile outside,” sneers the voice over my shoulder.

“STRIKE THREE!” I call on a low one that kisses the inside of the strike zone.

“This guy’s pathetic,” my overseer screeches.

The rule book says the plate umpire should eject anyone--fan, coach, player--who is abusive. But the line between abuse and acceptable razzing is still blurry to me.

In our brief preseason training, the head umpire told us to tune out everything except what’s going on in the game. “No rabbit ears,” he said.

So I tune out Mr. Garlic.

But he has friends who join in on the next few calls.

I call timeout. I turn and tell them to back away and tone down the comments.

They grumble but comply. This seems to work.

But hostility is infectious in a crowd.

A batter knocks a grounder. The out is made at first, and the fielder throws to third trying to catch a runner coming from second.

Mask thrown off and shin guards clattering, I scurry down the base line to call the play.

In a blur of dust and uniform colors, I call the runner safe. “UNDER THE TAG!” I offer aloud by way of explanation.

A new group of fans near third base now explodes in rancor.

“You’re a joke! A bad one!” someone brays.

I turn and walk back to the plate. I take out my brush and sweep the base clean.

No rabbit ears, no rabbit ears, I repeat, like a mantra.

When the sixth and last inning comes to a merciful close, I take the quickest route to the parking lot and away from the continuing complaints.

Who needs this?

Style

We’re well into the season now, we and the pros. I watch my veteran Little League colleagues and major-league umpires on TV with respect and appreciation.

I look to them for pointers on the art of umping.

At first, I tried to be articulate in calling pitches. But I note that seasoned umps generally go for flair over enunciation.

So I try to be more physical, more vocally expressive. I turn to the right and punch the air with my fist on strike calls. Instead of saying “strike one” or “strike two,” I utter a guttural “WAAW” or “DOOO.” On the bases, I get down low and either hammer my fist in an out call or throw my arms wide for safe and add, “HE’S IN THERE!”

Seeing an adult act like this cracks up the kids, of course. But if it makes the game more fun for them, then it’s more fun for me.

Synaptic Failure

I’ve umped maybe 15 games now, and I’ve made my share of questionable calls. Some plays I just haven’t seen. If I have a bad angle on a play and don’t see a ball drop or a foot leave the base, then it doesn’t happen, no matter what the rest of the world sees.

But this is an umpire’s nightmare. I’m in the right place, see the play correctly and then. . . .

The game is tied. Two tough teams with tough pitchers. It’s the last inning. A runner is coming from third. The catcher gets the ball and slams his glove down to tag the runner’s leg just shy of home plate.

I see it all in the slow motion that total concentration provides. I see it clearly. There is no doubt. I call the runner out.

And safe.

Everyone in the stands can hear me yell, “HE’S OUT!” They also can see me with my arms spread wide in the safe sign.

After some rhubarb with managers, my out call stands. I put the mask back on to hide my red face.

The Kids

I’ve tried hard this season to remember that these are kids--8- to 12-year-olds--not baseball players. In the heat of close calls and haggles with coaches over rules, that can be forgotten.

When I’m behind the plate, I chat with the catchers, talking about the game or just asking them how things are going. When I work the bases, I joke with the fielders or congratulate base runners.

I have noticed that the kids who take the game most seriously and behave most competitively--no matter what their age--tend to be the managers’ sons.

Of the rest, the younger ones giggle, swing their arms about, kick dust and generally just have a good time.

Even 12-year-olds--just learning how to be cool--still cry when they strike out.