Take the Heat--and the 40 Bucks

Occasionally, when the gods of baseball frown down upon you, and the first furnace blasts of summer blow across the infield, you will be called upon to umpire a Little League game. Go ahead. It’s only your life we’re talking about.

“Wanna make 40 bucks?” the league commissioner asks.

“Does it involve any nudity?”

“That’s up to you,” he says.

See, apparently a guy can lead a somewhat virtuous life, pay the bills, find the door to church now and then. He can feed the dog, keep the lawn looking like Augusta and do all sorts of other good fatherly deeds.

Still, he will be called on to umpire, to enter sports’ most-select purgatory in nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of Reagan-era shorts. My advice? Go for it.

“I’ve got a little broom,” says the commissioner, a lovely man with a lawyer’s smile.

“A broom?”

“To brush off home plate,” he says, holding the whisk broom like a bouquet.

Over at the other field, the scheduled umpire has failed to show up, leaving a playoff game without anyone to call balls and strikes. As we pack up from our own game, the commissioner comes to us for volunteers. In the suburbs, it’s how heroes are born.

“You wanna do it?” I ask Bill, my assistant coach, who’s a risk-taker by nature but in this case mumbles something about having to shave his back.

“How about you?” I ask Steve, another assistant.

“Only at gunpoint,” he says.

“Forty bucks,” says the commissioner again.

Now, to a lot of people in Los Angeles, 40 bucks is a valet tip. So there’s this smirking assumption that I don’t need the 40 bucks or that I am too proud to take it. Boy, are they wrong.

“Cash?” I ask.

“Sure,” says the commissioner.

“When do I see the money?” I ask.

Because here’s another thing about Los Angeles: You always demand the money upfront. Just ask Spielberg or Katzenberg. Ask any of the Bergs. In L.A., you get the money upfront or you don’t get it at all. It’s part of the culture. Like fake lips or Valium.

And so far, all I’ve seen is this lousy whisk broom and a cheap plastic umpire’s clicker. I want my 40 bucks.

“Hey, where’s the 40?” I yell as the commissioner walks away.

“You’ll never see the 40,” Coach Bill assures me.

“Tell me about it,” I say.

By the time I reach the field, there’s already a dispute. The game hasn’t even started, and the coaches are arguing over something to do with the stolen-base rule.

I stand there listening to the argument, pretending this is the most important issue since the Oslo accords.

“I want a raise,” I tell the commissioner after 20 seconds.

“Who said anything about money?” he asks.

Then he gives me tips on my strike zone, which is a little personal, really. Strike zones are like fingerprints or hairlines. Every umpire’s is different.

“Not too high,” the commissioner says.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I say.

“Or too low,” he says.

“Listen,” I finally say. “I don’t like to get locked into definitions.”

“Whatever,” the commissioner says, and just walks away again, late for his pedicure and massage.

The game goes well. Since I don’t have umpire’s gear, I call it from behind the pitcher’s mound. Fortunately, there are only a couple of close plays that threaten to escalate into World War III.

The coaches bark at me, then at each other, then at their players. It’s like open-mike night at the psych ward, except there is less medication available and no one is standing by with stun guns. On deck, a little girl waits to bat.

“Play ball!” I finally say.

“Finally,” says the pitcher.

“Yeah, finally,” says the catcher.

I bear down early in the game because I’m a little nervous and don’t want to rile the crowd or seem incompetent, though that’s never really been a big concern of mine.

“Good call, ump,” the little shortstop says at one point.

“Shows what you know,” I say, and she actually winks at me.

Then, in the third inning I relax a little, and my strike zone starts to move. It’s the worst thing in umpiring, this floating strike zone. No one seems to notice.

In the fourth inning, my mucous membranes dry up in the afternoon heat, and I begin thinking about the upcoming Tyson fight.

I think about how I have to reserve 16 seats at the sports bar for my knucklehead friends and their knucklehead sons. It will be a knucklehead evening, dedicated to knuckleheads everywhere, including Tyson himself. Between pitches, I laugh a little.

“Water?” asks Coach Brian after the inning is over.

“Sure,” I say.

Amazingly, the other team does not accuse him of a bribe.

In the fifth inning, the shimmering heat makes me a little woozy. My fingers curl as if holding a beer.

I begin to dream about retirement and a little fishing spot near a cool creek, where I’ll catch brook trout and the occasional freshwater mermaid.

“Strike three!” I blurt out at one point. “ ... Or is that four?”

“Good call,” says the shortstop.

Coach Brian, noticing that my spinal cord has collapsed, pours water on my head as if hosing down a hot radiator.

“He OK?” I hear a parent ask.

“Just dizzy,” someone answers.

“Where do they get these guys?” another parent asks.

“Where’s the money?” I mumble.

If you ever get tapped to be an umpire, here are three things to remember:

* Invariably, there will be some rule dispute over an issue that comes up only once every 150 years.

* At some point, you will forget the ball-and-strike count while thinking about a margarita and the good-looking scorekeeper, who’s 45, old enough to be your mother. Wait, you’re 45. Never mind.

* With the winning run on third, a line drive will threaten to drill you in the private place.

Other than that, umpiring is great exercise and a terrific way to make a little extra cash.

I recommend it to anybody.