The End Is Near

Umpire School moves rapidly toward its end. We have only three more days of instruction: Friday, Saturday, and Monday. Sunday we are off, as usual; Tuesday is closing day. We are free to leave on Wednesday. A quick update on recent and upcoming events follows.

The staff is in the midst of plans for Tuesday’s annual student game. We have been divided alphabetically into two teams who will actually compete against one another. The six-person umpire crews, which will change every half-inning, will be announced shortly. Additionally, the captains of these teams must consummate two trades before Monday. We have been warned to expect “shenanigans” at this game. The two stories we heard about last year’s game: (1) One team sent an experienced division I collegiate pitcher to the mound. He was ejected after one batter, because the umpires found a pair of scissors carefully (but not THAT carefully) hidden behind the mound. It is not clear whether or not the opposing manager, AAA umpire Peter Durfee, may have planted the infernal tool. (2) The game’s outcome was decided in the last inning when the defensive team successfully appealed batting out of order.

I got my graded incident report back.[1] I earned a “check”. I was dinged for using the word “incredulously,” and for a couple of irrelevant or unclear statements. Dan and I had to laugh… the two professional authors had their writing critiqued by a professional umpire who pronounces “carom” as “car-OOM.” Not that we dispute the criticisms that were leveled. Most of the red marks on my paper were thoroughly appropriate. I might write books and blogs, but I don’t yet know exactly what a league president really needs in an incident report.

I probably screwed up my chance at a professional baseball job with one pump of my fist yesterday. With Harry Wendelstedt watching my work at the plate, I called ball four on the leadoff hitter. The hitter knew he was about to be screamed at, because we have been told repeatedly and emphatically that hitters are NOT to take walks. So, as I was saying “ball four,” the batter swung. I didn’t see this swing, as I was (correctly) staring right at the ball in the catcher’s glove. The hitter protested, “but I swung.” I heard one of the instructors holler angrily and sarcastically, “he called ball four, so go to first!” My brain didn’t function; I wasn’t clear about what was happening. In a real baseball game, I would have had no moment of angst – I called ball four, go to first base. If the defense wants to appeal, I’ll just ask my partner, but the batter is not allowed to tell me what he did or didn’t do. But here at Umpire School, considering the implication that thumbscrews await those who take walks, and thinking that the sarcastic instructors are telling me not to allow the walk, I pumped my fist in the signal for a swinging strike.

Well, I looked like an incompetent idiot. Now the instructors turned on me – “Why did you just signal strike? Did he swing or didn’t he? You called ball four, right? What’s going on?” A flummoxed umpire is not an umpire who is in control of the game. I only made one significant mistake the rest of the day, but I could almost hear Harry shaking his head in wonderment at the poor dumb sap who can’t even call balls and strikes.

Good thing I had my conversation with the chief instructor that day already… In the last week of school, each student is asked whether or not he or she would accept a job in professional baseball if asked. I had to say no – not only am I contractually obligated to return to Woodberry to teach for another year, but I can’t see myself making such a dramatic lifestyle change at my age and with a family. Of course I knew that going in, that Umpire School was merely a lark for me rather than an entry point for a major league job. But still, it hurt a bit to have to turn down a dream job that probably wouldn’t even have been offered to me.

Tuesday night we get our final evaluations, and the twenty or so umpires who will progress to the minor leagues will find out who they are. Until then, three more long days of work. Stay tuned.

[1] A few days ago we observed a staged argument, and our homework assignment was to complete an “Umpire Incident Report” about that argument.

Just to Provide Evidence That I'm Really Here...

Tuesday was picture day. I've ordered a professional version of the class photo, as well as a professional version of the picture above. From left-to-right, that's chief instructor Paul Nauert, Northern Kentucky native Randy Marsh, Hunter Wendelstedt, the Nachoman, Harry Wendelstedt, Jerry Layne, and Ed Hickox.

Who Want's an Argument? It’s Argument Day!

I had been waiting for today since I was a junior in college. Back in 1994, my roommate John[1] and I watched a 30 minute ESPN special about Umpire School. In one of our favorite highlights, major league umpires charged at students, shouting, pretending to be rabid managers. “That looks like fun!” we thought.

Well, today, four weeks into Umpire School, we got our training in the handling of “situations.”[2] First was the classroom lecture, which began with “If you have a tape recorder, please turn it off.” You see, umpires are NOT ALLOWED to swear on the field; however, managers’ and players’ vocabularies don’t seem to include much beyond f***, s***, and various compound versions of such words. As part of our training, the instructors played the role of managers, and acted out actual situations that we might experience in the minor leagues, Language and all.[3]

Much of situation training is common sense to a veteran teacher – listen more than you talk, answer reasonable questions, try not to appear to be the aggressor, choose your words carefully, sometimes it’s better to say nothing than to risk inciting an angry combatant further, and so on. Knowing when to bring forth the ejection is the tricky part. Ideally, we don’t want to eject anyone; the fans are at the ballpark to see their team, not the umpires, and (most importantly) ejections cause paperwork. But, we cannot take abuse. We are instructed to eject immediately any participant who makes personal references: “That’s a horrible [bleepity-bleep bleep] call” is rude, but not an ejectionable offense; “You’re a horrible [bleepity-bleep bleep] umpire” is a ticket to the locker room. In principle, both the participants and the umpires should know where the “line” is drawn between a mere argument and an ejection. When the participants step over that line, they should expect to be ejected, and we must follow through.

Digression: I recall my first year refereeing intramural basketball at Woodberry. I was not a very good ref at all then, nor did I have much experience with basketball culture. One player, a good player who maybe could have played on the varsity team, was always whining, complaining, carrying on, giving me lip about my calls. Well into the season, I got fed up with his rotten attitude. I gave him a technical foul for his lip. He smiled, looked at me, and said, “about time!” He knew much better than I where the line should have been drawn.

Anyway, at the fields, we spent a couple of hours doing “situation” drills. As the plate umpire I angered a manager when I interrupted his prolonged strategic conference. I didn’t kick him out, but I did toss[4] the player who threw his helmet in disgust. Later, as the base umpire I called a balk, and I ended up tossing the pitcher when he threw his hat in disgust. In both cases I did an acceptable job, but I have room for improvement. (At the plate, I should have allowed the conference to continue a bit longer than I did; on the bases, I should have tried to warn the pitcher to put his hat back on before he threw it, because that might have helped keep the guy in the game.)

Tonight I’ve just finished writing up my Umpire’s Report based on one of today’s situations. Part of our training includes instruction on how to write such reports. Mine is about a handwritten page long, and it took me about ten minutes to complete. Although it was just a wee bit uncomfortable to write – we are not allowed to use euphemisms, we must quote precisely what was said to us, Language and all – this was not a difficult exercise for me. I feel more than a bit of sympathy for some of my classmates, though. Most of these folks may have graduated high school, but are not particularly academically inclined. To write a full page of description, with proper spelling, punctuation, and grammar, may for them conjure previously banished nightmares of Mrs. Marshall’s senior English class.[5]
Stay tuned for the reaction from the “league office” to my report. Considering that I’ve already been given Looks on the field for using the words “unambiguous,” “disingenuous,” and “pi,” I’m interested in how my report will be received. I don’t think I used any arcane language, but we’ll see.

[1] Who more than occasionally wore his catcher’s mask, glove, and protective around the apartment

[2] Meaning, “arguments.”

[3] The ESPN piece from 1994 didn’t include the kind of Language I heard today. Huh.

[4] Interestingly, although we spent days and days learning the precise form for the calls of strike, ball, safe, and out, no one ever taught us the proper mechanic for the ejection. I guess it is assumed that anyone who comes to Umpire School is gonna figure that one out for himself soon enough.

[5] Which, no matter how terrifying, can’t begin to compare to Mr. Reimers’ sophomore English class. Woodberry students would do fine here.

The Krispy Kreme Challenge

The crowd gathered. Visceral screaming erupted as the ringmaster introduced the reigning champion. Loud guffaws and boos greeted the challenger. The atmosphere was as at an illegal armadillo fighting ring. It was time for the Krispy Kreme Challenge.

