Chapter Six: The Pursuit of Excellence

March 24

This week’s piece of work, Fred Frazier. The second baseman for the AAA Salt Lake team is of the Billy Martin mold. Small in stature, volcanic in temperament, he exacts the utmost in patience from an umpire. 

Today I am on the bases, and rookie Chuck Neisler is calling his first triple-A game behind the plate. Chuck calls an insidish pitch strike two on Frazier, who stares bullets at Neisler but says nothing. On the next pitch Frazier swings and misses for a rare strikeout, but instead of trudging back to the dugout and beating up on the batting helmet, he gets in Neisler’s face and berates him, his words reaching me out by second base. 

I am embarrassed, not so much for Neisler, but for Frazier. Nutting up on umpires in spring training—it’s just not done.

When Frazier trots out to second base, I intercept him. As crew-chief, I am draped in the vestments of authority. “Remember, Freddie, this is spring training . . . Neisler is a rookie . . . no need to embarrass him out here—”

“But, Steve,” he whines, “we’re trying to work on our game, too. The pitch was six inches inside . . . I’m just trying to get him in the ballgame.”

 “Sure, Fred, but couldn’t you get him in the game . . . quieter?”

 “Okay, Steve, sure.”

Two innings later, I have a close—but not too close—slide play at second base. It’s a steal attempt. Recognizing it early, I pivot, turn, follow the ball over my shoulder, glide in close, set, wait . . . “He’s safe!” I spread my arms in a wide sweeping motion—the grace of a big bird, or so I imagine. Anticipating a beef, I point to the ground and shout, “Missed the tag! Missed the tag!”

Frazier, who has taken the throw and attempted the tag, explodes in fury. Leaping in the air like a Russian dancer, he screams, “No!  No!  No, Steve!  I tagged him!” 

Like a match flaring to life, inspiration visits me. Calmly I say, “You know, you’re right, Freddie. You’re absolutely right.”

That stops him cold, as though he’s had a gag stuffed in his mouth. Without another word, he turns and trots out to his position. Of course, I have lied. I don’t care what ol’ Freddie believes as long as he shuts up.

 After the game, he approaches me in Autry’s Corral and with no preamble says, “Hell, Steve, what can you say when an umpire is man enough to admit he made a mistake? Not many umpires will do that.”

 Frazier sticks out his hand. I shake it, biting my lip, tempted even now to tell him the truth.

Later, seated in front of my locker, sipping on a steaming cup of chicken-noodle soup, I’m approached by first baseman Terry Stupy. “How’d you get Freddie to shut up so quick,” he asks. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I told him he was right.”

 “Oh. That explains it—he’s never been right before.”

March 29

Today I’m reminded why I am here and not back in Santa Rosa delivering milk to schools. Working the plate in a 14-inning game between Salt Lake and El Paso, I miss only two pitches, both borderline. I am in the flow, a smooth rhythmic flow that carries me inside the game and gives me a heady sense of power.

In the ninth inning, reliever Daniel Boone (no misprint) floats a major league curve ball up to hitter Jim Anderson that nips the black, knee high on the outside corner.  Once the ball smacks the catcher’s glove, I pause a beat, then launch into my best karate-move strike three. 

Anderson shoots me a stony stare, then tosses his bat and helmet and lopes out to shortstop. As the teams change sides, I am left alone to reflect on that call. “See the pitch, wait, then explode into the call”—that’s what we were taught in school. And I nailed it. Good timing is the key, for a comedian, a surgeon, and an umpire.

Punching Anderson out on a close third strike is the closest I come anymore to the “thrill of victory.” At my best, like today, I am immersed in the game, every bit as integral a part of it as the players and coaches. And I still feel competitive. But now I compete against myself and judge my performance against the rising standards I’ve established.

It’s competition without the fear of losing. Just the fear of failing.