Resume Builder
In the "Employers" section of my Facebook profile, I have listed
"Apple Valley League May 2008 - Present
Baseball and Softball Umpire
Syracuse, New York
I crush and/or help realize small children's dreams on the diamond. Summers only."
It's supposed to be a joke. Not my best, but just a quick little light-hearted comment.
I'm taking it down.
Tonight, I drove 20 minutes southeast to umpire a playoff game of softball between two excellent programs. The game was fast-paced and intense. By the third inning, the away team was up 5-2. Over the course of three pitches, the top of the inning went from bases loaded and no outs to over: passed ball, runner out at the plate; overthrow to the pitcher, runner tagged out at third; and a strikeout looking.
Getting to watch such an exciting game, and getting paid to do it, I couldn't help but think, I love this job, as the away pitcher warmed up for the bottom of the third.
Two innings and one pitching change later, the home team had scored 11 unanswered runs. The bases were loaded with no outs. A pitch rolled across the plate.
"Ball," I said.
The next pitch soared over the batter's head.
"Ball," I said.
"Time, blue?" the away team's coach asked. Granted. He went out and talked to the 11-year-old girl who'd walked the bases loaded and was aiming to walk in a run for the third time this inning. Faintly, I could hear her sobbing.
After a minute or two, I saw the girl shake her head. I heard her say, "No, I'll play." She dragged the back of her hand across her face to wipe away tears and snot, leaving a streak of dirt in their place.
With her jaw locked and her eyes blazing, she retook the mound.
"Ready, blue," her coach said.
"Play ball," I said.
The bright yellow ball sailed in right at knee level -- and a solid two inches off the black of the plate. "Ball three, outside," I said.
The pitcher stomped her foot and held her glove out impatiently. The catcher stood up hesitantly. "That was a good pitch," she said.
"I know," the pitcher said coldly, staring me down.
The next pitch came over the middle of the plate, but at the shoulders. The uniform's letters are the top of the strike zone. For a moment, I considered throwing her a bone, calling a strike. She'd probably walk this girl anyway, and it'd give her a shot of confidence. But they pay me to be honest. They pay me to make the correct calls.
I hesitated. I really didn't want to say it. "Ball," I mumbled.
"What's the call, blue?" the pitcher's coach asked.
"Ball four, take your base," I called out loudly.
The pitcher stood in front of the rubber, her glove extended, tears once again streaming down her face.
I hate this job, I thought.