You see, every baseball umpire takes pride in his unique call for strike three. Here at Umpire School, we are not generally allowed to demonstrate such style. All strike calls, including strike three, must be done the same way, with the same straightforward voice. This frustrates some students, who yearn for the opportunity not to say “strike three!” but to say “Haw! Yeee-arrgh!” with associated hand and body motions.

In order to satisfy these primal urges, each Saturday morning we stage a contest. Two students are appointed to demonstrate their best, most stylistic strike three techniques. The winner, determined by popular acclaim, earns control of a large box of Krispy Kreme donuts. Students gather round, mosh pit style, while the participants make their moves.[1] Last week, CJ the Crazy Braves Fan demolished New York’s Own Abraham Caraballo, primarily because Abraham’s voice broke into the soprano register while he punctuated his call. This week, CJ took the stage to defend his title.

[1] Side bets are not allowed, but the atmosphere nearly demands them.

Now, it didn’t matter who the challenger was, the match might as well have been fixed. CJ’s winning call provoked shouts and whoops from the crowning crowd.

CJ just about dropped the donuts as he left the stage victorious.

“Situations”

On Saturday, it rained unexpectedly. The original plan for the day was to umpire a multitude of high school games, but the rain made the plan a bit less exciting: take a multitude of tests, instead. We took four tests, covering interference, obstruction, balks, and other things. While the change of plan made many classmates anxious and antsy, the Nachoman took solace in the respite granted his legs. While I waited for my classmates to finish each test, I caught up reading the December issue of Physics Today – I read articles about the scientific study of snowflakes, terrain mapping with lasers, and a well-researched history of the Copernican Revolution.[1]

The bad news is that I missed another question… Bases loaded, runner from third steals home, but is hit by the pitch in the batter’s strike zone. Unless that’s strike three for the third out, the run scores – I knew that. But what I didn’t remember is that the runners advance. Well, I know now, just in case that ever happens.

Four tests took us two hours. After lunch, we went to the Penthouse Lounge[2] to view some “situation” DVDs on the big screen. “Situation” is an umpire euphemism for “all heck breaking loose and you might have to kick people out of the game.” We saw numerous “situations” involving our instructors, and we got the inside scoop about what the managers and players were saying during the arguments. At each ejection, the crowd of Umpire School students erupted in cheers.

Some of the fun clips:

We saw a crazy play between the Cubs and White Sox in which obstruction was called and enforced properly, but the umpires let the play develop too long before calling time. That made Ozzie Guillen angry because he thought he should have earned two outs on the play, but really he earned no outs. Joe West threw Ozzie out. Instructor Eddie Hickox had third base that day. He earned perhaps the biggest cheer of the afternoon when the replay showed him call the obstruction properly, then with perfect timing, turn his head to watch the runner touch third base.[3]

Someone had uncensored footage of Earl Weaver going after an umpire twice his height. Earl looks like a miniature poodle trying to have Relations with a Labrador Retriever. He uses intense language, going on for about eight minutes while the umpire tries to walk away. A funny part of that video is the scoreboard clock, which reads 7:39 when Earl walks in front of it. The game was a 7:35 start.

Instructor Peter Durfee had video of the Caribbean World Series game 7 in Puerto Rico. He was behind the plate. The first base umpire (correctly) called a Puerto Rican player out at first base. The player went after the umpire and was immediately ejected.[4] That led to the fans showering the field with ice, cups, and bottles. The teams and umpires cleared the field while drunken fans ran the bases waving Dominican or Puerto Rican flags. Order was restored after about 20 minutes, and the game was completed.

Old-time American League umpire Ken Kaiser took the law into his own hands one night in Chicago. The first pitch of the game hit him in the mask, because the catcher didn’t get his glove up high enough to catch it. We were told to listen carefully… Mr. Kaiser called the next pitch “ball two” while the ball was in flight. Same for “ball three.” “Get your bullpen warmed up,” Mr. Kaiser said to the Sox bench, leading to an ejection. “You guys can NOT do this sort of thing!!” Hunter Wendelstedt commanded with a smile.

What we did not watch was video of the AA manager who made a spectacle of himself, pretending to lob grenades at the pitching mound, the night Brent (our instructor) had the plate. I suspect that’s being saved for another rainy day.

Many of the plays we saw Saturday were not situations, just unusual plays that were called properly. For example, we saw a pitch lodged in the catcher’s equipment (runners advance one base). We saw interference by a runner going to third base on a popup. We saw umpire interference on a catcher’s throw to second. In virtually every case, we listened to ignorant announcers give their ignorant opinions about what they thought happened, provoking rude and derisive laughter from the crowd of umpires.

And then, we saw a three base award.

Remember the three base award? I frequently use this as a trivia question. The only situation in baseball in which a player is awarded THREE bases is when a defensive player contacts a batted ball with detached equipment, i.e. he catches the ball with his hat, or he throws his glove at the ball. I also frequently joke that no broadcaster in baseball knows any rules at all, let alone this one… except for Vin Scully, who knows everything. In fact, I made such a reference merely days ago in this blog.

Sure enough, it was a Dodgers game from 2005 when a pitcher threw his glove at a humpback line drive. As soon as the glove hit the ball, without even waiting for the umpire’s call, Mr. Scully was on top of the play. “Oh, my,” he said. “And this will be that rarest of calls, the three base award. I’ve always known about it, but I’ve never seen it. The batter will be credited with a triple… I’ve seen all kinds of things in baseball: no-hitters, perfect games, World Series, and more, but I’ve never until now seen the three base award.”

[1] It was NOT the church who first opposed a heliocentric universe, it was fellow astronomers. At the time of publication, Copernicus’s theory didn’t have any better observational support than Ptolemy’s. It was only after Tycho Brahe’s observations revised and corrected planetary data that Copernicus’ became unambiguously the better theory. And it was only after Protestants made a big deal of accepting heliocentricity that the Catholic Counter-Reformation branded it as heresy. (At first, Catholics supported Copernicus, while Martin Luther spoke out against his ideas.)

[2] No, get your mind out of the gutter… the Penthouse Lounge is on the top floor of the hotel with a panoramic view, and it’s just a bar with several big screen TVs. We were warned as we headed upstairs that the lounge was open, but NOT for us.

[3] You see, student umpires tend to struggle to remember to watch touches of bases, and Eddie is absolutely intense in drills about us seeing touches. Woe be it to the student who fails to see a missed base with Eddie on the field!

[4] The player later denied making contact with the umpire, though on video, it sure looked like the player has a different definition of “contact” than the rest of us.

Teaching, Both Bad and Good

Woodberry Forest School has allowed me to come to Umpire School as the major part of my sabbatical. In principle, a sabbatical should involve professional development that is somehow related to one’s role at the school. Umpire School was not intended as true professional development, but rather was a lark, a way to get myself out of the classroom for a while so as to avoid burning out my enthusiasm for teaching physics. It’s turned out, though, that this place has given me all kinds of worthwhile perspective about my day job. Think about it…

In Virginia, I teach at a boys’ boarding school. Here, I am a student at a “school” for 120 “boys”[1] who live not in a dorm but in a beachside hotel. Woodberry is all about bonding with classmates and making friends, yet those friends are ever competitors for spots on varsity sports teams, in the plays, for valedictorian… here, though the student umpires are friendly and supportive to each other, we all know we’re competing for maybe 20 positions in the professional ranks. In other words, my sabbatical has turned into role reversal. Talk about gaining perspective…

So as the professional teacher thrust into the student role, I’ve continued to observe the instructors, what they do, how I and my classmates react. I’ve already posted some thoughts on our major league instructors. They’ve been uniformly awesome. The instructors who are minor league umpires, though, have been a mixed bag. A couple have been wonderful. Most have been acceptable, though not special. At least one is horrendous. Though they all know their stuff, what separates the great from the just-okay is their attitude toward the students. Too many of the minor leaguers are easily frustrated, occasionally obnoxious, or overeager to snap at reasonable questions.

