[bkbjones]

Yes, I said My. As in "moi," "mein," "mi" and whatever else.
This was a first for me. Probably not a first in the world, but, I haven't umpired everywhere.

SP Coed VERY Rec tournament. ASA rules. My fourth game of the day. Had two decent games, one game from hell, but, hey, it's coed VERY rec. Ya'll know the drill.

So....in my fourth game, Team A has runners at 2 and 3 with two outs. Batter drives ball to outfield for clean hit, likely to only decent player on team. Runner on third scores. Runner from second is a dead duck at HP and runs halfway to hell to avoid the tag. I kill it, declare him out. Of course, it's the worst call in the history of softball. (Don't you wish these folks would come up with something original?)

I usually alternate baselines between innings, depending on which team is at bat. I am on the first base line about 15 feet up the line from home. Unfortunately, the dead duck is the first baseman. He decides to continue the discussion. Just about the time of the second personal pronoun with a vastly overused four letter word, he's toast. I ran him very calmly, no screaming, no theatrics.

I get the usual "WHAT?!?" with the hands thrown up, etc. I instruct him he should leave the field post haste and retreat to the parking lot. While he's gathering his gear his coach comes out and wants to discuss things further. While we are discussing, the former 1B shows up on the field with the TD.

I turn and ask the TD what I can do to help him. He informs me that I have to let the guy back in.

"Wait," I tell this loser. "You're the TD. I am the umpire. This is your tournament, but this is my game. He's ejected, and he has to leave."

"No," he says, finger in my face, "you have to let him back in."

"No, you don't understand," says moi. "He's gone. He's ejected."

"No," says this esteemed gentleman of softball. "You're ejected."

"Whaaaaaaat," says I.

"You're ejected," sez he. "I'll umpire the rest of the game."

"OK, sir, but you know you still owe me the game fee for this game AND the game fee for the next game for which I'm scheduled."

The rusty wheels are turning, right there behind the missing frontal lobe.

"Well, OK, one more chance," he says and starts walking off the field.

I look, and the 1B is still on the field.

"You still have to go," I tell him.

"No," says Mr. T-Head from just the other side of the fence. "He stays."

"Well, in that case, here are your game balls," sez I as I empty my ball bag and walk off the field.

We pass each other.

"Sir, at least one of us is leaving with his integrity intact," sez I, "and that would be me."

I go to my car, drive to the BBQ joint, and spend my game fee on some decent ribs — and decide that for Lent 2008, I'll give up slowpitch.