Wife Goes to Bat for Her Man at the Plate

As the nation’s eyes have been transfixed on the King of Swing, mine have been glued elsewhere.

They have been on the guy behind the big bat, the man in blue. You see, there are days when he is my husband. Behind every ball, strike and swing of Mark McGwire’s bat is an umpire, and he just might be married to me.

My husband, Brian, wasn’t behind home plate Tuesday when McGwire smashed his record-breaking 62nd home run into history. But he has been there many nights. And I have often been in the stands behind him.

Not many people join sellout crowds to watch their husbands at work. Even fewer sit in silence as 40,000-plus people hang on his every movement on the field. In my case, it’s not the slugger who gets center stage. It’s the umpire.

We have been together since the low minor leagues. In the New York-Penn Rookie League, Brian called balls and strikes on a guy named John Elway. Back then, before his football stardom, he was just another of many minor league players and umpires with the dream of making it to “The Show.”

We certainly have come a long way since those days to this exciting season of baseball. In the minor leagues, there were only a few hundred people in the stands. Now as the sellout crowds fill each major league park, I have a hard time even seeing him make the strike call that I know so well.

In this unusual season, I have watched as Brian was jeered for calling both balls and strikes on our baseball hero. About the only thing he could do to make spectators happy is to watch in silence as McGwire sent another baseball above and beyond the outfield fence.

Between those dingers, however, there were many pitches to be called. I have watched from the safety of our Camarillo home as other umpires have come under scrutiny for those calls.

There was a recent incident in which McGwire admittedly crossed the line in questioning another umpire’s judgment. The riotous onlookers at the ballpark that day in St. Louis turned dangerous. The game had to be stopped in order to calm down the crowd. The wife and mother of one of the umpires had to be escorted from their seats during the game by security guards for their protection.

All this was over one decision by a man trying to do his job, an umpire.

As a result of these sometimes perilous situations, umpires and their families have access to security personnel 24 hours a day. We keep a phone number handy in case we should ever need to summon help. We hope to never have to dial that number.

As my husband always says, baseball fans often forget that umpires are people, too. Even umpires have a mother, a wife, a family. Even umpires have feelings. Most importantly, even umpires have a few voices in the crowd that are cheering for them, no matter who is at bat.

It has been fun to see others excited about baseball again. Everyone around town stops me wanting to talk about the home run chase. The words “blown call” haven’t come up once this summer. This year, everyone is watching those bullets sail over the crowd in left field.

The crack of the bat is bringing smiles back to the faces of the fans. My husband comes from a baseball family that has always loved the game. I come from Chicago, and grew up loving a losing team with a cute Cubby Bear logo.

The Gorman family has been involved in the game of baseball for a long time. Before my husband joined the staff of the National League, his father, Tom, was an umpire in the same league for 27 years.

Occasionally when sitting in the stands, I smile and think of a great story Brian’s father used to tell about my mother-in-law. Shortly after they were married, he had a few close plays that set off the hometown crowd.

To his surprise, Tom looked up into the stands to see his new bride whacking a noisy fan over the head with her pocketbook. She did what every umpire’s wife dreams of doing.

The Gormans also know something about baseball records. Tom was behind the plate when Bob Gibson set a record of 17 strikeouts in Game 1 of the 1968 World Series. Later when working the banquet circuit, Tom jokingly would say that Gibson only had 10 strikeouts; the other seven were called strikes.

Tom Gorman also was behind the plate in Game 7 of the 1968 World Series when Roger Maris took his last swing as a major league baseball player.

When this phenomenal baseball season ends, Brian will be on the field with Mark McGwire in St. Louis in the final game of McGwire’s season. Before catching a plane home to spend the off-season in Ventura County, he has a chance to witness another thing of splendor: He may see the ball projecting off the bat of the Paul Bunyan of baseball for the last time this year.

Brian could be the umpire on the field to raise his arm, signaling the last home run in this spectacular contest. If so, he will be witnessing the final act in a drama that will probably never be surpassed in his major league career.

Regardless of how many more home runs McGwire has hit by then, each new homer would mean a record. I asked my husband this past weekend: What would you say to McGwire?

He wouldn’t say anything, he told me, but he would hope that in the excitement of the moment McGwire wouldn’t forget to touch home plate!

That would force Brian to call him out, nullifying the home run. Probably not a popular move, but the sort of thing an umpire does.

Anyone who was watching Tuesday’s record-shattering run saw McGwire plant both feet firmly on the dish before rushing into the arms of his teammates.

And, as the game stood still, they saw the umpires gather around home plate to witness the legendary moment.

When all the celebration died down, it was the umpire’s job to do what he does after every at bat: Sweep off the plate in preparation for the next batter--brush off the imprint of the record-setting blast.

In the end, the game must go on. And it is the job of the umpire, my man in blue, to ensure that it does.

Marsha Gorman is a Times staff photographer.

* MAIN COVERAGE: A1, C1