My friend Dan suggested, perhaps perceptively, that some minor leaguers might be teaching here for the cash and the politics rather than for a true love of teaching their craft; whereas, the major leaguers are already set financially and professionally, and so choose to come here for the right reasons. While that’s an excellent point, I’ve chalked up much of the poor teaching to inexperience more than motivation. I know that my own major deficiency in my first years of teaching was that I showed frustration too easily.

Thursday’s class included an hour-long review of the mechanics of the 2-person system. The two highest ranking minor league umpires took the stage to run the review. Boy, did they destroy the day’s morale… the timbre of their voice and their body language figuratively screamed, “My God, we’ve told you this already, why are you all too stupid to do it right?!?” I do see where they’re coming from, ‘cause we do keep screwing up some of the basics on the field. The review was necessary. But an occasional smile, some sort of token admission that “you’re doing it all for the first time so you really aren’t dumb just inexperienced,” would have been appreciated.

Now, I’m not complaining about a bit of intensity, or even about instructors yelling at us. We were warned from day one: the instructors will yell, not to embarrass us, but so that *everyone* can hear and thus everyone can learn from one person’s mistake. Heck, that’s my philosophy in physics class. Ask any of my students – I get loud and intense. I tell you when you screwed up. I try to do so with a smile on my face, but nevertheless, I yell. Of course, I temper that yelling with encouragement, with whatever is necessary for the class to know that I love them even when they tell me that an object moving at constant speed must have a force acting on it. Whether my students know it or not, I think deeply every day about whether I’ve shown enough love to temper my intensity. Here at Umpire School, I have no problem being yelled at when I deserve it.

I’m concerned about instructors who assume that a student who messes up must not have been paying attention, or has a bad work ethic. The school has heard at least seven lectures about how success at Umpire School requires individual effort beyond merely performing in drills. Practice, study, attention while in line for drills, attention in class… all of these things are not really optional if we want to do well. Well, the vast majority of the class seems to have taken this message to heart. Many of us stay an extra hour at the fields to practice each day. Others can be heard practicing on the beach. My study group has been well attended, and I know that many other study groups can be found around the hotel. Those in line for drills are often seen going through their mechanics. I never see students talking in class or distracting their neighbors. Everyone that I’ve seen has the right attitude.

Yet, I repeatedly observe instructors becoming angry or extremely frustrated with student(s), even though those students had shown considerable diligence. In one case, at the huddle after a long drill, my field was reminded again[2] that we should be paying attention while waiting our turn. “I’ve gotta tell you,” one instructor said with nods from his colleagues, “it gets really frustrating for us when we tell you the same thing again and again. If you weren’t [messing] around in line, you wouldn’t make the same mistake that the guy in front of you made. Don’t [mess] around in line, and then maybe we wouldn’t have to go over this same stuff so many times. If you’re paying attention, you won’t screw up.”

This instructor’s statement contained two major fallacies. For one, I am capable of explaining exactly what I am supposed to do in any given drill. But that does not mean that, when it comes time to make my body go through the actual motions, I won’t forget something. For example, the first time I did the “pivot” drill I forgot to watch the ball in the outfield. All the way until my next turn, I practiced in my mind, reminding myself, “watch the ball, watch the ball, ball, ball…” When it came back to my turn, I started out watching the ball just fine; but then, after I properly glanced at first base to watch the runner touch, I forgot to turn my eyes back to watch the ball. Now, I knew I’d get this eventually. It’s not nuclear physics.[3] But at that point, my mistake was simply born of inexperience rather than lack of dedication. I paid attention; I still screwed up.

The second fallacy made me want to ask a smart-arse question. I wanted to say, “Mr. Instructor, did you see anyone, anyone at all, [messing] around in line?” I was smart enough to hold my tongue.

One instructor in particular, Jordan, has three times hollered at me as if I were a serf. On Thursday, one of the fields needed some volunteers to bat – I didn’t need to be asked twice, especially because I had been sitting bored on the bench. I grounded into a force play[4] to put runners on first and second with one out. Now, when we run the bases, we’re told to take two bases where possible, even if we get thrown out, in order to give the umpires something to call. The next batter singled on a line drive to very, very shallow center field. I properly held up, then ran when it was apparent the ball would not be caught. As I approached second base, the ball was thrown toward the infield. I was aware of the “go two bases” guideline, but the guy holding the ball probably would have been able to tag me out himself had I run toward third. So I stayed at second. After the third out, Jordan screamed across the field, “Greg Jacobs, how many times have we told you to go two bases on a base hit? What’s your problem?” I tried to defuse the situation… my intent was to say humbly, “I know, but the ball was in the infield while I was standing on second base… I thought running to third would be unrealistic.”[5] As soon as three or four words were out of my mouth, Jordan snapped, “I don’t want to hear excuses, I want you to do what you’re told!”

Well, I’ll be danged… I avoided that argument by walking off the field, figuring that while I won’t get into a shouting match, I also won’t volunteer to take that kind of abuse.

But sure enough, on Friday Jordan was in charge of our field during drills. I ran out a ground ball to first base. The first baseman booted the ball, and it trickled behind him. I figured that I had a slight shot at making it to second base. In a game, I would not likely have made the attempt; however, under the dictum of “make plays for the umpires,” and especially considering my verbal lashing the day before, I didn’t hesitate – I ran to second, beating the tag by half a step.

And Jordan looked at me, shook his head angrily, and said to all, “That would never happen. What’s wrong with you, Greg? You’re supposed to run like you know what you’re doing!”

Nothing I can do here short of getting into a screaming match, and there’s nothing to be gained with that. I explained my conundrum privately to one of the better instructors, and from now on I quietly go to the back of the running line when Jordan is on our field.

Okay, so there’s my huge beef about the worst instructor here. On a positive note, it’s time for a heartwarming story about Rob, a minor leaguer who earned our respect and made my day on Monday. In one moment he showed more teaching talent than the rest of his compadres combined.

First of all, you must understand the nature of CJ the Crazy Braves Fan. This 19 year old has had a difficult time of it at Umpire School. To start with, he’s a bit of a natural social outcast. His slight speech impediment makes him sound dumber than he actually is. He has limited athletic ability – when he runs, he waves his arms, and he looks like he’s going to fall with every step. CJ knows baseball, but he’s probably overly enthusiastic about the Braves and Bobby Cox.[6] No one loves to play the game more than CJ, who puts himself first in line to bat (even though he can barely make contact), and who jumps at every chance to play the field (even though he can’t throw or catch well). He shows that same enthusiasm for umpiring. Everywhere you look around the fields, CJ can be seen practicing his “strike three!” or his ejection mechanic. He keeps a list in his breast pocket of every instructor whom he has “thrown out” of our drills. Unfortunately, CJ often has trouble getting his umpiring exactly right on the field. At first a lot of students were a bit cruel to CJ, but by now the class has rallied around him… he’s almost a class mascot. Most folks now treat him as a pleasant and amusing character.

CJ’s stated goal is to become a major league umpire, but he’s recently realizing that his talent might not be enough to carry him that far. It was my group’s turn with the pitching machine, CJ was the umpire, and I was the pretend batter.[7] Poor CJ just couldn’t get anything right this time. He failed to see a swing; his mechanics were all over the place; Rob the instructor had to correct his stance two or three times. For probably the first time at school, CJ hung his head. He knew he had stunk it up, and it was hurting him. His last two pitches were disasters, where CJ barely made any call at all. He looked like he might cry at any moment.

Rather than giving CJ the typical formal evaluation that usually follows cage work, Rob brought CJ over to him and looked him in the eye. “CJ, you can not hang your head,” Rob said. “We think too much of you to allow you to give up on yourself like that. Who here works harder than you? Who here is more enthusiastic? When everyone else is sitting on the bench trying to avoid helping out, you’re the first one to volunteer to play, to bat, or to run. We see that. I see that. The instructors appreciate your efforts, we know how much you care, we want you to be the best umpire you can be. So we will NOT let you hang your head and give up on yourself just because you had a bad turn in the cage. Think about how much you’ve improved in three weeks…” and so on, encouraging CJ firmly but supportively for about two minutes, obviously in earshot of a whole bunch of people.

