Mudville (9-11)
......O somewhere in this favored land
the sun is shining bright
The band is playing somewhere,
and somewhere children shout.
And somewhere men are laughing,
and little children shout.
But there is no joy in Mudville,
mighty Casey has struck out!
Earnest L Thayer, 1888
Smalltown, America, March, 1966. The old middle school gymnasium of the is empty save for the four men of varying ages seated on the two bottom rows of the bleacher."I know you guys are all volunteers and most of you are new at this, but remember, this is not the Majors, it's Little League, so there will be mistakes. I've been doing this for twenty years now and I love the game all the more for it." The instructor is a grey haired 65 year old, l50 pound bundle of energy, all 5', 6" of his frame exuded confidence and skill.
We were a group of volunteers who had agreed to be umpires for the town's little league, and this was the conclusion of our "extensive" training; all 2 and 1/2 hours of it. "It'll be easy!" they said. Evidently the league could not be "certified" without a cadre of "trained" umps, so, at the organization meeting we had all reluctantly yielded to the pleas of the league officials and/or parents and agreed to be students at the official training class, all four of us!
"In conclusion," our instructor cheerfully intoned, "Just remember, the game revolves around one thing; the ball. 95 percent of your calls will involve the ball. Your job is to watch it; Always know it's location and status. The rest is secondary. Know your rule book, make your calls quick, clear and loud, then don't stay at the scene to argue."
"And one other thing," he added as we collected our things and headed for the door, "NEVER forget that the players are just kids who, hopefully are trying to learn. Help them."
Well, the kids were not the only ones trying to learn. I stumbled my way through the first couple of games, learned which managers were the teachers and coaches, which ones were vicariously living their youth through their kids and which ones were in a power trip, bullying players and umpires alike. Then there were a few with a "win at any price" attitude regardless. Some coaches will make your calls for you, shouting "safe" or "out" quickly and loudly, giving the signal and hoping the ump will follow, as in "monkey see, monkey do". A few managers would play only their "best" all the time while a couple of younger, inexperienced individuals sit on the bench, bored and watching the ants in the dirt.
In all fairness, I must say that most little league coaches and managers that I saw that summer had learned that little league ball games are mostly high scoring, one-sided events whose outcome can be reliably predicted by the end of the third inning. You are either 'way ahead or 'way behind, so there is little to be either gained or lost by giving everyone some playing time. If for no other reason, that little 'bench warmer' is gaining experience, skill, and, just maybe some self confidence. Sometimes you get a suprise.
And let's us not forget the crowds. Little League crowds are usually not large, but, generally consist of parents, grandparents, siblings, etc. they can be noisy, critical, and of course, biased as hell.
Most every team will have at least one mother of one of the players who is loud, vocal, (sometimes obnoxious) and a baseball expert, having played softball in Junior High.. Her son/daughter is the best on the team, never makes a mistake, and never gets all the playing he/she deserves or play the position he/she's obviously the best at. The Ump is blind, stupid and probably crippled as well.
After several games I am beginning to get the hang of it and find myself looking forward to working the games. For the most part, only one ump is assigned to the game, so you do a lot of moving around, calling plays in the infield as well as balls and strikes at the plate. I begin to think that this is not too hard that I'm pretty good at it as well. I'm actually having fun!
It has been my experience that when I begin to think that I am really good at anything, something humbling will happen to knock the wind out of my sails and show me just how little I know and just how really good I am at what I'm doing. It's like I have this little guy named George, always sitting on my shoulder, who once in a while saying things like, "Think you're pretty good, do you Walt? Hold my beer. Watch this!"
******
July: The game is tied at 7 all in the bottom of the seventh (and last) inning of the final game of the season; the game that would decide the 9 to 11 league champion between the Cards and Pirates. There two outs and the bases are full. The Cards, my 10 year old son's team, has struggled to tie the game in the previous inning and is making a valiant effort to hold off the home team's late inning rally. I have the dubious honor of working the plate, in front of a bleachers crowd of at least 20 parents, grandparents, older brothers and sisters, with an occasional cousin or two thrown in for good measure. Since it was expected to be an important game, Wilson Pierce, just home from college, is helping out by ump'n the bases for me.Donny Caples, probably the Card's best hitter has been given the honor of pitching the last inning, mostly because of his size and the fact the two regular pitchers had already done the allowed innings for the week. Donny's size may have been intimidating, but the Pirates don't seem to notice, and his accuracy leaves something to be desired. I always was as liberal as possible in calling balls and strikes (for both teams), but fairness only goes so far and the Pirates are taking advantage of his wildness by just waiting him out and taking their walks. A dribbler through the infield and two walks has loaded the bases. One strikeout and another dribbler successfully fielded at first accounts for the two outs.
