Middle-aged man trips on 9 year old. Photos to follow!!

I have a hobby. While some guys hunt, fish, collect sport memoriable or fix up old cars I ref basketball games and umpire Little League baseball games. It’s something that I started last fall and enjoy a great deal. Its helped me meet new people, get into shape and breathed new life into this middle-aged guys life. While not every game is a pleasure to work, the vast majority are. I’m happy with it. As promised a month or so ago, I now have photographic evidence of me umpiring a baseball game. The following photos were taken by our daughter Macy who sat through a game (in a drizzling rain) and earned $20 off her IPod debt to me. I think that she did great.

The game starts with a pregame conference with two captains from each team and a coach. Home team is decided by a coin flip and ground rules are established. “There’s a gopher hole in left field, if the ball goes into it, it’s a ground rule double. Home plates open, five run limit until the final inning. Slide if it’s gonna be close and my strike zone is ‘nipples to knees’ with the inside and outside of the plate a strike.” That sort of thing.

Time for the ground rules and coin flip. Each coach stands beside me (the one to my right is barely visible)

I cracked a joke with the coach.

Being behind home plate is both exciting and scary. It’s the best seat in the house if the pitcher and catcher are on the same page. If they’re not on the same page I get hit with pitches and it SUCKS. The catchers in this game were good. If you want to find out how fit your thighs and knees are, crouch behind a nine year old for an hour and a half.

Check out the view down the third base line. A great place for a game!

Fans don’t always know what’s going on (or players and coaches for that matter) so consistent mechanics/signals for strikes, balls, outs and the like are valuable. The outfielders should be able to know what’s going on.

Its not “disco night” at the ball park (as our 17 year old suggested) but a foul tip.

“AAAAIIIIKKKKEEE!!!” That’s how I call strikes.

You live and you learn. In officiating basketball and baseball it’s a lot about angles and moving to improve your view of the game and plays. As the lone umpire in the majority of my baseball games I’m responsible for calls everywhere. First base, yep. Second base, you betcha. Third base you ask…why certainly. Home plate…stop it…you’re embarrassing yourself. Even the outfield gets my undivided attention when the ball heads that way. When there’s a grounder hit to the infield yours truly is on the heels of the batter/runner chasing him up the first base line (I hope that he doesn’t stop or I’m apt to run his prepubescent ass over…you just can’t stop one hundred and seventy pounds on a dime, ladies and gentlemen) I slow up and take in the throw (force play) from about ten feet away verses from home plate. Coaches are much less apt to argue a call when they see a guy their age (or older) haulin’ ass up thirty or forty feet of baseline just to get a better view and make a more informed call. And it carries over to other parts of the game too.

Tearing out from behind home plate. (Even high-tech digital cameras have a difficult time capturing my lightning quick sprint, or the camera was out of focus…its one of those two.

A different view. I haven’t trampled a runner…yet.

Wherever the play is I bust ass to get there. Recently this led to a problem.

There was a base runner on first base. The kid at bat had just hit the ball to deep right field. I could see that the base runner that was at first was going to try to score so I stayed between third base and home plate to cover anything as it developed. It looked like the defense was setting up for a play at second base so I ran there to cover the play on the batter-runner. The right fielder (a sweet boy I’m sure) muffed the throw and it went towards home plate where the former first base runner had slowed down between third base and home plate so I ran from second base back to home plate where there was no play BUT the batter runner was rounding second base and chugging towards third. (he was a freckled faced chunk, huffing and puffing his way along the bases) The catcher whipped the ball towards third where the third baseman was perfectly set up to receive the throw (if he was ten feet tall) though the ball sailed over his head (I’d just arrived at third base then) and the runner (God bless him) continues chugging right past me, this time towards home plate. (CRAP!! I HAD OVERRUN MY ANGLE!!) As I spun around towards home plate I could see that the catcher was set up to receive the ball and block the plate. I could see the back of the base runner, now half way to home plate and me…(I’m not making this up) almost falling flat on my face. In the reversal of going from home plate to third then back to home plate I became top heavy and started one of those “legs not being able to keep up with the top half of my body” like you see on America’s Funniest Home Videos. I was in a perfect position to do a number of cartwheels if I had that kind of ability, but (thank God) I pulled out of it and with the ball flying in over my right shoulder towards home, and the runner sliding under the catcher but not yet at the plate the ball tipped off the top of the catcher’s mitt and back to the back stop. That didn’t stop the catcher from applying a tag but I got to home plate just in time to point to the ball (now rolling away) collect myself (wait two seconds) and yell “THE RUNNERS SAFE!!!”. I called “time” and took my time brushing off home plate and to catch my breath.

