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Permit me to share a lovely experience during an NCAA game recently. In my 28 years of umpiring, I have never had something like this happen, let alone twice in the same game. The team names I will leave out.
Team W is playing at Team N in a 3:00 p.m. single 9-inning varsity game. I'm on the bases. First base was the Bermuda Triangle--keep that thought in mind as I relate to you what happened.
With the score 6-3 in the 3rd inning, Team W puts across 2 more runs in a comeback, making the score 6-5. With two outs and a runner on third base the next batter hits a double, tying the score at 6. As he runs toward first, the batter-runner stumbles about 2 feet before the bag then cuts to its left to go to second. Short story: he blatantly misses first base (and I DO mean blatantly--God, it was so obvious!). Hell, he wasn't even in the same zip code as it. I see it as the B-R trots into second base. The ball comes in from the outfield when I here Team N's dugout yelling, "Throw the ball to first base! He missed first!" Rick, the cutoff man, immediately throws the ball to the first baseman, who steps on the bag for the appeal. I bang out the B-R, and Team W goes nuts. Maybe I was taken aback by how vociferous they were, because the B-R so stupidly and obviously missed the bag. Never in my 28 years of umpiring had a runner been so lax in tagging a base.
After I banged out the B-R, I turned to my partner to remind him to negate that last run, adjusting the score to 6-5 in favor of Team N. I trot to short right field and turn, only to find the Team W's head coach in my face yelling at me that the B-R touched the base, I blew the call, etc.--the usual BS from somebody who was in the dugout 200 feet away. Of course, his first base coach is there yelling that the B-R did indeed touch the base. Uh huh. The guy was watching the ball the whole time.
Remember when I referred to first base as the Bermuda Triangle? I did so because both teams, especially Team W, had a difficult time throwing the ball to first and touching the base. No fewer than 7 times was the ball thrown into the dirt or thrown away when attempting to retire a batter-runner. Moreover, another 6 or 7 times the ball was thrown so short that the first baseman had to come up the line a bit to get the ball, thereby being forced to tag the oncoming B-R. Of course, more than once did a B-R miss first base entirely.
Flash forward now to the 8th inning. The score by now is 6-6. Team N scores three runs to take a 9-6 lead into the 9th inning. In the top of the 9th, we get two outs and there are now runners on first and second. Damn. A dinger ties the game. The pitch is thrown and the batter smashes it over the center fielder's head, clearing the bases with a triple, making the score 9-8 with a runner on third and the meat of the order up. Great. Except for one minor problem. The B-R who just hit the triple missed first base en route to third. Yup. You heard it right. I saw it and started thinking to myself, "Please don't appeal that. Please don't appeal that." God knows I didn't need another one like that. Well, Team N's head coach is in the duguout yelling, "He missed first base! He missed first base! Throw the ball to first!" The throw comes in from the cutoff man, who relays it to the first baseman, who steps on the bag for the final out. Of the inning. Of the game. Two runs are nullified, making the final score 9-6.
The same play, the same ruling. Twice in one game.
I'm walking off the field of course, wanting to get out of there as fast as my frozen feet can move my svelt composition. I'm walking off and happened to go right by Team W's third base coach (and longtime friend acquaintance), who has a look on his face that would make Darth Vader turn white. He's about to open his mouth when I simply say, as I'm walking away, "NNNN, don't even debate it. You've known me for over 10 years, and you KNOW that umpires call guys out on appeal only if we're absolutely, positively sure that a guy missed a base or left early. If we aren't sure, can't tell, or didn't see it, then we rule a guy safe. Period." NNNN doesn't say a word. Team W's head coach, however, is in my face screaming at me, shouting the usual pleasantries, when he turns to his genius of a first base coach and asks him, "Did he touch first base?" Well, golly gee, what do you think his own first base coach is going to say, "No, the umpire's right."? Hardly. The first base coach responds, "Yes. I saw it both times. He touched the base both times." As the head coach reacts to this, I respond to him, "What do you think your own coach is going to say? I find it interesting that he can say that when in both cases he was watching the ball in the outfield and not even paying attention to your runner." Of course, that sat real well with Team W. Not that I really gave a rat's patootie anyway, of course.
So my partner and I are leaving amidst a flourish of cussing and screaming from Team W fans--oh, it was loud--and leave--heck, it's cold outside! As we're leaving, some pinhead fan in a pickup, a good poster child for white trash, stops alongside my car and begins a tirade at me over the calls, shouting the usual colorful metaphors. My partner politely repeatedly advises him, "Move along, sir. Drive away, sir." He finally does, but not before getting off one personal insult. As I politely tell him, "Gee, that was real mature," he drives away. No big deal. Just another example of how even the theory of evolution has its genetic hiicups.
I leave the area and drive home. I stop at a White Hen down the road on the way home (I live 3 miles due east of this school) to pick up some Mega Millions Big Game tickets. No, I didn't win the $205 million, but I DID win $4! That might pay for some Irish Coffee to warm me up, but I digress...
I'm in the White Hen getting my quick picks when some grey-haired guy (not the one in the pickup) who's apparently a Team W fan is there and rips into me for the calls in the game. I'm not in uniform, but it's not exactly like I'm the most covert-looking guy around. He obviously has the attention of everyone in the store as he continues his tirade, telling me I suck, to which I reply, "I do, but you're not my type." I'm finishing my short business when he exclaims, "I think you're an arsehole!" I calmly tell him, "I'd rather keep my mouth shut and be thought of an arsehole than to open it up like you and remove all doubt. You should realize that you're a spectator, and as such, you have three things in common with all other spectators: partisanship toward one team, a desire to antagonize umpires, and complete ignorance of the rules. Thank you for proving this today." With that I walked out. As I was leaving, I heard the store manager (or whoever this guy was) ask the man to leave or he would call the police.
So that's how I spent my arctic Friday. Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?
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