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.