I just about fell again running up the first base line later in that same game…I think that I was tired…jeez). My point is…coaches appreciate that hustle and I appreciate not being second guessed AND I think that the boys deserve someone giving a damn enough to hustle…even if it kills me…which it might.

Umpiring groupies wanting my autograph. No seriously, the lady in the red chair is one of the score keepers, but the other ladies are most definitely groupies…giggling like school girls…not so much.

And checking in with the scorekeepers between innings keeps both teams from claiming a victory if you’re on top of things. When I stay on top of the details, however small, coaches are more apt to coach and not question my ability and we spend more time playing ball than talking…which is what the boys came to do and folks came to watch.

Have a great Memorial Day Weekend.
Peace.
R

Why I do what I do…if that makes any sense

I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was sometime in the late nineteen seventies. We had to drive to Wyoming Iowa to play our first little league baseball game. Back in the day we wore some old, grey (I swear) WOOL uniforms. They were hot, scratchy and ill fitting but we were all happy to wear them as they had our hometowns name stitched on the front “Bennett”. We were “representing” our town (even though I doubt the towns elders agreed with that decision). We were old school, wearing stir-ups over our white (soon to be dirt colored) socks and we were totally unprepared, undermanned and outgunned by the Wyoming squad. At the beginning of the top half of the last inning the score was Bennett Little League 0, Wyoming 13. Lambs led to the slaughter Anyway, the once invincible goon that Wyoming had as a pitcher had lost control of his Mach five fast ball and had beaned two of our batters and walked another. The bases were loaded with two outs when yours truly stepped up to the plate (there was a run rule in place, capping how many runs we could score in an inning, so don’t get your hopes up for a monumental comeback and win that only the writers of Disney movies dream up). I smashed (SMASHED) a pitch over the leftfielders head (I can still see the ball in the late day sun, arching over his head as he turned to chase it down. I tripled, clearing the bases for three RBI’s and getting that goose-egg off the scoreboard for good old Bennett. Our next batter struck out, game over. I still remember it, it was the best hit of my five year baseball career. That was almost forty years ago.I umpire baseball games now, and try as I might I cannot figure out why I enjoy it so much. I took some photos at my game last night and I think that they help explain why I like it.

Fross Park in Center Point Iowa. Four fields, concessions and modern restrooms. Can you say “family friendly”?

My view from behind home plate for the next ninety minutes. NTS (not too shabby)

Just beyond the right field fence is a great looking playground (I stayed off the corkscrew slide for once)

…and post game. The sun sets as the coaches review the game with the boys, folks start to head home and I feel great. Don’t ask me why. Its like a drug.

The game keeps me humble. In a game a couple of weeks ago I lost the correct ball and strike count on a young man. I thought that I had it right. I called him out on a third strike, which he didn’t swing at. He returned to his dugout. His coach called out that they only had him at two strikes, the opposing coach said the same thing. So there I am, “in charge” and screwing up. I know why I messed up, there’s no excuse though. I’m paid to do my job correctly and fairly. I called the young man back out from his dugout. Accorded him plenty of time to get back into the batters box, and I APOLOGIZED to him. He took the next two pitches, raising the count to full (three balls and two strikes). This little, scrawny, blonde haired, buried in the batting order at the eighth or ninth spot then SMASHED the next pitch to deep center field. No one saw it coming, especially the center fielder; oh…and the bases were loaded. Were. His double cleared the bases. Damn…I almost cost him a double, three RBI’s, his team three runs and perhaps…a life-long memory…one that may last forty odd years.

I promised myself then…that I had to do a helluva lot better job. Humbled, honored and having fun.

