Bad Call: My Stint as a Little League Umpire

"I've never questioned the integrity of an umpire. Their eyesight, yes." - Shag Crawford

It’s almost a byword now but to those of us who grew up as believers in the game, baseball was America’s pastime for good reasons. First, the game mirrored America’s values—teamwork, meritocracy, and fair play. Its green fields and open spaces offered nostalgia for a simpler, rural past. Even writers like Walt Whitman romanticized it, tying it to our national identity.

As a teen I appreciated both the cerebral and competitive nature of the game, and I worked hard to excel as both an infielder and a hitter. Even as a little kid in elementary school we played nearly every day, either whiffle ball in the backyard or hardball up behind the school.

At age seven I lied about my age in order to play Little League. After school and on summer evenings, baseball was almost like a religion, the diamond a sacred place where dreams were stitched into every seam of the ball. And there was nothing more majestic than going to see the Cleveland Indians in Municipal Stadium, especially when it was a double header against those d*%& Yankees.

After Little League, where I’d been selected for the All Star team, I graduated to Babe Ruth League. In high school I was gratified to “make” the Freshman team. Junior Varsity followed in time I earned a coveted Varsity letter.

Because I had the skills and, more importantly, knew the rules, I was recruited to be a Little League umpire. Umpires do more than call balls and strikes. They are also responsible to make judgment calls, handle disputes and enforce the rules so that games are fair.

When I got the call, I said yes. The pay was modest but satisfactory. Though I didn’t where the traditional back umpire’s gear, I had been given authority to serve as a guardian of America’s pastime. I identified with these kids. I was sixteen so I wasn’t that much older than these eight to twelve year olds. Some were there because of their parents’ prodding, but many others were prodded by their own dreams of a future in baseball, as I had b.een

The crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the dust swirling under the floodlights—no, we didn’t actually have floodlights at the Hamilton School field--was a symphony of youth, hope, and glory. Each pitch felt like a heartbeat, each play a story etched into the sun-bleached dirt of the infield.

It should be noted that Little League umping always has a few ever-present clouds hovering nearby. The preeminent of these was the understanding that you were there all alone. You’ll see the ramifications of this in a minute.

Here’s an example. I am certain this kind of thing happens every day, though not quite as egregious as in this instance.

It was an especially windy evening, with periodic strong gusts coming directly from center field. The count on the batter, a scrawny ten-year-old, was one ball and one strike. The pitcher pumped his arms like Juan Marichal and gave it everything he had, the wind at his back. As the ball left his hand, a swirl of dirt and sand hurled itself into my eyes. I was suddenly blind. Once I regained my sight, I had to determine what had happened and make a call.

First off, where did the ball go? The catcher didn’t have it. If the batter was standing there holding his bat, but if he’d hit it into play, he’d be running to first and players would be chasing it. None of this was happening. The kid was just standing there.

Surprisingly, the ball had gone over the backstop. Logic told me that it was a foul ball, and therefore a strike. I’d never seen a ball hit the plate and bounce over a backstop. So I loudly shouted, “Strike two!” whereupon a firestorm of voices erupted I protest.

“The bat never left his shoulder!” someone shouted.

“The ball hit the plate!” someone else shouted.

I tried to read the face of the kid with the bat, and it seemed very likely the bat never left his shoulder. It was at this point that I committed the unpardonable sin. I changed my decision. “The count is two balls and one strike.”

Keep in mind that every person on the bench, on the field and in the bleachers saw what happened. I was the only one within a mile who was clueless. But was there anyone there who would help me? Whatever I said would make one set of parents angry or the other batch.

This time I stuck by my call, despite the handful of insults thrown in my direction.

Fortunately, whether ball or strike it would not have a bearing on the outcome of this game. That was a good thing. The next time, however, things would be different. And there would be much more at stake.

TO BE CONTINUED