I kept a poker face, but inside I was rooting Rob on. The staff might talk all the time about how much they want us all to succeed, but here was one instructor showing with his *actions* how much he cared about a student on the margins. Me, I didn’t do so well in my drills on Monday. Yet, Rob made my day. I came off the fields feeling just that much better about my classmates and Umpire School.

[1] The “boys” range from 18 to 55 years of age, and our class includes a 39 year old “girl”

[2] For now the thirteenth time

[3] And I’ve done some nuclear physics.

[4] Making my batting stats on the season 7-14 with a double.

[5] What I WANTED to say was, “You idiot, what kind of baseball player takes third in that situation? You lecture about umpires developing instincts, and then you expect us to make dumb plays like that? What’s YOUR problem?”

[6] I can tell that it hurts him that seemingly every story about situations in the major leagues ends with “And then we had to throw Bobby out of the game.”

[7] The pitching machine is where we practice behind-the-plate mechanics. The pretend batter holds a whiffle bat, and is occasionally instructed to execute a check swing, giving the plate umpire an opportunity to say “yes he did” or “no he didn’t”.

Someone Threw Socks At My Face During the Faculty Meeting

Umpire School rolls on, and is causing me considerable anxiety. I don’t quite understand why that’s the case – for me, unlike most of my classmates, a job in professional baseball is not at stake. The worst that can happen to me, even if I become the worst student here, is, um, nothing. Yet, I had knots in my stomach all day, knowing that I was scheduled to work an inning this afternoon. As a rule, I don’t get nervous, I don’t get performance anxiety… I was much calmer than this presenting my masters thesis, I was calmer in preparation for the state marching band championship finals in front of 20,000 people.[1] What is wrong with me?[2]

I put the nerves aside and turned in a non-embarrassing performance. I’d give myself an A- as the base umpire, where I moved properly, saw all touches of bases, and recognized and enforced a balk pretty much correctly.[3] As the plate umpire, though, I can’t give myself higher than a C. My main goal for today was to clear the plate area properly with runners on second or third base – that I did. But, I was in poor position to observe a foul pop; I failed to observe one touch of home plate; and, most critically, I flinched at two pitches coming toward my head.

Let’s talk about that flinching. A plate umpire is not supposed to move his head at all during the pitch, but is supposed to follow the ball with his eyes all the way to the glove or bat. One of my favorite umpiring moments of all time occurred in an Astros game last summer: the pitcher didn’t get the sign for a pitchout, so he threw a fastball over the plate while the catcher vacated the plate area. This put the ball on the very fast track toward veteran umpire Joe West’s face. Mr. West never moved a muscle, not even when the ball tipped the catcher’s glove and hit his mask in front of his left eye. FSN replayed the event frame by frame, demonstrating unambiguously that Mr. West didn’t even blink. Wow. There’s an umpire, folks.

Well, today I flinched, taking me out of position to call the pitch. More importantly, flinching actually can cause injury – I will be fine[4] should a ball tip off the bat and bonk me in the front of the mask. That’s why the plate umpire wears a mask, of course. But, if I flinch my head to the side a bit, I considerably reduce my protection. Flinch too much, and I could possibly suffer serious injury to my cheekbone. But, flinching is a natural instinct, not something anyone does consciously. We have to develop muscle memory (or, really, REMOVE muscle memory) so as not to flinch. How to do that?

Well, tonight Dan and I did a drill recommended to us by some instructors. In my hotel room, we took turns putting on the mask, getting in a plate stance… and taking a pair of rolled-up socks to the face. We threw the socks at each other again and again and again,[5] pausing occasionally to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of our situation. I wish the 4-year-old Nachoboy had been here tonight to help us, as “let’s throw socks at Dad’s face” is right up his alley.
The good news is, the knot in my stomach is gone for now. An evening of sock-throwing, *especially* while in my normal life I would have been sitting in a faculty meeting, jolted me back to the reality of why I’m here. This is supposed to be fun, not nerve racking.

[1] 1990 Kentucky state champions, 1986, 1987, 1988 state runners-up

[2] One possibility is that these five weeks of Umpire School represent the first time in decades that I’ve had no “extracurricular” activities. In high school, college, grad school, and at all of my teaching jobs there’s always been some auxiliary focus for my free time. I might have done poorly on a test, but there was still bridge club or the tennis team or professional scorekeeping to take my mind off of my primary job. But here it’s all umpiring, all the time.

[3] My misstatements are becoming part of my reputation down here. In enforcing the balk, I pointed directly at third base, and shouted clearly “YOU, SECOND BASE. I mean, THIRD BASE.” My goodness, I know which base is which. Or maybe not.

[4] If momentarily woozy

[5] My sock accuracy got pretty good. From about five meters out, I could hit Dan in the head at least 5 out of 7 times.

Catcher's Interference -- May I Confuse You, Please?

Consider this situation from the perspective of Tim McCarver, the baseball broadcasting blowhard who is well known both for his ignorance of the rules and his criticism of the umpires. He sits in the press box and observes the following:

With runners on 1st and 2nd and no outs, the batter hits a ground ball to third base. The third baseman bobbles the ball, but then he successfully throws to second base for a force out. By the time the second baseman gets the ball out of his glove, the batter has already passed first base, so he throws to third instead… and throws the ball into the stands.

The umpires point and wave for a short time. The batter has been pointed to third base, and the runner who started on second base has scored. BUT WAIT! Now the plate umpire is pointing and waving again! These idiots are changing their minds… they’re sending the runners back. Now the bases are loaded, and the run has been taken off the board. The manager has come out for a lengthy animated discussion. Boy, the clowns in blue really have no idea what they’re doing.

Oh, boy, it looks like the manager has won the argument. They’re scoring the run again! Yay! But, mein gott, they’re calling one of the runners out. What did he do to deserve that? I’ll bet these guys are making it up as they go along, says McCarver. What a travesty.

Plays like these are why major league baseball should include a clause in all media contracts that radio and television commentators be required to take and pass the Umpire School course in order to be allowed to call games.

The play above is a correctly adjudicated instance of catcher’s interference – that is, the catcher’s mitt tipped the bat as the batter swung. The catcher’s interference penalty itself is strange enough… when a catcher hinders a batter’s attempt to hit the ball, he is called for interference. But, if the batter hits the ball, the penalty is nullified if he and all runners advance at least one base safely.[1] If the batter or a runner is put out *before* advancing one base, the manager has an option – he may take the play as it stands, or allow the interference penalty to be enforced.

Whew! Sound complicated? Well, consider the umpires’ mechanics. They can’t do any penalty enforcement until the entire play is over, because the penalty might be nullified, or the coach may elect to accept the results of a play. So, other than a loud “That’s catcher’s interference!” that probably can’t be heard in a large stadium, no reference is made to the interference until play has ceased – even if the play is complex, involving the award of bases on overthrows or other strange situations. AFTER completing the original play, if all runners including the batter haven’t advanced one base, only then do the umpires enforce the catcher’s interference. This might involve recalling runners who have scored! Umpires are not allowed to ask the manager whether or not he wants to accept the play, the manager has to know the rule – the manager has to come out and request to accept the play and to nullify the interference, at which point the umpires have to re-award the runners to where they ended up, and re-call any outs that were made.

Got that? I doubt it. In fact, I doubt that one of ten managers knows this rule; I doubt that one out of a thousand fans knows this rule.[2] Sure, catcher’s interference is relatively rare, but not so rare that a fan never sees it – I watch a play with catcher’s interference maybe once per season or so. Fortunately, the application is usually not so complicated.

So, next time you’re tempted to impugn the competence of the umpires during an award of bases, it might be worthwhile to check the rulebook carefully. Don’t necessarily trust the announcers’ judgments. Unlike the folks in the booth, not many umpires are given jobs just because they have good hair.