Peace,
R

Staycation…day three

So its Day Three of my May Staycation 2013 and going wonderfully. Its been several weeks since my last post so I’ll just post a few observations:

As I drove my Mother towards the rural cemetery were Dad is buried we had to take a detour off of the county road onto a gravel road that I was unfamiliar with. I learned to drive on gravel roads so I’m good with them, and if you’ve never met a tractor with a big-ass fold-up type of disc hogging most of the road while you navigate the declining edge of a gravel strewn road (getting out of the normal track) while doing forty….then you just ain’t lived yet. Anywho…we were slightly lost on these particular gravel roads (I spent most of my time on western Scott and eastern Cedar county gravel roads, driving my ’72 Ford Maverick like I stole it…its an art form). I remembered that I had recently joined the rest of civilization and had a smart phone in my truck and proceeded to ask Siri (the Apple computer voice “know it all” wiseass) for directions to Bennett, IA. My mother thought that I was talking to her and started up with “What? I don’t know…” until I shushed her and told her that I was talking to the phone(and that drew a look of “WTH” from my eighty year old mother). Within ten seconds we had our directions and Mom asked me how it worked. I explained it as best as I could “hold this and tell me when it tells us to turn”. It works…and Mom’s still a helluva co-pilot.

As a first year umpire I’m learning the ropes as fast as I can. I’m really enjoying it for the most part, except for the eight year old catcher who didn’t want to be a catcher and let two of the first three pitches that he was supposed to catch hit me directly from the pitchers hand to my facemask and shoulder. I was fine, but kind of disgusted. I called “time” then put my hand on his shoulder and told him “son…I don’t have a glove, you do. You need to catch those pitches or at least deflect them.” He did better after that. The pitchers mother caught up to me in the parking lot after the game and apologized. I told her that it wasn’t her sons fault that the catcher wasn’t catching the balls and her reply was priceless “I know…but my son just kept hitting you!” Thank God for good protective equipment!!

I was working as plate umpire at a small town this past week (I love small towns). As plate umpire I’ll “command” the batter to step into the batters box if I feel the game is being held up with him screwing around practicing his swing, etc. I’ll usually say something like “red…step into the box” if that team is wearing red, or if they’re the “Mustangs” I’ll say “Mustang” in place of “red” (its a horribly complicated system, I know). So I was in the town of Walker and since both teams were wearing blue uniforms I looked at the Walker batter and said “Walker…step into the box” and the catcher (a twelve year old mind you) turned to me with a smile on his face and said “A PUN!! WALKER STEP INTO THE BOX!” Funny stuff that I’m not making up.

Later in that same game a pitch skipped under the catcher and bounced UP and hit me squarely were men don’t care to be hit. The field umpire said that I made an audible “OOOFFFFFFF” when it hit me. I remember calling “time” and standing, taking a couplea small steps towards the third base line. I heard someone from the Walker dugout ask “blue…you okay?” To say I was light-headed is an understatement. As I was coming around to feeling a little better I looked out to see my partner Todd, instructing the pitcher how to do something (he was buying me some time) and he shot me a smile and look that said “take your time, I got this.” I got back behind the plate and the coach of the catcher who had just missed that passed pitch yelled “CATCH THE BALL OR WE’LL NEVER GET ANOTHER “STRIKE” CALLED FROM THIS UMP!!”

After the game I was at the trunk of my partners car, taking off my gear. As I said earlier it was a small town. Cattle grazed fifteen feet from us. We parked on a grass lot and giant grain bins were sprinkled around the neighborhood IN TOWN. The smell of hot dogs being grilled, freshly mown grass, and a ting of cigarette smoke wafted through the air. It was sundown and they had just turned on the field lights, time for game two and the field was being groomed and looked pristine. An old farmer in new bib overalls, a plaid shirt wearing a cap that read “NAVY SEABEES” slowly made his way past me. I asked “aren’t you staying for the second game?” He looked up and said “nope…those boys didn’t show much fight, so we’re heading home.” Then he stopped, took a step back towards me, put his hand on my shoulder and with a twinkle in his eyes and wry smile on his lips said “I see ya took one LOW tonight.” I replied “yes I did…and I don’t care to take another for quite a while!” We shared a good laugh, we both moved on, him to home and me safely to the first base foul line…none the worse for wear. I surveyed the gorgeous sunset, took off my cap and thanked the Lord for the moment. I hope that you have great moments like this too.

