[Rich]

I like when my name gets mentioned in a positive way .

I don't seem to have the time to contribute to the boards as much as I used to. I'm not only the migrant umpire, but the migrant worker. In the last year I've been to (for work reasons) 30 states, DC, and 2 provinces of Canada

I'll have to mention this to my boss. I deserve a raise. Actually, I ought to join multiple umpiring associations and work wherever I happen to be. Now THAT would be fun.

Anyway, this story is an example of one of those surreal plays where I thought I was dumped into the Twilight Zone of umpiring.

I had the plate, and my partner Ken (who I had never worked with before) had the bases. Ken was what I would call an average official. He was average in baseball, softball, football, and basketball. He was an umpire in football who managed to go an entire season without throwing a penalty flag OR blow his whistle. Nice work if you can get it.

R1. Outs unimportant. R1 steals, and we have a foul tip strike. The catcher doesn't throw down to second base. A stolen base.

I look up, and there's Ken shooing the runner back to first.

I IMMEDIATELY call time and say to Ken, although it might as well have been to nobody in particular, "He held it Ken. It's a foul tip. The runner keeps second."

Ken's face scrunches up to resemble a cross between a clenched fist and a dry crumpled-up sponge.

"He does?" the 20-year umpire replies. "No he doesn't."

At this point he shoos the runner back to first. The coaches are freaking clueless. NEITHER of them know the rule. And this was a high school varsity game.

Finally, I do my best "YOU! SECOND BASE!" and when the runner gets there I put the ball in play. Ken didn't know what hit him.

I showed him the rule after the game. I enjoyed the quart of beer Ken bet me, too.

[The next time I worked with Ken, he ejected a head coach -- the coach got mad at him for refusing to come to me on a check-swing (FED rules, Ken's prerogative). Of course the kid swung hard enough to screw himself into the ground and send a breeze out to me in C. I kept a straight face. The coach's turned deep purple.]

The funny thing about being the migrant umpire is that EVERY GAME is like this for a while. Just like you are the "wild card" for the association (moving into the area), every umpire you work with will be a wild card, too. Some umpires will talk the part and look sharp and umpire like they've never SEEN a game of baseball before. Other guys will be completely quiet, look disinterested before the game, and call a fantastic game. Later, from another partner, you find out your "disinterested" partner worked AA baseball for a few years.

Working in new places is fun, though. I've been lucky, because I've worked in places where I've been appreciated and lucky enough to receive some good high school assignments and made some good friends. Now I can't get the local guy here (in my new home in Massachusetts) to return my phone calls. They must have enough umpires. I've "hit" a few times. This time, in the place I'm most likely to stay for a while, I might have "missed".

Such is the life of the Migrant Offical.

Thanks for the kind words, Jake. You too, Tee.

Rich