[1] So, consider this… batter and all runners advance one base safely, but then one of the runners is thrown out trying to take an additional base. He’s out, and there’s nothing the offensive team can do about it. He advances past his award at his own peril.

[2] And it goes without saying that no broadcaster outside of Vin Scully understands it. Vin knows all.

Quick Update Before Class

I got my second turn at live action yesterday, this time with a high school team playing for us. About three Seacrest H.S. alumni who are currently in the high minor leagues came out with them. The good news is, I did okay – only one major screw-up, and that was one that would never be noticed except by a professional umpire. The bad news is, even with a backup Baltimore Orioles catcher batting, no one got on base. I saw two ground outs and a fly ball as the plate umpire[1]. As the base umpire, I saw a ground out, a fly out, and a popup. I did get to call “foul ball!” once. The end result is, I’m more relaxed than I was last week, I’ve built some confidence… but I still want to see how I handle full-speed baseball action with runners actually on base.

The science department is debating the “slurpable noodle” question from www.straightdope.com. Our investigation currently centers on wet vs. oily vs. dry noodles, and their slurpability quotient. Stay tuned for updates.

Dan, the Canadian gentleman who returned just recently from years managing an arctic aviation base, studied with me last night. Dan is the only person here who has any sort of serious nerdly credentials. How do I know? We discussed how poorly-written the baseball rulebook is. We recognize that this is for historical reasons – clauses tended to be tacked on to apply to specific situations, when it would have been clearer to just rewrite. Dan says that he and his friends re-wrote the entire Dungeons and Dragons rulebook over the course of four years, clarifying ambiguities and adjusting what they felt to be unbalanced situations.

Speaking of Dan, we have *got* to get this guy to give a talk at Woodberry. He has amazing stories of his time spent with the Inuit, including 60 mile treks in arctic blizzards, hunting caribou and polar bear, almost dying because he stepped a yard away from his snowmobile to relieve himself (the visibility was so bad he couldn’t find the snowmobile again), learning Inuit survival and navigation skills and Inuit history, living in igloos occasionally... he did ask me to turn down the heat in what I felt was a slightly cold room. :-)

More tonight or tomorrow. Time to talk about batting out of order. Maybe tonight I'll have a chance to describe one particular baseball rule that, if enforced correctly, does little but make the umpires look bad.

[1] I didn’t get out from my position far enough for either… the steel-toed plate shoes make me even slower than normal. I’ll have to work on speed in full equipment.

Shun the Unbeliever! Shun! Shun!

Ah, the blessed day off. After two straight long, cold[1], and wet days at the fields, I am privileged this morning to do nothing but drink coffee, watch the ocean, and write. I woke up at my normal 7:15 a.m., but instead of preparing for and heading to class, I watched and mentally “worked” two major league games from last season. As those of you who have been reading the blog regularly can probably tell, I need mental reps as much or more than physical reps at this point in order to improve my confidence, my reactions, and my instincts as an umpire.

Saturday’s day at school began with an hour-long ceremony honoring Harry Wendelstedt for personally and aggressively spearheading the campaign to build the Ormond Beach Sports Complex. This beautiful facility now includes three professional-quality baseball fields, along with soccer, softball, and football venues. At the ceremony, multiple politicians from the city of Ormand Beach spoke upon the history of the facility, including the story of them laughing at Mr. Wendelstedt when he first proposed building it; Mr. Wendelstedt borrowing a bulldozer and personally beginning the clearing of 75 acres; and the eventual support and thankfulness from the entire community. Though I absolutely hate such ceremonies in general, having heard the story of the Ormand Beach Sports Complex, I felt that Mr. Wendelstedt richly deserved his recognition.

Then we went to work. I called pitches in the batting cage before lunch.[2] After lunch, since no local teams were available to play for us, we students had to play the afternoon games. And, since I was not called to work today[3], I got to play baseball the rest of the day.

I played the first six innings[4] at third base, where I committed one error, and made all of my other plays. I got a bit frustrated defensively, because we are not allowed to dive – I had at least two or three plays that I might have been able to make had I laid out. Since I did not make the time to take (Woodberry Forest coach) Henry Heil’s advice about getting my arm in shape in the fall, by the fifth inning my throws had lost all semblance of zip. So, though I wanted to play all 10 innings that day at third base, I offered my desirable infield position to anyone who wanted it.

Here’s what shocked me. A significant number of students chose to remain in the dugout and NOT to play in the game! I came in to take my turn at bat, and players were only too happy to put me to the front of the line. (Too much running, they said.) I had been disappointed all day in the lack of game intensity. Yeah, sure, some of the macho ex-players liked to show off how they could crush the ball. But they’d hit a ball over the slow-moving center fielder’s head, it would roll to the fence for so long that *I* might have notched an inside-the-park-job… and they’d stroll into second for a double. Only about three of us ever ran out a ground ball at a speed beyond walking pace. I got a hit, the next batter was retired to end the inning… and I found myself in the on-deck circle again. So I batted again, and laced a solid single to left. The next batter hit into an inning-ending double play. I jogged off the bases, only to hear the guy who had replaced me at third asking out of the game. “Anyone want third?” he shouted, while three other fielders also searched for replacements. I grabbed third base back. Sore arm or not, I wanted to play defense; and, it was better for the umpires to have defenders trying to play the game properly if poorly than to have fielders half-arse their way through the motions.

I’m amazed. Numerous fellow students have complimented me on my defensive prowess! That’s kind of silly, because in the grand scheme of baseball, my defensive ability is about high school junior varsity level. What I think they’re really seeing is that I hustle, I take every play seriously, I try to get to every ball, I make accurate if weak throws… There are lots of better baseball players here than I, but many of them either look the part, or are complete slackers on the field. I think I’ve gained a reputation because I look like I’d be completely worthless as an athlete, but I do far better than anyone thinks I should. In fact, the folks who have made the most plays, the ones I want playing when it’s my turn to umpire, are virtually all nerd-shaped short guys who play hard and have fun.

As for those who slack, let’s just say that while sacrilege has been committed, our pluralistic and tolerant society does not allow me to burn the heretics. Such a shame.

[1] For a given value of “cold,” anyway… it’s been 55-60 degrees Fahrenheit with some wind.

[2] Though my on-field work needs significant improvement, my mechanics calling pitches have been good so far. Whew.

[3] We umpire games every 2-3 days, not every day, because we have 120 students on three fields.

[4] Top and bottom… we didn’t really have two teams, we just rotated batters and kept the same fielders.

The Nachoman's First Live Game

Today dawned cold, but not wet, so we went back to work for a long day at the fields. We have learned[1] all of the mechanics of the two-person umpire system. So, from now on, afternoons will feature “games” of some sort on three fields, and umpires working those games.

When I say “games,” I don’t mean that we have two teams in heated baseball competition. Rather, a high school, AAU, or college team is invited to play an intersquad scrimmage for anywhere from six to twelve innings. Each trainee umpire gets to work two half-innings: one behind the plate, and one on the bases.

On some days, though, we don’t get enough teams. So, umpire school students get to play. If we’re playing, the rules are no diving, no sliding, no stealing, don’t take a walk or a called third strike. So it’s not exactly a real baseball game, but it’s a step above the “control” situations we’ve been running in which the instructor just hits the ball where he wants to.

The good part about today was that I played excellent defense at second base and in right field. I also hit a solid single my first time at bat. (I grounded out to 3rd base in my second at bat, after sending two balls foul in attempts to hit my trademark bloop-down-the-right-field-line.) Okay, great… but we’ve been warned repeatedly that if we could play baseball, we would be at the Arizona Fall League, NOT at Umpire School.

So how was my umpiring? I’m not sure. In the morning I worked a “control” game. There I covered most of my plate responsibilities effectively, except for one major mistake – I didn’t see a time play develop.[2] As the base umpire, I likewise did most things right, but earned a comment from chief instructor Paul Nauert: “Greg, loosen up out there!” I was using correct mechanics, but apparently I looked more like Commander Data[3] than Commander Riker.

