Fighting with Umpires
I am standing in the coaches box at third base, in the bottom of the sixth inning, and I am watching as the man behind the plate rips my heart out. He is wearing black shoes, black shins over black pants, black hat, and black shirt holds out his giant heart shaped “balloon” chest protector and punches out my runner at home plate. He doesn’t even have the courtesy to point at the tag. Out. The final out of the game. The final out of the weekend. A long, frustrating, disappointing weekend where we did not even win a single game.
Nor did we ever win a single call. Not one it seemed. There was our fastest kid, sliding home on a grounder to short for what should have been the winning run. The kid at short made a great play on the ball and an even better throw, but it wasn’t even close. Was it? I mean, this was our fastest kid. He was under the tag! His foot was across the plate before the catchers mit ever came down.
I couldn’t hear the parents in the stands. I saw my coaches in the dugout jump and down - their excitement turning from disbelief into incredulity. How could he be out? How could that end the game?
I made a bee line for the ump. What the hell. I feel so angry, so betrayed at the injustice of it all. There’s no way that was right. The umpire is not having any of it. Before I can even talk to him, he turns and walks off the field. I try to follow him but he vanishes into the crowd. Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. This entire weekend, it has been one horrendous call after another. Strikes called when they are six inches off the plate. Players caught steeling when they are clearly safe, and this, the final play of a long weekend.
We had not won a single game, but we battled valiently in all of them. Two ties, one loss. But this, this was supposed to be the win that propelled us into the little league season on a high note. This was supposed to be the reward for a winters worth of hard work and hours of practice. It was supposed to be our first real tournament victory.
But there it was, our hopes and dreams lying dead in the dirt, shot down by the cold heartless action of some minimum wage flunky who couldn’t care enough to do his job correctly. Even the other team knew they had escaped with a tie, I could see it on their faces. They knew we’d gotten screwed, they knew it was sham, but they weren’t going to say anything. And why would they? They were the benefactors. Everyone was. Everyone but us. Everyone buy my kids. Why should my kids be singled out by what seemed to be a conspiracy of incompetence and injustice.
I could not let this stand any longer. I asked (told) by best friend Ed to please gather the the team, and take over for me doing the post game break down. I wanted answers. I wanted to know what the hell was going on. I was going to find someone in charge. Someone would answer for this.
I found “Vinnie” in greenskeepers warehouse behind the concession stand. He and the other umps were changing clothes and hanging out. I asked to speak to the guy in charge. I had a complaint to lodge. The umps smirked. Little did I realize I was not the first, nor would I be the last, rookie coach to enter “the barn.” By my attitude, my actions, and my tone I broadcast as loudly as I could that I was new to the sport.
Vinnie wasted no time in taking charge of the situation. It turns out he’s a retired New York Police Officer.
I instantly thought to myself, “Holy shit, this is two levels of ‘I don’t give a crap what you think.’” And Vinnie had no interest in hearing my side of the story. He made it clear, no matter what I thought the umps were correct. In the side, another Ump made a joke, he held up a mouth guard and said, “Oh look, I found a babys binky? Some coach must have dropped it.”
My face burned with anger, but it started to dawn on me, that THEY WERE RIGHT, and I was WRONG. There was no other valid point of view to them. There was no rational conversation to be had, no argument to win, no injustice to be righted. I passed from rage to quiet disbelief. How could they be like this? How could they take that attitude?
I felt them circle the wagons.
And then it hit me. I did not understand them, their attitude, or the role of umpires in baseball at all. I left the tent, knowing they were laughing at me, and I decided I needed to learn a lot more about Umpires. Who were these guys, and how could they be so confident they were right?
When I got home, I did what I always did. I started to research. I found a book on Amazon about a journalist who felt the same way I did. He didn’t understand the strange arrogance and indefensible confidence of professional umpires, but he did something I would never do. He went to work to learn how to become an umpire. He interviewed coaches and players. He interviewed umpires, past, present, and aspiring. And he opened my eyes.
My anger dissapated into understanding. The more I learned, the more I saw the experience through the umpires eyes, the more I realized it was my world view that needed to change. I needed to think about umpires, and umpiring completely differently.
The first lesson I learned is that to the game of baseball, and umpire is part of the field of play. They are like a base, or a foul line. If a ball hits a base and takes a bad hop, or rolls over the foul line, no one shouts at the bag or the chalk. But being human, Umpires seem to be available to argue with to get a better outcome.
The second lesson I learned is that umpires start with the expectation of being perfect, then do everything they can to uphold that standard but they never can. It takes a special human to commit to do a job where your very best often isn’t good enough.
