Chapter Five: John McSherry

March 21

John McSherry visits us in camp today. Big John is a National League umpire, and few can imagine him doing anything else. In the off-season, he serves as chief field instructor for the umpire schools. He was Charlie’s and my instructor, and now he’s come to see us. Mostly he’s come to see Charlie. If McSherry sees me, it’s because I’m in the way.

At 6’4” and 290 pounds, he can pretty much see over me. Despite his girth—and it’s not a tight 290 pounds—the man is grace incarnate on the field, gliding across the diamond like a dancing bear. In a recent poll of players and coaches, McSherry was ranked second behind only Doug Harvey.

At umpire school, McSherry was the Intimidator. With a voice like a sonic boom and a quick sardonic mind, he railed at the ill-prepared and buried those lacking a sense of self. One timid, 20-year-old kid from Utah became his favorite target. On the first day of school, he saddled him with a nickname that stuck. “Jesus, man, you look like you’re running with your feet in buckets.”

Soon it was “Get in position, Buckets” or “Take a lap, Buckets.”

After a week, Buckets quit and went home. That evening in the cafeteria, McSherry stood and spoke to the class. “Some of you may think I was too tough on Buckets. But let me tell you something—if you can’t take it here, you sure as hell won’t be able to take it in OB.” He paused, sternly surveying the room. Something about his face reminded me of a wanted poster. “That kid had no fucking chance of getting a job. He was not umpire material, not even in amateur ball. We leveled with him, saved him some time and money. That’s all.”

McSherry sat down. For a moment, nobody stirred or made a sound. Then slowly increasing in volume, clanging silverware and chatter filled the void—and Buckets was forgotten.

*     *    *

Now, sitting around the pool at the El Noh, John, Charlie, and I are halfway toward achieving our goal of draining a 12-pack of Schlitz, a brand rated one notch above rabbit piss but with greater mind-altering punch. With each passing day in El Centro, I feel my craving growing for a kind of mental alteration that no amount of beer can aspire to.  Perhaps a lobotomy.

This is the first time I’ve ever seen McSherry in civvies, in this case polo shirt, brown pup-tent-size slacks, and loafers. Without his National League hat and windbreaker, he lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. It’s as though someone has lowered his pedestal.  Still, the man has charisma. He can spin yarns, and does so on this day. Idly I wonder if he went into baseball for the stories.

“This past year at the Florida school,” he booms, “I happen to be passing a pay phone just as it’s ringing. I pick it up and this woman on the other end squeaks, ‘Can I speak to Dan Coulter, please?’

“’Who?’

“‘Dan Coulter—he’s an umpire for the Deee-troit Tigers.’

McSherry pauses in the story to allow a sadistic grin to sweep across his face. Charlie and I are laughing, but I’m also imagining being on McSherry’s wrong side. I know I’m not on his good side, but it could be worse.

“‘Oh, that Dan Coulter. Just a moment, please.’”

McSherry looks at Charlie and says, “This guy Coulter was real cocky, just the kind of guy you love to catch in a lie like this. So I march into the cafeteria—120 students there eating lunch—and announce, ‘Got a woman on the phone out there who wants to speak to the umpire for the Dee-troit Tigers . . .’ And then I lock eyes with Coulter. ‘The umpire for the Dee-troit Tigers—Dan Coulter! Come on up and take a bow, Dan. You never even told us the good news . . .’”

McSherry plays out every lurid detail of Coulter slinking out of the room, in his wake a cacophony of catcalls. Charlie is laughing so hard, beer comes out of his nose. I laugh too, but meanwhile I’m thinking about Coulter and how his life might have changed on that day—and not just losing a chance for a job in professional baseball. Rejection gets paid forward.

John and Charlie chatter on about the latest minor-league umpire prospects. I sit quietly on a lounge chair, tepid beer between my legs, watching a tanned beauty in a white bikini— ballplayer girlfriend sighting!—sitting on the diving board.  Eye candy–but God knows this place needs eye candy.

I think about Donna, my own olive-skinned beauty back home. When would I see her again? September? Umpires have the world’s worst travel schedule, with the possible exception of Himalayan mountain climbers. Six straight months on the road. At least truck drivers get home every week or so. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but there are limits. And six months apart would seem to exceed those limits.

To change the subject, my mind wanders back to the final day of umpire school and my final evaluation from chief instructor Bill Kinnamon. After four weeks of training, I felt closer to Kinnamon than any of the other instructors. A former American League umpire, he had a ruddy, fleshy face suggestive of raw roast beef, but also a friendly, intelligent face. He could laugh at himself and his wit lacked McSherry’s cruelty.

Kinnamon’s sausage-like fingers drum his desk as I enter. I sit and he opens my file. “We’re very high on you,” he says. “We got you ranked fourth in the class. There’s no reason you couldn’t have been number one. You can be as good as you want to be.”

“Who finished first?” I ask.

“Charlie Williams.”

“Really? Hmm.”

“That surprises you?”

“I guess so. Doesn’t everyone think he’s the best? Even Buckets probably had himself number one.”

I ask for a polling of the instructors. Everyone ranked me in the top five except McSherry, who put me tenth. Tenth! Out of 45 students, some of whom needed crib notes to strap on shin guards.

Sensing my annoyance, Kinnamon flips through his notes and says, “John was concerned about your attitude. His comment was, ‘Boga’s got to be in my top ten, but he didn’t always give me 100 percent.’”

Defensively, I put in, “I was sick, you know. Didn’t always feel 100 percent—”

Kinnamon chuckles. “Malaria? How’d you get malaria of all things?”

I tell him of my travels around the world, of my decision in India to stop taking malaria pills, of my 104-degree fever on the second day of umpire school.

He chuckles again and his jowls giggle. “I hope you show better judgment on the field.” His laughter drops away and he stares intently at me. “Baseball is going to give you a job, probably in the California League. Only five out of this class are going out. Are you prepared to take this seriously?”

I hesitate. “I think I’d like to give it a try. Yeah, I would.”

Kinnamon eyes me suspiciously. “You’ve got all the tools, but it takes more than that. Like a player, you gotta really want it. In last year’s class, we had a guy unanimously number one. He lasted one season in A-ball, then quit to become a teacher or some damn thing. Umpiring just wasn’t important to him.”

*     *     *

At the El Noh pool, my mind rejoins my body, but one word lingers: “important.” That’s the question all right—how important is umpiring? Is it important enough to justify the sacrifice I’m about to make—leaving the love of my life, my friends, family, and home to go off and umpire 140 baseball games?  Baseball games!

No answer comes, just another chilling question: What have I done?