This afternoon I suited up for my first-ever live game action. The body armor only had to protect me once, when I called a third strike (four inches off the plate) which bounded off of my shinguard.[4] On a popup I froze, not sure whether the ball would be caught, not remembering my responsibility to get out into the infield to observe the catch/no catch. When the pitcher turned his back to me, my partner observed him touch his fingers to his mouth, resulting in a penalty of an additional ball added to the batter’s count. When I turned to the press box to announce this ruling, I committed a malapropism that will forever live in Wendelstedt Umpire School infamy. And, since I am known even here for being loud and assertive, all three fields heard me, and had to stop play momentarily until their laughter was under control.

I did better on the bases, but once again I executed a critical stupidicism. Runner on second base, one out, ground ball to the first baseman. I reacted in excellent fashion, stepping across the infield, getting hands-on-knees set for the play at first, and immediately thereafter bouncing back to cover my remaining runner at third base. The footwork and positioning could not have been more textbook. Except, I neglected to render a decision on the play at first base. Sure, the runner was obviously out, but I didn’t call it! Remembering on the way to cover the runner on third, I hurriedly but belatedly called the guy out. How embarrassing is that?

Overall, I guess I didn’t do that horribly for my first live game. But I certainly expected better from myself. For Bob’s sake, the critiquer of my plate work said, and I quote: “You need to speed things up back there. Get balls in play faster, move more quickly, don’t take your mask off so often… this game is long enough already, don’t make it worse.” For those who know anything about the Nachoman’s rants on baseball philosophy, you will recognize that *I* just committed the gravest of sins, slowing the pace of the game! I’m a hypocrite for all the times I whine about slow pitchers! How could I be so dumb?!?

As you can tell from the increasing frequency of exclamation marks in this post, I’m a bit shell shocked from today’s umpiring. To calm down, I just ate an entire large Papa John’s double-extra-cheese pizza with garlic butter, and a little cinnamon pizza for desert. It’s okay. I will get better. Many people did far worse than I did today. After all, tomorrow is another day… one which I will greet older, wiser, and considerably fatter.

[1] Or, I should say, we *have been taught*

[2] Runners on 2nd and 3rd, one out… fly ball to mid-range center field, both runners tagging up. As the plate umpire, I properly cleared the bat and got in position to observe the tag at third. The throw went to third. At this point alarm clocks should have been going off in my head – it is my responsibility to know whether the run scores before or after the out at third base! I have to get in position to see, and then report my observation to the press box! But, I just stood there like the dork I am, watching the touch of home plate, until Rob the instructor asked about the time play I had just missed.

[3] Oh, that’s right, some of these blog readers (shame on them) might not be familiar with Star Trek references… Mr. Data was, in fact, a human-shaped robot. Mr. Riker was the Enterprise-D’s suave ladies’ man.

[4] In my critique, the instructor didn’t complain about the Eric Gregg strike call. He was more concerned that I had missed the fact that the batter left the dirt circle without attempting to run to first base. I should have called him out right then and there! Instead, unsure of whether he was running or not, I let play continue, forcing the catcher to throw to first. Boux! I know that rule…

On the Matter of Tests

Rain today… we spent all day indoors, discussing interference and obstruction, and taking two of our twenty-five rules tests.

In my real-life role as a physics teacher, I take considerable heck for my test administration style. In particular, I insist on students finishing all tests within an inflexible time limit, with no “coming back later” to finish. And, I do not allow students to ask questions during the test.[1] Now that the Nachoman is on the butt end of classroom testing at Umpire School, does that change my mind about test taking policies?

No. In fact, I’m even more convinced that I’m right.

Tests at Umpire School harken back to the days of middle school. Each test is ten questions long, and is straightforward, but not necessarily easy. We have essentially unlimited time to finish; we have to wait until everyone is done before the class can move on.[2] Just as in middle school, one can feel the waves of apprehension flow through the class before the test, peaking as the test is handed out. I tend to finish well before everyone else,[3] meaning I have lots of time to sit and do nothing.

That’s not to say my classmates are (figuratively) slow. Most of them get the right answers most of the time. I have a considerable advantage over them in the classroom – I’ve read and studied the baseball rulebook more or less annually since I was 12, and a guy with an M.S. is probably more comfortable with tests than your typical prospective umpire.[4]

But let’s talk about “unlimited time” and the purpose of testing. The tests usually state baseball situations, and ask for the ruling that we would make on the field. Of course, on the field, we will *experience* the situation; in the classroom, we have to *read* about the situation, meaning that it should take a bit longer in the classroom to process the issue before delivering a ruling. But, on the field, rulings have to be nearly instantaneous: I see a balk… when do I stop play? Do I enforce the balk? Why or why not? What exactly is the penalty if I do enforce the balk? What do I say to the manager when (not if) he comes out to “discuss” my ruling? We don’t have time on the field to sit and ponder. If the tests are to truly ascertain our rules knowledge for use in game situations, we have GOT to be faster than we’ve shown so far.

Now about questions… The palpable anxiety of these non-traditional students causes them to ask all sorts of silly questions, often about self-evident issues. For example, a test item indicated that with a runner on second, the batter-runner was retired on a ground ball to shortstop; but then the ball went out of play on an attempt to catch the runner going to third. Some folks raised their hands to ask who made the throw that went out of play. Okay, I’ll grant that the test was not absolutely, legalistically clear about who made the throw. But (a) isn’t it reasonable to assume that the first baseman made this throw? And, more to the point, (b) who threw the ball is irrelevant for this ruling!

But, now the question had been raised. You probably know how this works, especially in a class of 120 worried and unconfident students whose career possibly rests on their test performance. First, the question was asked of an instructor. Then, the nearby test takers didn’t quite hear the question or the answer, but they thought it must be important. So they murmured, “What did he ask?” Pretty soon everyone was distracted, wondering what was up. Those who heard that the question was about number 8 wondered what they were missing… #8 seemed simple enough at first, but now it seemed like they might be missing something important. No wonder the tests take so long…

On several tests so far, the instructors have tried to answer such a question for the entire class. Okay, fine… but once they do that, they formally distract everyone, and they cause even more confusion for those who thought they understood the original item. EVERY TIME that the instructors have interrupted the test to make a point to the entire class, they have inspired so many additional questions that they’ve had to interrupt a second (or third) time in order to “clarify” the issue again!

And I haven’t even discussed the common type of question that betrays the questioner’s ignorance, such as, “Where were the runners when the ball went out of play?” If you have to ask, you don’t know what you’re talking about.[5] But a weasely[6] student might gain much information from the instructor’s response.

I hope you see why, when I’m in charge, I refuse to allow any questions at all. But my policy really is a covenant with my students… I won’t allow questions, but I will make dang sure that I’ve proofread the test carefully, that there truly are no ambiguities that require clarification. Then, if I screw up and something was unclear, I accept as correct any reasonable interpretation of the question. Today’s test had a major ambiguity that caused consternation. The chief instructor had to explain three times what kind of answers he was looking for. I didn’t change my answers until we got the second explanation. Some folks never did figure out what he was talking about, and as a result, lost credit for several questions on which they had a solid understanding of the situations. Now, that’s not fair… but the remedy is NOT to respond to questions during the test! The remedy is not to ask bad questions in the first place, and if you do, to ignore any reasonable confusion!

I know that my own students are initially put off by my no-questions policy. My hope is that by the end of the year, especially after they’ve faced nationally administered, no-questions tests such as the AP or the SAT II, they appreciate my style. I guess I’ll never know for sure. But, one way or the other, I’m sticking with my way.

[1] “I’m missing page 2” is just about the only legitimate question I will entertain.
[2] The instructor will find out how many people still haven’t finished, and say, “Okay, take your time. But hurry up.”
[3] So far, after about eight tests, I’ve missed one question, because I didn’t remember whether a declared infield fly that hits a runner standing on second base is a live or a dead ball. I knew whether the runner was safe or out, but I didn’t know the ball status. Grrr. I know now!
[4] My academic advantages are offset by my lack of game experience and my, um, athletic ability.
[5] Because the position of the runners when the ball went out of play never has an effect on their subsequent placement, even though many folks think otherwise.
[6] I welcome spelling corrections… Neither “weaselly” nor “weasely” is in any dictionary I can find.