Finally, I learned that my job as a coach was not to “lobby” or “influence” the umpire, but to train myself, and my players to make sure the umpire did not have the ability to influence the outcome of the game.
In other words, we needed to play in such a way that the umpires contribution was irrelevant.
Oh, and there is one extra, but foundational lesson about umpires. You can’t play a competitive game without them.
This understanding, that umpires were basically humans, doing a necessary job, and they were trying to be as invisible as the bases, changed my approach completely.
When it came to pitching, I trained my team to throw strikes early. “The goal is to build trust with the umpire. Show him you have command, and you’re not relying on him to get you outs. Also, make sure he knows you’re not going to drill him with a pitch by being wild. It’s hard to get a good look at a pitch if you’re always ducking.”
I then told my hitters, “You need to take a different approach at the plate. The first two strikes are yours but the third one is mine. Choke up on the bat, and focus on putting the ball in play if its anywhere near the plate, or foul it off and get a better pitch to hit. I want to see you go down swinging or putting pressue on the defence. No more standing around staring and arguing with the ump. If you let a pitch go by, and the umpire calls strike three, LET IT GO. We’re not going to argue balls and strikes any more. If you strike out looking that’s on you, not the ump.”
We changed our base running strategy. Aggressive at second, but conservative at third and home. “Never make the final out at third base or home plate. Trust the batter to help you out.”
And finally, I changed my own attitude toward the umps. Instead of seeing them as the fascist bastards who were keeping us from winning, I started to treat them like partners who were helping us create the conditions where these kids would have the opportunity to compete. In other words, I started to treat them with respect. Asking questions, or just letting things go and being calm. What’s the point of screaming a the sky because the sun made the ball hard to see? Why yell at a base if the ball hit it? Why argue with an umpire.
It was our final piece of teaching the kids, and ourselves to focus on what we could control. And if Vinnie taught me one thing, it was that I could not control the umpires.
What happened next took some time. But slowly I started to notice that I wasn’t getting angry so often. I also noticed that my players stopped feeling like victims when calls did not go their way. My pitchers threw more strikes, our hitters put more balls in play, and I started to notice it was the other teams who were ending games by getting called out at third base or home plate.
What really surprised me was when the umpires started talking to me. You see, while other coaches were still screaming at them, I seemed like a nice, sane, safe adult to talk to. I didn’t criticize them, I talked to them with respect and I taught my kids to do the same.
Wouldn’t you know it, more calls started to go our way, until one day, we played the team we that I can only describe as our arch nemisis. Every club ball team has one team they can’t seem to beat. My team was made of kids from Tempe South Little League, and the Pirates were made of kids from Ahwatukee Little League. Ten year olds should not know enough to hate each other, but parents on both sides taught their kids well in the ways of the rivalry. We didn’t just hate them, we despised them. Something about that game always brought out the worst in us.
But, one sunny day, we met up with our dreaded enemies in the Triple A championship game at Big League Dreams. Both teams were skilled and ready to play, but one thing set our boys apart. They played with calm focus. When the Pirates got a lead, we came right back. The game was evenly matched until our kids made an incredible double play. Out third baseman snagged a hot shot from a bruiser of a hitter - going to his knee to field the ball, he then tagged the runner who was passing in front of him, stood up and fired an absolute strike across the diamond to cut down the runner at first.
The other coach loast his mind. They were about to take the lead when suddenly the inning was over. He challenged the tag at third, and the runner at first. I stood in the dugout and thought - was that what I used to look like? His composure was out the window, and it took the rest of the pirates focus with it. Suddenly every call, every pitch was contested. Warnings were issued. And as if by magic, every call went our way. Not that we needed it. We kept building a steady lead. The umpire can’t call you out on strikes if you put the ball in play. Our players just kept focusing on what they could control. They pitched, they swung, they ran. And we won. We won 12-9.
And it was a ring tournament. Meaning all the players received championship rings. That included the coaches. I still have my ring. Not that I ever wore it, but as a reminder of what you can achieve when you keep your composure, treat people with respect, and focus on what you can control.
When I think back to that tournament game, I now realize the umpire didn’t make me angry, I gave away my power, my equanimity, and my grace. I was not being my best when my best was most needed. I had let myself become a victim. And I vowed I would never voluntarily do that again. I might not control the outcome, but I could control my effort, and how I showed up when tested. As a coach, and as a team, we vowed to bring our best, when our best is most needed.
And I have never been angry, when I have done that.