Have a good week,
peace,
R

That was a strike…did you get that?

Probably one of the main reasons that I enjoy officiating both basketball and baseball is getting out of my routine, taking on a challenge and getting out of my comfort zone. At this stage of my life most things are routine, predictable and boring; though try getting behind an 8 old year catcher who’s attempting to snag a pitch from the air from his 8 year old teammate before it hits either of you is something altogether different. Try to position yourself in the right place for two different base-runners one trying to head to third base while the other is rounding first with sights on second with the throw coming in from left field. Will the cut off man throw to second or third OR throw to home OR overthrow second or third? It’s fun for me…plain and simple.

Its not very often that I get to work a “big boys” game (twelve year olds and up). Those games require two umpires, one behind the plate while the other is somewhere on the field. While I work these games not as often as I like, they give me a different vantage point from which to observe the game, and during breaks…the people. Like last week during an especially beautiful day, while the team warmed up a new pitcher I noticed a little girl, barefoot turning cartwheels in the grass, a little while later…a little boy with a blanket tied around his neck and shoulders running along the outside of the fence while another kid chased him yelling “Superman!!! I’ll get you!!” Jeez…I felt like I was in a Norman Rockwell painting.

During my last game, a game for eight year olds, the wind was blowing so hard that it blew the pitchers off of the mound (you’ll have that when you weigh forty pounds!!) Or the catcher who turned around and asked me “That was a strike. Did you get that?” Too funny.

I’ll close with this. I had a game with eight year olds again. One team had played several games and had experience, the other didn’t. One team was good, the other…not so much. The outcome was predictable. These games have a time limit of ninety minutes or six innings, and a cap of five runs scored per inning. It was starting to get dark, not too dark…just almost time to quit, the last inning. The winning team was up to bat, had the bases loaded, no outs and the losing teams pitcher had no control where the ball was going when he threw it…everybody knew it. I called “time”, took off my facemask and walked towards the winning coach and called over the losing coach for a conference along the third base line. I looked at the losing coach and asked him “your team is mathematically eliminated from winning this game, is that right?” He looked at me and the winning coach and answered “yeah”. I looked at the winning coach and said “How about you send up two more batters then let these other boys have one more at bat and have a little fun before it gets too dark?” He looked at me with a cocked head, and started to say something about the current pitcher and I cut him short with “Coach…he ain’t gettin’ it over home plate.” The coaches face lightened, he smiled and said “sure…we’ll do that.” And that’s what he did. He pulled his players off the bases after two more batters with no outs on his team. The losing team got up to bat, scored one run with one of their players stealing second, third and then home. The crowd got back into watching the boys play, and the boys got back into playing defense and offense….the way people want to watch their boys play….actively.

The third out came shortly before the sunset. Everyone headed towards the parking lot, lawn chairs and blankets in tow. Players headed to the outfield for their post-game talk. Sportsmanship prevailed. Thank you Lord.

The most important rule in baseball is…

I got a phone call late Saturday night from a baseball colleague of mine asking if I could umpire at a tournament at a small town about forty minutes north of my home. Being a new umpire I want to take as many games that I can and the money earned is a bonus. The day before I had worked a doubleheader with a guy who has umpired for 43 years. After the game he gave me some advice, we talked for about ten minutes about different situations and he gave me his “thumbs up” for the two games that we had just worked together (at the tender age of 47 I’m still seeking peer acceptance…really; I am).

So bright and early yesterday morning I loaded up my truck and pointed it north and started towards the tournament. It being Sunday and all I felt a slight tinge of guilt for skipping church but it’s been a long and cold winter, and the beauty of spring time that the Iowa countryside held was lush and spectacular. Rolling green pastures. Timber with flowing creeks winding their way through. Hawks soaring against a beautiful clear blue sky, it was a great day to be outside and enjoy our Lords creation (I even brought up on my Iphone and sang along to the Statler Brothers “How Great Thou Art“…one of my favorite songs of all time.

