Chapter Nine: Why I’m in Texas
March 30, 2010 by Editor
Filed under Dress Blues and Tennis Shoes
April 11
I am reminded why I’m umpiring baseball games in Amarillo instead of basking on the Russian River with Donna. I work my first plate game tonight—and I’m brilliant. The energy flows unimpeded, my timing is precise. I can umpire!
The game is a rout—13-0, El Paso. No matter, for I could have handled the frigging World Series this evening. And this is why I’m in Texas . . . this is why I’m in Texas . . . this is why I’m in Texas . . .
In other news, it turns out the van blew an oil cooler. Only $70 instead of the anticipated $200. I deposit $130 in my psychological bank account.
Charlie has bought a weight-loss book for Lana, but he is reading it himself before he sends it. Charlie isn’t fat, but at about 5-foot-8 and 190 pounds, he could shed a few pounds. He’s improving his diet and exercising more—today I got him out throwing a Frisbee—and I take some pride in that.
After the game tonight, under the influence of three beers and a shared joint, we address the question: What skills are needed to become the greatest umpire who ever lived? While sitting on our queen-size beds, Johnny Carson droning in the background, we chew on the subject for an hour.
Our final list looks like this:
- Appearance
- Concentration
- Quickness
- Timing
- Flair
- Voice
- Hustle
- Baseball instinct
- Personality
- Judgment
- Rules knowledge
- Experience
This list will eventually lead me to write a book and produce a DVD to teach those skills. Of course, some things can’t be taught. For example, psychologists say our personalities are essentially formed by the time we’re there years old. Yet how an umpire relates to others goes a long way toward determining how well he or she performs on the field.
It seems to me that good umpires minimize tough situations, while great umpires are also able to defuse tough situations when they inevitably do arise. The goal is to calm troubled emotions, to get the grieved party to walk away without you yourself appearing obsequious or subservient. You need to be firm, yet not dogmatic or arrogant. You need to let them have their say, and to know when to put an end to it.
I recall a private exchange I had with Lee Mazzilli in 1975. After an extra-inning ballgame in San Jose, he and I walked up the ramp together toward our respective dressing rooms. “Nice game,” he said. “Thanks,” I said. “You too.”
So far it was the sort of exchange that occurred hundreds of times a season. Then, outside the door to the umpire’s dressing room, he held me with his words. “You know, you and Charlie are the only umpires we don’t yell at.”
This had a different ring than the usual pro forma compliment. “Oh, really? Why’s that?”
“I dunno . . . those other guys, after they make a call, they look at you a certain way— like they’re daring you to argue. It just makes you want to yell at ‘em.”
Mazzilli was talking about personality. It’s wrapped up with communication, especially nonverbal communication. Our appearance, expressions, gestures, posture, and hustle are all endlessly interpreted by players, coaches, and managers. It’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, flair and hot-doggin’. The point Mazzilli was making—at least this is how I choose to interpret it—is that Charlie and I don’t umpire like cops. We treat the players with respect, and they reward us in kind.
April 13
Today Texas League president Carl Sawatski calls us from his office in Little Rock, Arkansas. Given the vast distances between cities in this league, we had no league meeting this year and thus have never met Sawatski, or the other umpires in the league.
Carl jaws with Charlie about finances, ejection reports, schedules, hotels, and more. Charlie’s unofficial elevation to crew chief is grit in my teeth.
Sawatski asks to speak to me, and when I pick up the receiver he is already in mid-question. “Say that again, Carl.”
“I said, how’s your hair length? Is it too long? I have a report here . . .”
The mind reels. A veteran of Berkeley street battles, the social revolution, I wonder: Did we win? If so, where are the fruits of victory? My hair, much shorter than in my UC Berkeley days, is borderline by baseball’s military standards. One measurement of that attitude is that no major league umpires have facial hair, not even a mustache.
“No, Carl, I don’t think it’s too long. It wasn’t too long for Barney. (Barney Deary, head of minor league umpires). It’s just that I have curly hair and it looks longer than it is. It’s an optical illusion.”
This last is a stab at humor. I sense it will miss its mark, but I’m out of ammunition.
Surpisingly, Carl says, “Well, if it’s okay with Barney, it’s okay with me.”
“Okay, Carl.”
“Okay, Steve. See you fellows when you get to Little Rock.”
“Okay, Carl.”
After I hang up, I grouse to Charlie, “What a lotta crap—asking me about my hair.”
Charlie, propped up against pillows on his bed, doesn’t take his eyes from the TV (Happy Days). “You know baseball,” he says.