Major League Managers

While Umpire School has been fabulous in regard to my understanding of the intricacies of baseball as a game, it has not provided many juicy tidbits to titillate a fan-boy. I haven’t heard whether or not Alex Rodriguez is a nice guy. The major league umpires haven’t told many personal stories of their encounters with the larger-than-life celebrities who play baseball. I haven’t even heard the dirty details about that minor league manager who went psycho on the field last summer, crawling around and pretending to throw grenades from behind the pitcher’s mound – despite the fact that one of our instructors had home plate that night.

So far only four managers have been mentioned in class by name.

Terry Francona of the Boston Red Sox had a discussion once with Paul Nauert about the running-out-of-the-baseline rule. Mr. Francona didn’t understand that it was legitimate for a runner to run from first to second base on the grass, as long as he wasn’t trying to avoid an imminent tag. Mr. Nauert explained the ruling, and Mr. Francona returned to the dugout.

Frank Robinson came off the bench one time while his Washington Nationals players ganged up on the home plate umpire. The plate ump had allowed a run to score on a play in which the third out was made by a runner who hadn’t tagged up from second on a fly ball. Since the run scored before the appeal play,[1] the run counted, but the players didn’t agree with the ruling. Mr. Robinson came out to home plate, got between the players and the ump, and shooed his players back to the bench, chastising them for berating the umpire on a correct call.

Those first two managers merely came up in the context of these stories. Lou Pinella, however, is mentioned frequently. If a trainee umpire makes a questionable call, an instructor might waggishly note that “Lou would be out of the dugout on that one!” This morning Mr. Nauert told a funny story about Mr. Pinella’s Tampa Bay days. Mr. Nauert prefaced the story by saying that he never seems to do his best umpiring in Tampa.[2] The crux of the story was that Sweet Lou was on the wrong end of a missed balk call that cost his team a chance to play extra innings. The next night, Mr. Pinella was gracious when the crew admitted their mistake, and he even made a wry comment when yet another call failed to go his way later in the game.

The final manager who has been noted, and noted frequently, is Bobby Cox.

No current umpire has said anything negative about any manager. Not even once. But on day 2 of the school, (retired umpire) Harry Wendelstedt interjected a diatribe about Mr. Cox. Sparing the details, Mr. Wendelstedt Sr. credited Braves GM John Schuerholz for the team’s long term success, and suggested putting Mr. Cox in the “Hall of Shame.” The rest of the staff said nothing… while Mr. Wendelstedt continued, the other professional umpires held poker faces. No embarrassed faces, no “huzzahs”… but just blank stares.

An instructor who invokes Lou’s name always seems to have a twinkle in his eye, as if they know Lou’s a crazy guy whose on-field tantrums are all in good fun. An instructor who mentions Bobby, though… I’m almost expecting them to cross themselves after they say his name out loud. A student who is asked “you think Bobby might come out on that one?” had better think carefully about his mistake.

The Atlanta Cracker[3] has a theory about why Bobby Cox seems to rile up umpires. He thinks that, sure, Lou will throw a wobbler occasionally, but most of the time Mr. Pinella is gracious and professional. However, Mr. Cox might well be criping nonstop about every call, every pitch, every little thing. If that’s the case, I could see why the umps don’t seem to have much affection for the man.

This afternoon, my whole field was called together. In retrospect, I suspect that we were called in mistakenly; that is, they thought it was break time but it wasn’t. When we got together, Paul Nauert said something to our field instructor while Paul talked into a cell phone with a huge smile on his face. The field instructor told us, “Breaking News: Bobby Cox has retired.” Now that I’ve checked the sports wires, I recognize that we (and CJ the Crazy Braves Fan) were having our collective legs pulled. But, the delivery was totally believable: When Mr. Cox does abandon the Turner Field dugout for good, I will bet that the whole major league umpiring staff will likely have that same celebratory smile on their faces.

I’ll repeat: It’s still the case that no current umpire has said even the slightest disparaging word about Mr. Cox, or anyone else in baseball. The preceding analysis is no more than the Nachoman’s inference from observed behavior. It kinda leaves me to wonder what inferences the instructors here (or worse, my students back home) take from observing my behavior. Shudder. Maybe they’ll find how much I hate three hour games and the DH.

[1] NOT the force play… a runner who fails to tag up on a fly out is NOT in jeopardy of a force play; rather, he can be called out on appeal.
[2] My immediate thought that I didn’t verbalize is “That’s okay, because they don’t play such good baseball in Tampa, either.” Ba-dum-bum.
[3] a.k.a. Paul Vickers, the Nachoman’s Atlanta Braves correspondent

Without the Inside the Pork Home Run, This Would Have Been a Boring Day

We’ve settled into a routine here at Umpire School. That routine is pretty, um, boring. I’m certainly having fun, learning a lot, the course is challenging me both physically and intellectually… but most of my days consist of standing around a lot.[1]

After class each morning, we head to the fields for 5-6 hours of instruction and drills. On Saturday and Monday combined, I umpired exactly 13 plays. Of those, I made one significant mistake, one complete embarrassment of myself, and 11 good (though never perfect) efforts. I also called balls and strikes in the batting cage for 20 pitches, and though my stance needs fine tuning, I didn’t do anything majorly stupid.

Those 13 plays and 20 pitches took maybe ten minutes or so to occur. That left about 10 hours of unbilled time on the fields. Okay, well, maybe an hour or so of that was lunch, but the rest was waiting in line, playing in the field, running the bases, and so forth. The most exciting part of the day came after a series of more and more intricate questions to chief instructor Paul Nauert: “What if the ball is thrown out of play and the batter had reached first before the throw? What if the batter hadn’t turned toward second base yet? What if the ball doesn’t go into the dugout but just gets caught in the first baseman’s jersey?” Fellow major leaguer Sam Holbrook came to Paul’s rescue, asking “Yeah, and what if a pig runs onto the field and eats the ball?” Paul was ready for that one: “Then you’d have an inside the pork home run.” Groan.

The instructors pound and pound at us about paying attention in line… we are told that if we only get 5 turns in a day, we really should have had 100 turns, because we should simulate each play while waiting in line. Yeah, well, I do that. Every pitch. And yet I *still* forgot to take my mask off on a ground ball toward third base.[2] Mental reps just don’t take the place of real reps, and real reps are in short supply when there are three fields for 120 people.

This afternoon marked my first foray in front of the pitching machine, and, more significantly, my first time wearing full plate equipment. I might be a football coach, but I certainly never was a football player. Yet, I have to wear a chest protector that bears tremendous resemblance to football shoulder pads and harnesses. I put on shin guards, steel-toed shoes, a mask, and a Personal Protective; wove my ball bag through my belt; carried[3] a ball-strike indicator and a plate brush. I decided that what I really need is full Imperial Stormtrooper apparel – it probably feels about the same as umpire gear, and looks cool, too.

As an aside, the plate brush comes with an interesting story. When I purchased my equipment from the Gerry Davis Equipment representative, he showed me an official umpire’s plate brush that he told me cost about $10. I asked him why I shouldn’t just head down to the hardware store and buy a cheap-o paintbrush for $1.50. His answer: “Yeah, that sounds expensive, but you’ll take not just 10 but 100 dollars worth of ribbing for using a paint brush.” Just a “ribbing” wasn’t enough reason for me to put down the ten bucks – for Bob’s sake, I’m a physics teacher who can quote from Star Trek… I know all about “ribbing.” However, my question got the guy thinking… he actually looked at the price in the catalog. The brush we were looking at was considerably cheaper; with the Umpire School discount, I think it came to just over a couple of dollars. So I bought it, and I will have to be ribbed for issues unrelated to my plate-cleaning methods.

