Umpire Who Keeps Hustling Earns Cheers, Respect : Recreation: Softball fans and players praise official who makes games entertaining.

It has been two days since the death of his 47-year-old brother, Johnny, and Steve Newton needs a break. Family has begun to gather at his home in preparation for the funeral, but Newton tugs on his jersey, grabs his glove and heads for the park.

Just another Thursday for everybody else, slow-pitch softball night at Oso Park, and the cars go whizzing by on La Paz.

Soccer practice threatens to overrun left field and another group of kickers has gathered in right for America’s favorite pastime. The Toads don’t care; they have hung on to clip the Bums, 19-15, and a crowd of 11 is thinning for the next game between the Diamond Dogs and Newton’s WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get).

Reruns of “Bowling for Dollars” might pack more action and draw a bigger audience, but Norris Rushing, a former Marine for 26 1/2 years with three Purple Hearts, is paid to stay and won’t miss a pitch to Newton.

Officially, Rushing is an umpire, but effectively he is a baby sitter for the once-upon-a-time athletes, still competitive, but now one lunge shy of making the great catch, two feet too slow to beat a throw to the bag.

“I needed to get away and I came tonight because of who was umpiring,” Newton says.

Man bites dog; ump draws cheers.

“The ump, yeah, I know it sounds strange, but I have been grieving and I came tonight to not think about it, to get away,” Newton says. “You see, I knew I could come here and do that because I knew we had Norris. If we were scheduled to play on that field over there, I wouldn’t have come.

“This guy knows my daughter, knows all about her, knows everybody’s name out here. This ump’s just different; he makes a night like this for me possible. You know what kind of atmosphere you’re going to get--an enjoyable night with no problems.”

No problems, except WYSIWYG’s pitcher is out of town, and WYSIWYG is just not the same, Newton says. Unless his name is Roger Clemens, however, it would not seem to matter. The 15-run mercy rule is invoked and the game is called after 4 1/2 innings with WYSIWYG stumbling, 25-5.

“I’m telling you we’re not as bad as we looked,” Newton says. “But we’re down 23-3, and we’re still not getting any slack from the ump.”

The man in blue, who waits in his car to listen to Paul Harvey’s radio commentary before taking the field, arrived for recreation slow-pitch softball with his shoes polished. The man in blue is serious. Recreation ball pays $20 a game; a college doubleheader draws $70; $53 for the plate in a junior college contest, $49 for the bases; and $40/$38 for home plate and the bases in high school.

Tonight he is a one-man umpiring crew, 49 years old with knees wrecked from playing Marine Corps football, and yet he will jump out from behind home plate, run to the pitching circle and throw an uppercut--imagine Bill Shoemaker trying to punch Wilt Chamberlain on the nose--to signal an out.

Five nights a week he responds to the crack of the bat--three to four games an evening. When he was discharged from the Marines, they said a troublesome left knee left him 30% disabled, but Carl Lewis might not run as much in one evening. The medical report has made it difficult for him to secure full-time employment since his discharge in 1992, but if letters of reference are required, there is a lineup of softball players waiting on deck.

“He’s one of those guys who takes pride in his work; you can tell by the way he hustles,” says Art Carrido, a center fielder who likes to tease the umpire when given the chance. “This guy lets you bark, and then under his breath lets you have it back in a fun way.”

Says Newton, “You can argue, you can put any spin you want on what has taken place, but he’s always on the money, because he’s moving to be in the right place to make the right call.”

Fourth inning, 23-3, and the ump is running step for step with the baserunner going from second to third. “That’s the hardest part of these games,” says Ron Byrd, umpire and commissioner for the Saddleback Valley Unified School District Recreation Department. “You see a lot of bad softball and it’s tough to hustle and give everyone their money’s worth, but Norris goes all out.”

He pushes himself for the best angle, but still there are disagreements. “Come on, guys,” Rushing says after being booed for a call at third. “Ray Charles could have made that call.”

There is laughter until the next disputed call. “You blew it, Blue,” yells a first baseman after a bang-bang play.

“You want a replay?” Rushing says, and he is moving again, in slow-motion toward the middle of the field, and the exaggerated call is the same. The first baseman is smiling, still righteous in his conviction, but no longer upset.

“I don’t think there’s a finer umpire in Orange County; he goes the extra mile to put forth that pro atmosphere,” Byrd says. “He’s a pretty tough old codger and his knees are shot, but I don’t think you would want to mess with him.

“The only knock on the guy is he is too nice. I wouldn’t take the time to explain to somebody acting like a jerk what’s going on, but he takes more guff than most. That’s his best attribute, his ability to handle people. Me, I’d just throw them out of the game.”

The former Marine drill instructor, a man with eight children, smiles when likened to Mister Rogers. “Tell that to the recruits I had when I was in the Marines,” he says.

“When you become a drill instructor, that’s where you learn how to be an animal,” he says. “And I was the baddest of them all, but you also learn how to control it.”

The former Marine drill instructor, who played running back for the semi-pro East Harlem Chargers just outside Yankee Stadium, will not tolerate obscene language on his playing field, but his track record also indicates it will take one mighty big squabble to rankle him and prompt an ejection.

“Maybe somebody else would send them to the parking lot, but hey, it’s hot and I tell them, ‘You’re going to stay with me buddy; you’re not going to sit in the shade and drink lemonade while I have to be out here.’ I’m just not looking to put a notch in my indicator; we’re here to play ball.’ ”

Tempers flare, though, and it becomes important to teams such as the Toads and the Bums to claim victory. There is always the potential for collision on the basepaths and competitiveness gone awry. But not on Rushing’s field.

“You got some umps who act like sergeants,” says Milton Almeida, third baseman for the Toads. “This guy’s a former sergeant and he keeps everyone loose.”

It just happens. A disgruntled pitcher remarks under his breath that the ump has missed one, and the ump agrees. “You knew I wasn’t going to have a perfect game when you came tonight,” he says.

“My favorite night: The Discovery channel--Predator and Predators. In the jungle when the big cats are out for a meal they weed out the meek and make them the meat. If an ump is meek he’s going to be eaten alive, but that doesn’t mean you have to rule by intimidation.

“The way to keep from being intimidated is having a good knowledge of the rules. My judgment may be off on a play, but if I have a good grasp of the rules and I hustle. I’m in control, but I don’t have to prove it.”

Not convinced. Go ahead and argue with the ump. He has been on the point in Vietnam and has stepped on a booby trap taking shrapnel in the arm. A bullet has gone through his helmet and traveled across his head before doing its damage on Christmas Eve, 1966. He has also been shot in the leg. Three wounds in a span of 10 months, an early ticket home from Vietnam, and do you think the man in blue is going to get uptight because an unhappy softball player has chosen to stare him down?

“These guys go to work, the wife may be on their cases because they’re playing ball two or three nights a week, they have a stressful job with mortgage payments and they come out to unwind,” the umpire says. “Hey, I was a pistol in my days. I’ve been there.

“Really, the thing you hear the most is, ‘I’ve been playing for 30 years and that’s the worst call I have ever seen.’ That’s fine, I tell them to stick around--the night’s young. It’s very simple; the umpire is just the medium for these guys to vent their frustrations.”

On this night he is also the medium for momentary escape, and although WYSIWYG should have kept the bats in the bag, Newton has found peace.

“I’m glad I came,” he says. “I didn’t tell Norris about my brother because I knew he’d be upset and I didn’t want to ruin everyone’s good time. But I’ll tell him next time.”

And the man in blue will extend condolences--and then probably call him out at first.