He’s Not Ready for Last Call

Shortly after 7 o’clock tonight, a square man dressed in gray, chest protector and mask in place, will squat down behind the catcher and they will play ball at Dodger Stadium. His name is Bruce Froemming, and he has done this thousands of times in a career that is in its 36th year.

He is an umpire. Actually, he is the prototype. If Hollywood did a movie, they’d send 27 yuppies to study him.

Quickly, they would figure out that umpires aren’t tall and lanky. They need some girth to absorb all the brickbats thrown their way. They need to be feisty, not shy. They need to be half cop, half priest. The meek shall inherit the earth, but they don’t call balls and strikes.

For something approaching 5,000 games in the major leagues, Froemming has not been meek. Kick sand on his home plate and expect to shower early.

He is 67 now, and has grown into one of the game’s true characters and legends. He has worked five World Series, 10 league championship series and eight divisional playoff series, the last two records. He is the longest-serving active major league umpire and will match Bill Klem’s 37 years when he takes the field for the first time next April. He also will top the 5,000-game mark in August, building on his legacy, which is important to him.

He need not worry.

This is a man who was once asked about his eyesight, and responded, “The sun is 93 million miles away, and I can see that.”

In 1972, with the Cubs’ Milt Pappas within one out of a perfect game and a 2-and-2 count on the batter, Froemming called the final two pitches balls. Pappas got the no-hitter, but to this day is bitter about missing the perfect game.

“It’s gotten ugly now,” Froemming said. “Right after the game, he said the 3-2 pitch had missed, but as time has gone on, that pitch has gotten better and better.”

Sportswriters have hated Froemming and loved him.

In the minors years ago in Duluth, Minn., he took some heat from a writer and threw the entire press box out of the game. When the writers moved too slowly, or didn’t move at all, Froemming called off the game. “I made a mistake there,” he said. “It was the first day we were in town. We had games the rest of the week. The sportswriter I ran off ripped me every day the rest of the week in his column.”

The late Jim Murray, Times Pulitzer Prize winner, once wrote of Froemming: “For him, it’s a calling, not a job. Something like holy orders. A sacrament, not a profession.”

Managers have hated Froemming and loved him.

Tuesday night at Dodger Stadium marked perhaps the 1,500th reunion of Froemming and Tom Lasorda, Dodger vice president and longtime manager.

“Let me tell you about Froemming,” Lasorda said, not waiting for a go-ahead. “He’s tossed me so many times, I can’t even count. It was never justified.”

Froemming countered quickly, “It was always justified.”

Lasorda, taking the floor back, said, “I was ready for him one time. I found out the name of his dog. I go out to argue with him, and I say, ‘You know what else, Caesar doesn’t like you, either.’ ”

Lasorda once had to try three others before he got Froemming to toss him. “I went out there, got after the guy at the plate,” Lasorda recalled. “Nothing. No reaction. I went to first base. Same thing. Kept going to second and the guy didn’t even look at me. So I made the turn and there is Bruce at third. He looks at me, says, ‘Well, you made the cycle, and now you’re out of here.’ ”

Froemming said, “First true story he ever told.”

Froemming has traveled a long road to his current status. He lives in the Milwaukee suburb of Mequon now, as well as in Vero Beach in the winter, and officiated every level of high school basketball and baseball in Milwaukee. On the recommendation of Al McGuire, he got a shot at the NBA, but turned that down when his mentor, the late Al Barlick, pushed him toward the majors.

He has been through union battles and political fights, been suspended once for 10 games for an anti-Semitic outburst -- he thought he had hung up the phone after a conversation with a female league official -- and had major heart surgery 14 years ago.

So there isn’t much left, except for continuing to do something he loves as long as he is capable. He has been a crew chief for 20 years and has been around so long that one of his crew, Brian Runge, is the son of Paul Runge, a contemporary of Froemming.

“I used to baby-sit for Brian,” Froemming said.

One goal remains important. Froemming hasn’t worked a World Series since 1995. Seems like, if baseball has a heart, that can be handled.

Maybe they’ll invite Lasorda, and Froemming can throw him out of the box seats.

Bill Dwyre can be reached at Bill.Dwyre@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Dwyre, go to latimes.com/dwyre.