I was in St. Louis and it was raining lightly. The surface of the field was Astroturf. I was umpiring at third base, and somebody hit a ball that I thought was going to be trouble for the outfielder, so I turned and started to head to the outfield.
I realized that the left fielder had played the batter short and wasn’t going to have any problems getting to the ball, so I planted my left leg and spun on it to go back to the third-base bag, because there was a runner on second and I didn’t want to take a chance leaving it open. When I spun on the Astroturf, my rubber-soled shoes caught—that was the danger of Astroturf. The shoes we wore had rubber nubs in them and they would catch on the Astroturf, and that’s what blew out my knee. That left leg seemed to be my nemesis, and by the end of the 1992 season the pain took much of the joy I felt from the job. It was just too painful to continue.
The doctor said I’d be out of action for eight to ten weeks, but I couldn’t stand not being out on the field, and I came back after five weeks. I had been taken off the 1992 All-Star Game because the league hadn’t expected me to be back in time, but I called and told them to put me back on the game.
“Doug,” I was told, “the doctor says you can’t work that game.”
“I don’t give a goddamn what the doctor says,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
I was stubborn. I shouldn’t have tried to come back so soon. My leg pained me the rest of the 1992 season, and before the end of the year I announced my retirement.
For my final game after thirty-one years of umpiring in the major leagues, the league office called and said, “Both teams want you to work the plate.”
“I worked the plate yesterday,” I said.
“They would like you to work the plate for your last game,” I was told.
I agreed.
The Astros were playing against the Dodgers, and neither team was going to the play-offs. I decided to have a little fun. Before the game I asked both teams what the game would mean.
“It’ll mean about four hundred dollars per man,” one of the managers said.
“Fuck,” I said, “they spend that on tips in one night. Boys, ain’t nothing on the line for either of you, so send them up swinging.”
In front of the two managers I drew two lines, each one about six inches from the left and right sides of the plate. Bob Gibson would have been thrilled.
“Toes to the nose,” I said. “That’s what I’m going to call. And if I get one run, it’s all over.”
It was the fastest game that season, by far—one hour and forty-four minutes, and everyone, including me, caught his plane.
After the game, I came back out to the empty stadium to take one last look. I took my wad of chew and placed it right in the middle of home plate. Then I walked away.
I was done.
As much as I loved my job, nothing lasts forever. I had told my wife, Joy, I would quit when it no longer was fun, and in 1992, after I injured myself, it stopped being fun.
National League president Bill White called me in May the next season.
“Doug, I want you back.”
“I’m already drawing my retirement,” I said.
“I’ll let you keep your retirement, and I’ll give you your same salary, two hundred thousand dollars a year,” White said.
“It takes too much out of me,” I said. “I’m ten percent off on the strike zone.”
“You don’t have to umpire at home plate,” White said. “You can even umpire at third base each game. The thing is, I want you on the field. I need you.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No,” he said. “You run a better game than anybody. And I want you out there.”
Bill wanted me there in case of trouble. It was said that I settled trouble better than anybody. But I believe a man’s word is his bond, and I had promised Joy I would quit, so I turned him down.
“Once I quit,” I told White, “I promised the wife it would be over with.”
Do I regret having made that decision?
Only every day of my life.
A year later, I thought about it and realized I should have taken it. I’m not one to show off and do something just because it would have made me look good. It would have been different, something never done before. I’m not that type of person.
But I miss it. I miss it every day.