Umpire Answers Calling : Gorman Follows Legendary Dad

Every time National League umpire Brian Gorman brushes off home plate, he evokes the memory of his famous father.

Call it a silent invocation, a ritual within a ritual.

As he wipes the plate clean before each half-inning--a baseball rite as much a part of the game as the seventh-inning stretch and, well, booing the ump--Gorman clutches in his fingers a tiny wood-handled brush given to him by his father, Tom. The brush is well-kept but its needles are beginning to abrade. Still, the memories it conjures remain strong.

Tom Gorman was a rarity among the anonymous men in blue--a renowned umpire who enhanced his popularity as a frequent speaker on the winter dinner circuit. He crafted a 27-year career in the majors before his retirement in 1976 and served as a National League supervisor until his death in 1986. Gorman, a gregarious Irish-American from Hell’s Kitchen in New York City, so identified with his profession he was buried in his uniform. His indicator, cradled in his left hand, gave the count: 3-and-2.

Brian, 35, the youngest of Tom’s four children and the only one to follow in his father’s footsteps, keeps the memory of his dad close at hand when he steps onto a big-league ballfield. Of course, there’s some doubt about when that is going to happen again. Normally at this time of year, Gorman would be packing for spring training, but with the baseball strike and an umpires’ lockout, he might be spending Opening Day in Ventura County.

But since he became a full-time major league umpire in 1993, Gorman--who wears No. 9, his father’s number--has worked with many of his father’s colleagues, and even inherited Tom’s nickname: Rooms.

“Tom Gorman was an institution,” said Bruce Froemming, a National League umpire for the past 25 years who has worked with both Gormans. “He knew everybody and had great rapport with players and managers. A lot of his dad has rubbed off on Brian.”

Said Gorman: “I get nothing but compliments about my dad and carrying on his legacy makes me feel good.”

Brian, who has lived in California since 1987 and moved to Camarillo with his wife Marsha, a Times photographer, a year ago, works among a select group. Only 64 men can call themselves big-league umpires--there are more U.S. Senators--and the Gormans are one of only three sets of fathers and sons to send high-priced big-leaguers to the showers. The Runges (Ed, who is retired, and Paul) and the Crawfords (Shag, who is retired, and Jerry) are the others.

Growing up in New Jersey as the son of a big-league umpire was a glamorous, happy life, Brian said, even though his family endured its share of sorrow. Brian’s mother Margaret died in 1968 when Brian was 9, and sister Pat became the matriarch of the family at the age of 13.

Even though Tom Gorman was on the road at least six months a year, the family flourished and remained close-knit. Tom called as often as three times a day from the road, and when he worked a game on television, he signaled hello to his family in the ninth inning by touching the top of his cap.

Tom removed the kids from school every March for a trip to spring training in Florida, with the children quizzing Dad from the baseball rule book on the drive south. And every summer his children divvied up his schedule for one-on-one trips all over the National League.

“I felt like the son of a celebrity,” Brian said. “It was like a dream vacation. We’d go to all these cities and stay in big hotels and go to all the games. I’d meet players like Willie Mays and bring home autographed balls and gloves to my friends.”

But Gorman was probably the only kid in the stands watching the umpires work, and he never was upset when fans ridiculed his father’s work. In that regard he showed more restraint than his mother, who once bopped a bellicose fan on top of the head with her pocketbook. “The guy sat right down and shut up,” Gorman said.

The Gormans were initially surprised that Brian was the one who chose his father’s profession--Tom Jr. and Kevin were better athletes growing up--but once Brian decided to call balls and strikes they saw the wisdom of the choice.

“Brian was a quiet kid with a dry sense of humor, so we were floored when he said he wanted to be an ump,” said Pat Gorman, Brian’s sister and an executive with AT&T; in Atlanta. “I thought you’d have to be nuts to go into baseball. The odds are against you and you starve in the minor leagues.

“But he has the classic umpire temperament. He’s real calm. You need a nuclear attack to get him angry.”

The life that awaited him after he enrolled in umpire school in Florida in 1982 after graduating with an economics degree from the University of Delaware would test his--and anyone’s--patience. Famous father or no, Gorman hit the back roads of small-town America that summer as he worked his way through the low minors.

His first stop was the New York-Penn League, a short-season rookie league that included glamour spots such as Utica, Oneonta and Batavia. Working with one partner and traveling by car from city to city, Gorman earned $2,000 for the 2 1/2-month season.

