The guy in the other bed fell asleep during Charlie’s Angels, so when this nice old volunteer nurse named Abby passed the door I called her in and asked if she would look for a ballgame.
She found Tommy Lasorda yelling at the home plate umpire.
“ Well now,” she said, “he doesn’t look very pleased.”
“Thanks, Abby,” I told her, wanting to watch this.
“So how ya feelin’ today, hon?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“If you need anything else, you just—”
“I will. Thank you.”
Lasorda had his cap turned sideways so he could get right up in the guy’s face, the ump just letting him vent, looking a little bored, in fact. But Lasorda must have said something special because all of a sudden, just like that, the ump threw him out. And after a few more words Lasorda marched off, tossing remarks over his shoulder, the ump ignoring him now, putting his mask back on, pointing at the pitcher to go ahead and throw. And the game resumed.
I never really thought about umpires before, but that was quite cool how he handled that. I especially admired the way he pointed at the pitcher, like saying, Yes, I’m the boss. Now let’s move on.
The rest of the game I kept my eye on him. I enjoyed his strike-three call, like starting up a chain saw, and tried it out—a mistake, with my ribs.
But they were getting better. So was the neck and the knee. And after the game I lay there thinking.
Next day I made some phone calls.
“You’re the boss,” I whisper.
I’m in the parking lot at the trunk of my Nash, getting ready for tonight’s game, my very first behind the plate: cup, shin guards, chest protector, ball bag, brush, clicker, breath mints.
“You … are … the boss.”
I grab my mask, slam the trunk, and stride on out to the field.
In the pre-game ground-rules meeting at home plate, I introduce myself to the opposing coaches and we shake hands. They both know the base umpire—Butter, short for Butter-ball—and all three stand around joking about his beer gut. I give them a minute before interrupting:
“Gentlemen, if we can get started here?”
They trade looks.
Let them. I’m the boss.
After thoroughly brushing off the plate, I step behind the catcher, shout “Play ball,” and here we go, here it comes: my first pitch.
Outside corner at the knees.
“Striiike” and I punch air.
The batter gives me a look but no lip.
I remember to click “strike” on my indicator.
Next one’s a tad low and I grunt, “Ball”
The catcher leaves his glove there, trying to show me up.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, and he tosses the ball back.
Then a foul out of play and I grab a new ball from the bag at my hip and fire it out to the mound.
“One ball, two strikes!” I announce, holding up the appropriate fingers.
Then an off-speed pitch and the batter freezes, the ball cuts the inside corner of the plate knee-high and I start up a chain saw, hollering, “Haaa!”
Meaning, Strike three, go sit down, I’m the boss.
Two innings go by with barely a peep out of anyone. They can see how locked-in I am, how absolutely certain: that’s a strike, that’s a ball. Not opinions, facts.
Then in the third inning a close play at the plate, all dust and limbs, but the runner’s in under the tag and I fling out my arms crying “Saaaafe!”
The catcher throws a tantrum, jumping up and down in front of me: “No! No! No! No!”
I hold up my hand and tell the fellow, “Enough. Let’s go. Play ball.” And the game resumes.
I’m pretty sure I know what Butter over there is thinking by now:
This guy is good.
Then in the sixth inning I call a strike on the outside corner and the batter turns to me with a look, not of anger, but of genuine amazement: “Are you serious}” he says.
I tell him I’m quite serious. But the look on his face concerns me a little, just a tiny little bit.
The next pitch is exactly as close but on the inside corner and for a moment I hesitate.
“Ball” I decide.
“ What?” cries the pitcher, with the same genuine amazement as the batter on the previous pitch.
And am I imagining this or is the batter smirking to himself, thinking he influenced my call? If that’s the case, I’d like to assure him he is very much mistaken. And although the next pitch is low I decide it may have caught the knees.
“Striiike!”
He drops his arms and shakes his head at the darkness above the lights, his teammates in the third base dugout speaking for him.
“That sucks!”
“Get in the game!”
I don’t look. The call did not suck. The pitch was at his knees. Or thereabouts. And anyway, what about all the good calls I’ve made?
The next pitch is very high and outside.
“Ball”
“Good eye, ump!” from a sarcastic fan.