Anyway…the five games that I umpired went seamlessly with my partner Henry (that’s my officiating partner…not the other politically correct term “partner”) until the last game. I was the plate ump, meaning that I was behind the plate calling balls and strikes. We were working the ten year old boys games. The skill level at the age of ten varies greatly and I always watch the pitcher and catcher warming up prior to the first pitch to see just how good they are. These two looked good. The pitcher threw hard and fast for his age and the catchers mitt popped every time the ball was caught. I called the first batter into the box and noticed that the catcher had set up on the far outside of the plate leaving me exposed more than I’m comfortable with, but I wear plenty of protective equipment. The first pitch came in and hit me squarely on my right knee. WHACK!! The catcher didn’t even get his glove on it. My shin guard had shifted slightly leaving that part of my knee exposed. I walked off my injury (I can’t remember if I called a ball or strike) but asked the catcher “Do you remember what I told you before the game? That the most important rule in baseball is to protect the umpire.” He mumbled something about the pitcher not throwing it where he asked for it, or something. In retrospect I think that may have been the Lords way of getting my attention and saying “hey…get back into the pew next Sunday” but maybe not. The New Testament is kinda sketchy when it comes to working games on a Sunday when you find the games a fun and relaxing departure from your normal work BUT you didn’t go to church. Know this…I’m honored to try to do His work where-ever I’m at whether it be at my store, on a basketball court, on a ball diamond, in our home or elsewhere. He reiterated His point with a ball each to my shin, calf, and a couplea foul tips each to my chest and face (but was gracious enough to direct them to where I had equipment to protect me…thanks Lord!)
One other tidbit from this weekends games. Earlier on I had decided to call strikes out as “AAAAIIKKKEEE“‘s. This lets the official scorer and those in the dugouts and in the bleachers know what I called. Those in the bleachers yesterday noticed that I had put a little more emphasise on my strike call and maybe it was because it was my last game but apparently my “AAAIIKKEE” call sounded more like “AAARRRGGGKKK” like a pirate would say. I could hear them try to duplicate my call (they were pretty close behind me) and I thought “I ain’t changing it now” so I continued with it until the game was finished. I just may stick with that. Funny thing is…one of the teams name was…..the Pirates. Here’s hoping that I don’t get any teams named the Blue Jays.

Until then..peace.
R

Letters to the editor PART 9

Letters to the editor part 9

It’s been quite a while since we’ve opened up the old mailbag and answered reader mail that literally pours in everyday here at the vast and varied RIPLEY INDUSTRIES COMPLEX here in beautiful Cedar Rapids Iowa. Why just the other day our mailman, Ed, was bitching about having to come all the way out here just to deliver one fan letter, two mass pizza coupon mailings and a free pass to a Native American casino just forty-five minutes south and west of here. Ed needs to retire, but he’s only seventy-one which is prime mail-delivering years in the USPS view. Anywho…in no particular order, here are some reader letters…from real live people (honest).

Gretchen of Postville IA writes: How’s your new smart phone working out? Super Gretchen, just super. I can access my personal e-mail while at my job, and update my Facebook status constantly to “still working my ass off.” (Folks want to know that kind of stuff). For the life of me I cannot figure out why they call them ‘smart phones’ as I don’t feel any smarter. Are they fun to have around? Sure. I recently downloaded some music off ITunes to my phone, the sad deal is that IPhones have a small glitch in them that makes it so you have to sync all the music on your ITunes account to your phone…so I got all of my wife’s and daughters crappy music onto my phone now. On the flip side of that coin they’ll have to download some of my recent purchases. I’m certain that they’ll be thrilled with my Pink Floyd, Statler Brothers, Van Halen, The Cult and Buck Owens purchases. Thrilled.

Patrick of West Liberty IA queries: You wrote about having all kinds of “protection” for your first baseball game as an umpire, except thee most important protection…know what I mean? I sure do, Patrick, that is if you’re referring to term life insurance…ZING!! No…honestly, I know that you’re referring to…the “cup” that protects the “old twig and berries” that, if hit, makes a guy feel like the Grim Reaper cannot come fast enough. I do, in fact, wear said protection…at the umpires clinics that I attended the guys in charge made it abundantly clear to invest in that particular piece of equipment. It’s a no-brainer, really. It’s easy to wear and according to the internet…top rack dishwasher safe for cleaning. (I’ve convinced my wife that it’s a single serve colander for noodles (which is kind of half true…the noodle part). Thanks for writing Pat!!