Tonight I studied and did laundry. Tomorrow I have to get my new Umpire Pants hemmed.[4] Ho, hum, an exciting day in the life of an Umpire School Student. The scary thing is, despite all of the mundane standing around, I’m still having fun. Am I weird, or what?

[1] Sounds an awful lot like PLAYING baseball, doesn’t it?
[2] For the second time in four days.
[3] But did not use
[4] I asked the equipment salesman what to do about the 45-inch-long trousers that I had tried on. He told me to get them altered, and pointed to a sign on the door: “Jenny, 386-555-1345, $10. On the left, just before the bridge.” Is what I’m doing moral?

Boy, is it frustrating to be without internet access.

Umpire School continues to move at a blistering pace. I’m managing to (barely) keep up, by practicing a whole, whole lot. Last night my plan was to watch another archived major league game, this time working the plate the whole way through. You see, by Monday we will begin batting cage work, in which we have to call live pitching for the first time. Sounds easy enough, right? If the pitch crosses the strike zone, call a strike; if not, call a ball.

But I just know I’m going to screw this up if I don’t practice. I’ve got to be sure not to lose track of the count. The mechanics of the “ball” call require voice but no movement. A swinging strike is called slightly differently from a called strike; a foul tip requires an additional mechanic. Check swings require enormous concentration. I have to watch the pitch all the way to the glove without moving my head in the slightest, and (this will probably be the tough part) without blinking.

An archived game would allow me to work on all of the above issues in the comfort of my hotel room. But, alas, the internet is not working right now… I feel unconnected to the world around me. I can’t even read Patrick Hruby’s “week in sports quiz,” nor set my fantasy football lineup without heading to the hotel lobby.

Thus, this is not a complete post. I hope to have more for you next week.

I think my computer has enough battery left for me to write this quick exchange with Eddie Hickox on the field today… the second baseman had bobbled a line drive, then thrown wild to first.

Mr. Hickox: Why was that runner awarded third base and not home? He had gone well past second base when the ball went out of play.

Nachoman: Because when the overthrow is the first play by an infielder, the award is two bases from the time of pitch, not from where the runners were at the time of the throw.

Mr. Hickox: But, that wasn’t the first play by the infielder. He tried to catch the line drive, didn’t he?

Nachoman: A play requires both possession by the fielder AND a bona fide attempt to retire a runner. The second baseman never had possession; and even if he did, just catching the ball is not considered a play. Thus the throw to first was the first play by an infielder.

Mr. Hickox: What are you, an attorney or somethin’?

Nachoman: No, sir, just a physics teacher…

The Lesson, As Always, Is: I’m An Idiot.

We umpire wannabees have been told repeatedly that we are going to mess up early in the course, and that it is OKAY to mess up, as long as we learn from the mistake. I know that – I tell my physics students the same thing.

We are also told to study hard, and to pay attention in line, going through situations in our heads. That way, we’ll be more likely to know what to do when it’s our turn to perform. I know that, and I do that.

So I was all set for my first live-ball simulation drill today. I was assigned as the plate umpire, partnered with CJ the crazy Braves fan. Before we took our turn, I patted his arm with my mask, and told him I want to pretend we’re at Turner Field. He loved the thought. I told him Jeff Francoeur was coming up to bat. He got even more enthusiastic. I told him that John Smoltz was on the mound. “Wait,” he said. “How can Smoltz be on the mound with Francoeur at bat? Did someone get traded?”

And that was only the beginning of a colossal Nachoman brain fart that made the entire baseball complex smell of methane.

Pretty much every drill had started with a soft grounder down the third base line. The mechanics for such a play are very, very simple – call the pitch,[1] move down the line to render a fair-foul decision, and (if fair) proceed back to the first base line. I knew, and could state quickly and confidently, exactly what to do.

But.

When the pitch came in, I messed up the mechanics of calling the pitch a ball – I stood up, when I’m supposed to stay in my stance. Next, I got on the line properly, but I gave the incorrect mechanic for a foul ball (I pointed and shouted a tongue-tied “foul ball” instead of giving the dead ball signal and saying “foul.”) And finally, I heard chief instructor Paul Nauert – who unbeknownst to me had been standing directly beside the plate – yell “Hold it right there. What did you forget to do?” I didn’t take my mask off. I mean, how stupid is that? I’ve only been practicing mask removal about 50 times a day. Mr. Nauert politely and loudly, for the benefit of the class, pointed out all of the idiocies of my first ever live ball.[2] He corrected my plate stance as I returned for the next pitch. And he finished with a wry and pleasant “Okay, now that all that negative stuff is out, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The good news is, I did well on four of my six plays, including one in which I correctly answered an instructor’s trick question, and another in which I executed a pivot properly. My other mess-up was a footwork problem, not a mental gaffe. All in all, I should be pleased with my performance – I got more right than a lot of folks, I was firm and commanding with my voice, blah blu blu blah blah.

But all I can focus on now is the seething anger at myself for forgetting to take the %^&#@#$ mask off, and all the rest of that play. I hardly feel like Don Denkinger,[3] but I still am mad.

For punishment and practice tonight, after study group I bought the MLB.TV online video subscription. I watched a “condensed game” from their archives twice through.[4] The first time, for each play I went through all the actions of a plate umpire, hat and mask in hand; the second time, I executed the footwork of the base umpire. Hopefully I’ll be able to react better tomorrow. We’ll see.

[1] For drill purposes, we always practice calling the pitch before the instructor hits the ball.
[2] On top of everything he noted, upon reflection, I’m pretty sure the pitch was a strike, not a ball.
[3] For those readers not intimately familiar with baseball umpire lore, poor Don Denkinger was a fabulous umpire who will always be remembered for blowing a simple call at first base in game 6 of the 1985 World Series. His call, coupled with a bevy of Cardinals mistakes, helped the Royals win the game and, the next day, the series.
[4] A condensed game shows only the deciding pitch of each at-bat, with no interruptions for camera shots of players spitting and scratching themselves.

Characters

We’ve got some crazy and interesting folks in attendance here at Umpire School. There’s CJ, a 6.5 foot scarecrow-shaped gentleman with a deep Atlanta Braves accent whose flapping arms and baseball enthusiasm have caused a sensation; Katrina, whose two late-teenaged daughters are not attending, but whose husband will be part of next year’s class; and then there’s Dan. I don’t write fiction because I couldn’t in 10^12 seconds make up a character like Dan.

Dan is in my group of 20 or so students for drills. He seems to the Nachoman’s untrained eye to be one of the more competent class members. At study group tonight, it was Dan who helped me remember and understand the base umpire’s footwork on ground balls with a man on first base. I could tell that Dan knew how to learn, and how to study – he is one of the few who don’t seem out of place at a “study group.”

I got the 10 minute version of Dan’s backstory. His accent communicated instantly to me that Dan grew up in Canada – sure enough, he’s from Toronto.[1] At age 17, Dan wrote and produced his first play. He never went to college, because (for a while) he found regular writing gigs. He ended up producing three of his own full-length plays, was head writer for a major theater company in Toronto, and did some television work as well.

Problem was, after a time he tired of the feast-or-famine financial life of a freelance writer. He decided to escape the city, hopefully to make a bit of money and have a bit of an adventure. So he moved to the arctic to manage a base there.[2] And I do mean the arctic – in Nunavut territory at a latitude well above 70 degrees, pretty much as north as you can get without venturing out onto the ocean. Dan demonstrated for us a few words of the Inuit dialect that he has mastered.

I’m going to learn more about Dan’s job in Nunavut eventually. But he sure does sound happy in Florida while back “home” there’s not even any sunlight. He says that umpiring is “the only thing that would possibly bring him to the States right now.” He’s hoping for a minor league job, but he wonders how he would feel about the minor league lifestyle. The pay certainly is nothing exciting, but Dan sees the possibilities inherent in a job that requires only 4 or so hours of actual physical work each day – more time to write, right?

[1] He rides to our practice fields in a car with a Texan, which has made for some priceless conversations.
[2] What kind of base, I haven’t found out. Presumably not second.