Mar. 26, 2007
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal

TAKE HIM OUT OF THE BALLGAME

Our reporter tries playing it safe, but gets a rush from the power he wields

All eyes — in the field, bleachers and both dugouts — watch as the Nationals' runner pounds home plate with his right foot precisely as he is tagged with the ball by the Dodgers' catcher.

Then the eyes shift toward me, the official who is supposed to yell "safe!" or "out!" It is the season-opening game of Peccole Little League, AAA division, and I have no idea which to yell for a tie at the plate.

I have two hours of training under the belt I borrowed from Las Vegas Umpire Association owner Mary MacDonald, because I forgot to bring my own to the diamond — along with my own watch, gray pants and dark socks.

I don't remember covering this particular scenario, however, which may be because the standard training for beginning umpires is 120 hours of rules clinic and 12 hours of field mechanics.

The eyes continue their unbearable bearing down.

"When you're an umpire and people notice you, you're not doing your job," I remember being warned by MacDonald.

And my relationship with this game's spectators already is on the rocks.

"Trade those sunglasses for real glasses!" Christopher Vindel, 14, yelled from the bleachers after I called a strike that was probably a ball.

Three years ago, a similar disagreement resulted in a punch to the face of one Spring Valley Little League umpire.

"As he was trying to get off the field after the game, some parent walked up to him and — pow! — broke his jaw," MacDonald said.

The umpire drove to the emergency room, filled out a police report and sued. But the parent — described by MacDonald as a "little man covered in tattoos" — went AWOL.

"The police are still looking for him," she said.

During baseball's first decade, all face-punching was performed by opposing players. It wasn't until Oct. 6, 1845, that the New York Knickerbockers asked attorney William R. Wheaton to officiate at a scrimmage game. His addition not only lowered medical costs but expedited the game.

The first professional umpire was Billy McLean of Philadelphia, who in 1876 managed to negotiate an actual salary from the National League.

At $100,000 to $300,000 per year, today's 68 major-league masked men earn considerably more than McLean's $5 per game. But the 80 umps in MacDonald's association, ages 13 to 65, have to be content with $20 to $70 per game, depending on their experience and the size of the field.

"It's fun," umpire Joe Broadhead, 18, told me earlier in the day. "And I get to tell adults what to do. That's my favorite thing."

Of course, those adults often don't want to listen.

"You have to be forceful and demanding so they don't come and try to change your mind," Broadhead said. "Make them think that you know what you're doing."

I have based an entire journalism career on this very principle. But not all umpiring abilities can be faked. Keeping track of strikes, balls and outs is particularly difficult for me. I have a pocket indicator that tabulates them — but only as well as I do. And I got a D-plus in 10th-grade math.

"Two and one!" I shouted at the top of the second inning, after the Dodgers' manager asked me for the count.

Field umpire Michael Gilis, 34, quickly corrected me.

"It's one and one!" he said.

"New umpire!" one of the fans responded.

The coaches and managers seem to be treating me with kid baseball gloves. When Nationals coach Tom Bixby demanded a call of interference at the plate, for example, he did all his arguing with Gilis — even though the plate is my territory.

"They're letting you off really easy," league photographer Norine Rathbone told me. "Usually, they're all over the plate umpire with batting and fielding issues."

Broadhead said he once was threatened with a parking-lot pummeling by a coach.

"So I ejected him from the game," he recalled. "He got kicked out of the park for six months and had to pay a big fine."

My lack of a lynch mob, I suspect, owes to the coaches' not wanting to appear hotheaded in print. Gilis outed me during a pregame huddle, claiming that he didn't get the memo to keep my day job a secret.

"Is he actually calling balls and strikes?" Bixby asked Gilis, who nodded.

After deciding for a second on the appropriate response, Bixby calmly said, "OK," before I inquired how to signal a touchdown. (It was a joke. You believe me, right?)

But bile still flows like Budweiser at Cashman Field from the fans and players.

"He sucks!" screamed a high voice from the Nationals' dugout. This is possibly the same player who made fun of how I twirl "like a ballerina" after calling strikes. (Hey, MacDonald told me to go "freestyle" out there.)

Or maybe it was catcher Tyler Bixby, the coach's son, who turned around to address me after I refused to call a strike for his pitcher.

"What was that, Blue?" the 10-year-old demanded to know. ("Blue" is how umpires are addressed. It's better that the game's participants not know our real names — considering what they often fantasize about doing to us.)

The pitch was outside, I told Tyler. The strike zone coincides with the width of the plate, from the batter's knees to the top of the chest.

Of course, I was standing 2 full feet back from my proper position, because of fear that my next call might be to 911. (A 60 mph cork projectile bouncing off my athletic cup is a feeling I don't need to experience before I die — especially 30 seconds before I die.)

"That was outside?" Tyler replied, rolling his eyes. (The tyke got his revenge at the top of the third inning, however, when he turned around to witness a wild pitch bring my deepest baseball fear to reality. One of the Dodgers walked and, for 12 seconds, I wondered whether I ever would again.)

"Safe!"

That just came out of my mouth, because something had to. The Nationals, and their fans, cheer.

What nobody realizes is that my call is a guess as wild as the pitch that nearly caused me to schedule a fertility checkup.

The greatest thing about umpiring, it seems to me, is that whatever you say, goes — despite how utterly wrong it may be. It's like being a king, a Supreme Court justice or my mom whenever I asked for a curfew extension.

And half the crowd will always support your decision — even if they also realize how wrong it may be.

"We like to call those 'judgment' calls," Gilis said.

My wild guess is the correct one, I discover later. A tie at the plate always goes to the runner.

"You made some bad calls," Tyler tells me after the game, "but the right team won."

I am not welcomed as warmly in the Dodgers dugout. The players seem to want to deliver an honest appraisal of my officiating skills. Their manager cautions them to be nice, however.

"We think you did great," he says on their behalf.

"We're not going to see you out here again, are we?"

Fear and Loafing appears every Monday in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures can be found at www.fearandloafing.com.