I don’t hear it.
Yes, I do.
The next one is inside and I call it a ball and nobody squawks and I feel in control again after a little bumpy stretch there. “Full count” I announce, holding up three-and-two fingers.
All right, here we go, you’re the boss, here it comes …
It’s high.
A little.
I think.
Or is it.
I don’t know.
Call something.
“Striiike!”
The batter slams his bat on the plate. “You are fucking pitiful,” he tells me, and stalks back to the dugout.
I don’t have to take that. It’s one thing to say the call is pitiful, but to say I am pitiful, and not just pitiful but fucking pitiful …
I should eject him, I know. But I stand there, hands on my hips, feeling pitiful.
After the inning Butter comes strolling over. “Don’t let these guys get to you. Just start tossing ’em.”
I give a laugh and tell him this is nothing. I tell him he should try umping winter ball in Mexico some time. “Down there if they don’t like a call they come after you—with tequila bottles. I’m not shittin’ ya. Unbelievable.”
He nods, agreeing.
“This is a day at the beach,” I tell him. “This is a walk in the—”
“You like Mexican food?” he asks.
“It’s all right.”
He starts telling me about a Mexican restaurant he goes to a lot.
“Hey, Butter,” a player yells. “Got a full moon!”
“Do it, man,” another says. “Go for it.”
Hands in his pockets, Butter bends his knees a little, throws back his head, shuts his eyes and begins howling.
Everyone laughs, urging him on. And it is funny, this little roly-poly guy letting loose:
“ Ow-ow-owoooooo!”
We’re all laughing together.
Next inning I try being friendlier in the way I make my calls.
Not so bossy.
“Well, that’s a strike. Ju-u-ust caught the corner.”
Or: “That’s a ball. Close, but no cigar.”
It doesn’t work. The first questionable call, they’re all over me again.
They seem to despise me.
When they don’t agree with one of Butter’s calls they say things like, “Aw, Butter, c’mon, man, jeez” When they don’t like one of mine they tell me I’m worthless and pathetic.
They found out I’m not really the boss. That I’m not really anything at all. That I go from job to job to job. That I’m back with my parents now.
That next month I’ll be thirty.
By the eighth inning every pitch looks like a strike and/or a ball. I try to be fair, this time calling it a strike, next time a ball.
I overhear the first baseman asking Butter, “Where’d you get this guy?”
I don’t quite hear Butter’s reply. Sounds like, “Mexico.”
Then, in the top of the ninth, I call a strike on the lead-off batter and he actually bursts out laughing. He holds up his hand for “time” as he staggers out of the box, laughing and shaking his head.
That’s it. I will not tolerate laughter. I whip off my mask and tell him, “You’re outa the game!”
That stops him. “I’m what}” he says.
“Out of the game,” I repeat. “Ejected. Gone.” I point off the field for him to leave.
“What the hell for?”
“Unsportsmanlike laughter. Let’s go.”
“You’re a nutcase. Hey, Butter.”
“Never mind Butter. Off the field. Let’s go. Now.”
Butter comes trotting over. “What’s up?”
“He’s throwing me out for laughing. I can’t laugh? What is this, Russia?
“My call,” I tell Butter, in case he’s thinking of interfering.
“That’s right. Up to you,” he says. “I don’t know what you’ll write in your report, but…”
“Outright and prolonged laughter intending to provoke,” I tell him, as if quoting the Book.
Butter shrugs. “So toss him.”
“Butter!”
“His call, Eddie.”
I decide to be lenient and give this “Eddie” a warning. I point my finger at him: “No more laughter. Not a snicker.” I slam on my mask. “Let’s go. Play ball.”
Butter trots back and Eddie steps into the batter’s box again.
As the pitcher is peering in for the catcher’s sign, I notice Eddie’s bat begin vibrating. I look at him and he’s trembling all over in the effort to keep from laughing. The pitcher, amused by this, steps off the rubber and stands there chuckling softly. The catcher sits back on his heels, giggling along. Then Eddie finally lets go, reeling out of the box, dragging his bat, laughing loud and high. The fielders all join in. I look over at Butter and he turns away, his shoulders working.
I walk off the field.
Driving home, I still have all my gear on, even the mask.