Mabel of Shady Acres Retirement Village of Irvine CA…Hey pretty boy!! When are you gonna start putting out swimsuit calendars again?! Octogenarians want to know!! Mabel…you make me blush, which isn’t easy these days as I’m pretty much tainted from all my years in retail, but I’ll explain why I don’t do many photo shoots any longer. In a nutshell (funny that the word “nut” comes up, heh?) I was tired of being just another middle-aged man with a pretty face and respectable love-handles. There…I said it. Come to my games and heckle me in person, OR just watch any George Clooney movie…I hear that we bear a remarkable resemblance to each other….if George had a bald spot, patchy back hair and acid reflux at 2 in the morning from eating a piece of his daughter’s birthday cake after eight o’clock at night. Damn near identical twins me and George.

That wraps up this edition of reader mail for the mean time so be safe, eat right, get plenty of sleep and for Heaven’s sake…stay away from late night birthday cake.
Peace
R

AAAAAIIIKKKEEE!! really..it was.

I wasn’t supposed to umpire a game until this coming week, five days from now. In that time I’d practice my mechanics, read the rules again (all twenty thousand of them…baseball is complicated) and get my equipment together, but lo and behold a phone call came in today for a couplea teams that wanted to scrimmage…so I took the game.

It was a game of ten year old boys playing on a nearby field. Now when I was ten we played the game wearing blue jeans, white tee-shirts and red and white caps that read “Bennett Little League“. If you were lucky the coach had a cooler filled with ice and bottles of pop for after the game…there were no sports drinks and if you got thirsty during the game you hustled over to the lone drinking fountain that gave out luke warm water under low pressure. You arrived at the game in the backseat of a car that carried, literally, eight kids (the idea of seatbelts not having fully taken root in 1977). Ahhh…good times. We didn’t know any better. We might have practiced once a week, if that.

The boys at todays game were the result of many practices, many games, good coaching, good funding (their uniforms were cool) and good training. I thought that the game might be chilly with the wind blowing and it being overcast so I wore my brand spanking new “MLB umpires” jacket. It’s warm, weather-proof and moisture proof…and I sweat my ass off while wearing it today. It must have had something to do with me having a half inch thick chest protector strapped to my chest and upper torso (I really don’t need a chest protector, I do so many push-ups that my chest is rock hard…it’s more to protect the balls that hit my chest, saving them from instant alienation…seriously….I’m that buff). Not to mention the face mask ( “it’s a crime against humanity to cover your face!!” is what one elderly female spectator yelled as I covered my face with said mask. M’eh…I covered it anyway. And the shinguards…didn’t need them today..the boys were hitting the ball the opposite direction of my beloved calves). I did take a direct shot from a foul ball directly to my left boob, the same elderly lady screamed at the horror of it all, until I tipped my mask at her and let her know that I was okay. (sidenote…my boobs okay…I paid good money for state of the art chest protection. It won’t stop a bullet, but its good stuff, and it saves me the embarassment at the pool of having to constantly answer the question “dude…what happened to your boob?!” Am I right ladies or am I right? I told the batter that did the “boob shot/foul ball” off me that “that counted as two strikes.” I crack myself up.

Baseball umpiring is a kind of performance art, I think. Calling the strike is one thing, then theres the mechanic of it all (what to do with my arms and hands) but today I just worked on my vocalization of the strike…which sounds like “AAAIIKKKEEEEE!!” And then with the balls I don’t say much of anything at all. The game that I did today I worked alone so when there was a play, any play, I had to hustle my rearend along the baseline that the play was happening on and make a call. Sometimes that puts me out by the pitchers mound or running back to home plate…this after squatting behind a ten year old for two to three hours (insert your own R rated punchline). Needless to say…after three hours of squatting and running my thighs are shot (that’s what she said).
In closing today…I’m happy with my performance, though I know that I can do better and I will. God-willing I’ll have some photos for you sometime in the future of my umping….a surefire cure for insomia. Until then….God bless and take care!
R