Jimmy Wilson, the Pirate's 9 year old right fielder and manager's son, comes to the plate. Bill Wilson, his manager , calls time to speak to his batter. From my position behind the plate, I hear him, "Just wait him out Jim, he's tired and and he's wild. If you can get on with a walk, it will force in a run we can win this game, OK? Jimmy nods, takes a practice swing or two and steps to the plate.
"Casey" Caples, the Card's manager, also takes advantage of the timeout and strolls out to the mound. I can only guess what he is saying to his son, but I would bet it was something like, "Just be cool, Donny, this kid's gonna try to take a walk, probably won't swing at all. Just take your time, be careful and throw strikes. Nothing special, now, accuracy, not speed, and keep it low." He also takes advantage of the timeout to make a lineup change, bringing "Chuck" Benson, my son, who had a reasonably good glove hand, in to catch and sending Tommy Bartow to Chuck's position at third.
(" Oh, shit," I thought, "Please make it an easy grounder.")
When play resumes, Donny toes the rubber, takes a full windup and aims the ball at the plate. It was a rather slow cast that struck the dirt about five feet out in front. "Ball one!" I say loudly.
Donny waves his bat madly, scratches the dirt with his cleats and takes a practice swing before getting set. Donny fires another one. "Ball two". Casey from the bench, is shouting, "Put it over, Don; throw strikes."
Donny does his windup again and brings a soft one straight down the middle of the plate,
"Strike", sez I, "2 & 1".
Another soft one, "Ball, 3 & 1".
"C'mon Donny, Strikes!" Casey says softly, just loud enough for his pitcher to hear.
Donny, in his windup, has a hit-man's look of concentration; sweat beads cover his forehead.
"Strike 2, 3 & 2".
Jimmy takes couple more practice swings, scratches the dirt some more, then backs up a step, gathers a handful of dirt, dusts his hands, takes another practice swing and steps into the box.
"He's gonna swing!" I thought.
Sure enough, Donny winds up, and gives it his supreme effort and beams a hard one just about level with Jimmy's eyes and at least 6 inches outside. "Game's over" I think; the word "ball" forms in my mouth.
Jimmy, evidently thinking that this is going to be the strikeout that would brand him forever as the kid who struck out a la Casey. swings hard and wildly at the incoming missile.
He makes contact, but he had to reach for it and consequently delivers little force; the ball hits the ground just inches in front of Donny's outstretched glove and dribbles weakly toward Petie Johnson at short. Bill, the Pirates manager, coaching at third, sees the opportunity and sends Dickie Thompson scrambling for home.
"Here we go!" I'm thinking.
It's a "bang bang" play at home. I step to the third base side of the plate in order to be out of the way and have a good view of the action. Dickie roars past me at about the speed of sound and hits the plate with his right sneaker just a mini-whisker after the ball smacks into Chuck's mitt.
I make my call as loudly as could, punch the air madly with my fist (just as I had learned in training) quickly turn my back on home and head for the safety of the bench to wait while the teams get ready for extra innings.
Game still tied, 7 - 7.
The crowd roars as only a 20 person crowd of relatives can, Over the roar I hear the well-known voice of Bill Wilson's wife, Beth, screaming, "HE DROPPED THE BALL! HE DROPPED THE BALL!"
"Shit! I muttered.
As I turn back toward the plate, I see a picture that lives with me to this day.
There beside the plate is my son, still frozen in his catcher's pose, holding the baseball firmly in his catcher's mitt, his right sneaker still on the plate. As I get closer, I also see, in the dust just in front of his toes, the snake-like trail of a rolling baseball.
"Oh shit, again." In my haste to be a good ump, I had left too soon, the player has to retain control of the ball.
His eyes met mine, "did you?"
He looks at his toes; the nod is almost imperceptible.
My training kicks in, I point at the dust trail dramatically, spread my palms outward in the universally recognized "SAFE" sign, turn sharply and march away in triumph.
GAME OVER! Pirates win! The crowd roars! again!
*****
"Sorry, Case. Guess I cost you the game."
" It was a good call."
"It was confirmed."
"You ask him?"
"I did. He didn't lie."
Casey grinned, "Stop by, I'll buy you a cold one."
"Deal"
The kids are not the only ones who learned a lot that summer.
George is still there, but he's not quite the smartass he used to be.