A master of odd jobs in the off-season, Gorman painstakingly trudged through an 11-year minor league career, earning promotions just often enough to keep his hopes alive. Frequently, among the nickel beer nights at dilapidated ballparks far from home, a minor league umpire can cling to little else.

Odds of making the majors are discouragingly long: only 1% of all minor league umpires get “the call.” The two-man teams rarely have a day off, and every third or fourth night is spent crisscrossing the country by car. Chances of impressing supervisors are rare. In a 144-game season, each crew is observed only twice.

Still, few minor league umpires can pick up a phone at any time and talk to a National League supervisor.

“I had a wealth of knowledge at my fingertips and called my dad all the time,” Gorman said. “My partners would ask me to call my dad and ask how he would have handled a situation.”

Of course, Gorman also heard whispers from those accusing him of riding his father’s coattails. Eric Gregg, a National League umpire for the past 19 years, worked his first major league game in Tom Gorman’s last in 1976, and also worked in Brian’s first big-league game. Charges of nepotism are part of the terrain, he said.

“This is a tight-knit group but a jealous profession,” Gregg said. “It’s tough because people are going to say that. Having a dad for an ump might have helped Rooms get started but that won’t get him to the big leagues, ‘cause you can’t get to the bigs if you can’t do the job.”

Gorman has proved that he can stand on his own. After clawing his way to triple A where he worked three-man crews and shed his car for air travel, Gorman got the big-league call in April 1991 when Paul Runge suffered a back injury. Gorman flew to St. Louis, joining Gregg, Joe West and Charlie Reliford, his former minor league partner, for a game against the Cubs.

St. Louis won, 1-0, in a game devoid of controversy--always a goal for an umpire--and Gorman worked second base for the first time. “In the minors, you never have four-man crews, so nobody ever works second base. Busch Stadium is no place to learn.”

After an off-day, Gorman then joined Harry Wendelstedt’s crew in Philadelphia, where Gorman worked his first major-league game behind home plate. The night before, he stared at the ceiling of his hotel room, racked with nervousness.

“I was scared to death,” he said. “Failure enters your mind. Am I good enough? Will I be able to maintain big-league standards? Then I realized I wasn’t just some guy walking out of a bar calling his first game.”

He remained in the big leagues that season until the all-star break and then bounced back and forth between triple A and the majors as a fill-in for injured umpires for the next 1 1/2 years.

Finally, when the National League expanded for the 1993 season, Gorman signed his first major league contract.

It was worth the wait. Gorman stays in four-star hotels, eats at the country’s best restaurants and gets to tell the likes of Barry Bonds and Tom Lasorda to hit the road, all the while winning the respect of his peers and his father’s colleagues.

“For a young guy, he’s very calm and does a good job,” Gregg said. “There are very few things you got to tell him. He’s not afraid to make calls.”

Gorman earned Gregg’s top compliment--”I’ll drink with him any time”--when he ejected a player who was riding a fellow umpire. “Many umps as young guys want to stay out of trouble. Rooms doesn’t back down,” Gregg said.

Froemming goes a step further, suggesting that Gorman might be a better umpire than even his father.

“I liked his dad but I think I like Brian’s umpiring better,” he said. “Brian is more serious and has a very flexible mind. He’s honest and 100% loyal. But a lot of that comes from his dad.”

Tom Gorman was a constant presence during Brian’s minor league career, often arriving unannounced at a ballpark to watch his son work. At Brian’s first professional game in Oneonta, N.Y., perched in the first row with a ready wink and a good-luck wish was his father.

Four years later, Tom spent a few days in Memphis with Brian and his crew, watching his son work a series in the double-A Southern League. Tom then worked an old-timers game in Dallas, bringing home a videotape of the game. The next day while watching the tape of himself umpiring the game, Tom died of a heart attack.

“I think he was really happy I went into umpiring,” Gorman said. “He loved to visit me. It was a chance to relive his golden years.”

Still, a disappointment tugs at Gorman: His father never saw him work in the big leagues.

When Brian made his major league debut in St. Louis, he left two tickets at the front gate, one each for Tom and Margaret Gorman. Brian is not so sure the tickets went unused.

“He wasn’t there physically, but I sure felt like I had someone in my corner,” he said. “My father’s presence is always with me.”