This Guy Didn’t Play His Cards Right

Best story of the baseball season? It continues to be the one about the veteran major league umpire who got caught shoplifting hundreds of dollars of baseball trading cards. To investigate further, we sent out two of our best men--a virtual dragnet.

This is the city . . . Bakersfield, California. My name is Downey. I’m a cop. My partner’s name is Murray. I carry a badge.

The time: 10:13 a.m. It was a clear day in Bakersfield, which was an upset in itself. We were assigned to the Commercial Burglary Division out of Kern County when a call came in from the Target retail store, one of those big Kmart-type places with quality merchandise at low, low prices.

Apparently a major league umpire had been detained by the store’s security guard for stealing.

“Money? Jewels? Food?” my partner asked.

“No,” I said. “Baseball cards.”

“Baseball cards?”

“That’s right, baseball cards. The kind you trade. The kind that used to come with bubble gum. You know, back when bubble gum tasted good because it had sugar in it.”

“Let’s get over there,” my partner said.

He turned on the siren.

The time: 10:27 a.m. Traffic was light. Nobody was going anywhere in Bakersfield this time of day. Nobody is going anywhere in Bakersfield almost any time of day.

We pulled our unmarked, department-issued Plymouth into the parking lot of the Target store, where the security guard had the umpire by the arm.

“This him?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“OK. Describe the heist.”

“He stuffed seven boxes of Score-brand baseball cards into a brown paper bag, then left the store.”

“Go on.”

“Cards are priced at $143.98, but hard telling their street value,” he said.

“He take anything else? Sporting goods? Bridge mix? Disposable diapers?”

“No, just the cards.”

“OK, pal. You’re under arrest.”

My partner and I drove the suspect back toward Kern County precinct house. We were sore. Plenty sore.

“Imagine, an umpire swiping baseball cards,” I said.

“Yeah. You’d think somebody who works in an infield would steal diamonds.”

My partner smiled. I smiled back. We nodded.

The time: 10:57 a.m. We booked the alleged perpetrator and read him his rights. Then we took him into the interrogation room in back. We offered him a cigarette. He declined. We offered him chewing tobacco. He declined. He seemed pretty smart.

He pulled out a whisk broom, dusted off his chair and sat.

“Bubble gum?” my partner asked.

“Don’t get cute, copper.”

“How old are you, pal?”

“Fifty-six,” the suspect said. “What’s it to you?”

“Don’t you think you’re a little old to be playing with baseball cards?”

“Nah! You’re never too old to play with baseball cards.”

“Or maybe you intended to sell these cards. How about it, pal?”

“Prove it, cop.”

“Come on. Why not save all of us a lot of time and trouble?”

“I want my lawyer.”

“Look at these cards--Seattle Mariners, Pittsburgh Pirates, Cleveland Indians. Must be worth a fortune on the black market.”

My partner picked them up. “Look at these,” he said. “Atlanta Braves.”

“OK,” I said. “So they’re not all valuable.”

“How long you been an umpire, mister?”

“Since ’66. So what?”

“So you’ve been around the game. You’ve been around happy children who spend every penny of their allowance just to sit out there in the bleachers and root for their favorite players. You’ve seen those little moppets huddled outside the stadium door, bundled against the evening chill, shivering, reluctant to go home to their Mommies and Daddies, just because there’s a chance they might get their baseball cards autographed by a big-league ballplayer. Isn’t that right, mister?”

“I guess.”

“You guess. You got a lotta nerve, pal, taking baseball cards that might have otherwise belonged to some poor unfortunate child. Why, when I think of somebody getting their hands on the cards I’ve collected over the years--Willie Mays, Roberto Clemente, Dave Kingman, all the greats--it sends shivers down my spine and I get sick to my stomach. That’s what this case means to me, buster.”

The suspect got a guilty look. He looked at the floor. I looked at my partner. He looked back. We nodded.

The time: 2:33 p.m. At the Bakersfield courthouse, Superior Court Judge Macon A. Rulen pounded his gavel. He ordered order in the court.

“Does the defendant have anything else to say?” the judge asked.

“Yes,” the umpire said. “Why are players’ trading cards worth more than umpires’ trading cards?”

There was a titter in the courtroom. The judge threatened the defendant with contempt of court. He then found him guilty of taking the baseball cards, and ordered him to do three months of community-service work, umpiring third base at the Bakersfield Little League.

Case dismissed.

“This was a tough one,” I said, descending the courthouse steps.

“Yeah,” my partner said. “I’ve heard of baseball people being ‘caught stealing,’ but this is ridiculous.”

The story you have just read is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. For example, I wouldn’t give anybody two cents for a Dave Kingman card.