Date: Sat, 11 Oct 2008 08:20:54 -0700 (PDT)
From: T H <ref_sport@yahoo.com>
Subject: SUMMER BASEBALL

usual copyright and disclaimers apply

My 1st submission!

SUMMER BASEBALL

A team's coach handed me a business card. after a game.  If you want to
umpire for my team and league, just call me.

Ordinary business card with his name, a company name, all the phone numbers
and email stuff.  Ordinary except for one thing.  999 of 1000 people who
would see his card would have no damn idea what the logo means.  I am that
1 who does.  The BL logo.  Our eyes met.  A brief smile on my lips conveyed
that he and I shared some passions other than for baseball.

As we downed some beers in the hotel, we talked baseball.  His perspective
of the game as a coach.  My perspective as an umpire.  Nothing much changes
over the years about this great game.

I complimented his catcher.  The kid went out of his way to help me.  He
blocked pitches, he helped keep his pitcher focused.  He made a great play
at the plate, tagging a runner trying to score what would have been the
winning run.  Their collision was like a train wreck, by no means
intentional, but fast and furious.  He held on to the ball after making the
tag.  He showed it to me so that I knew he caught the throw, made the tag,
and controlled the ball throughout the play.  And I called the runner out.

Coach had brought his laptop.  We moved to a quiet corner of the bar.  So
we looked at team pictures.  Team party pictures.  Private player pictures.

My eyes widened and my tongue certainly hit the floor.  He had a series of
3 of his current players clothed ...and not so clothed.  I immediately
recognized his catcher as one of the three.



I umpire several tournaments every summer.  All ages...some adult, some
older kids, and some younger kids.  This was a tournament for kids under
13.  Working summer ball gets me outside.  It keeps me sharp.  I see
friends and colleagues.  And lots of skin.

As this particular game progresses, and is my custom when I work the plate,
I work close behind the catcher.  I ask catchers to work close to the
plate, and nudge them forward if they set up too far back.  I ask catchers
to stay low as they receive the pitch, and to not move, so as to not block
my view of the pitch.  I reinforce that by placing a hand on their back,
lightly touching them, to remind them I am behind them.  I remove my hand
from contact as the pitch is received and I announce the pitch a ball or a
strike.

Well, let's just say sometimes my hand on their back is lower than at other
times.  As in belt level.  Ass level.  And oh do I love the feel of young
bodies.

This particular game, I was a pitcher's umpire.  I always am.  Pitchers,
catchers, and coaches love an umpire who gives the borderline pitches.  I
am very good at that.  And before the game reaches the 2nd inning, the
teams know my strike zone.  And know it will not change.

Coach explains, when they were at bat, with the rest of the players in the
dugout, there was some whispering and giggling going on.  Boys being boys,
coach thought nothing of it.  Then between later innings, he overheard
parts of whispers.  His young bucks all were agreeing that I was checking
them out when they batted.  That I had a crush on the catcher.

Guilty as charged!  They all looked so fine in their uniforms, filling the
fronts and backs so well.  Their young bodies were graceful as they made
plays, athletic as they ran.  And I did all but molest the catcher.  His
was a such fine little ass.



Funny thing is, in baseball you never know where the ball will go off the
bat.  Catchers get hit by pitches they fail to catch.  Many times they get
hit by foul balls.  In the worst places.

We umpires sometimes get nailed too.

So as this particular game progressed, the pitchers were throwing strikes.
They got the borderline pitch called a strike.  Catchers and umpire were
working well.  It was a well-played game and enjoyable for all to see.

This team's catcher took a foul ball to his protective cup.  We suspended
play as he suffered.  As the coach came from the dugout to attend to him, I
said nut shot, he's got all the time he needs to recover.  I know the kid
heard my comment.

Later, I took two foul balls.  One that nearly knocked my mask off.  This
catcher apologized for not catching what was impossible to catch.  He
called his coach out to attend to me.  I was fine.  I told the catcher
there was nothing he could do about that foul ball.  We played ball.

I took another foul ball later that really, really hurt.  I saw stars and
fell to my knees.  As his coach came out to help me, his catcher told him
in passing...nut shot.  I was able to get my wind back.  Told the coach in
a squeaky voice I was ok.  And with that same squeaky voice, I told the
catcher I knew he could not have blocked that ball.  He grinned, and we
both laughed about my voice changing.

Coach later in the hotel related of course the boys thought nut shots were
very funny.  Been there, done that.  Walk the walk before you talk the
talk.  Badge of courage.  I hoped his catcher wasn't hurt badly.  I
definitely was still tender.  We laughed.  Coach told me his catcher was
fine.  He also told me his catcher would catch in front of me any
game...any day...any where.

He told me the boy very much liked the feel of my hand on him as we got
ready for the pitch.  He loved it when I would touch his bottom.  He loved
it that he could feel my breath on his neck, could hear my breathing.  He
loved it that we were carrying a casual and sometimes funny conversation
between pitches and innings.  The kid knew this umpire was fair in calling
the balls and strikes, and wanted to do all he knew how play well and to
make my job easier.

I loved his athletic form.  How strong his young arms and hands were.  The
light coating of arm hair glistening with sweat.  The light hair I could
see on the back of his neck between his helmet and chest protector.  And of
course how nicely he filled his jockstrap and cup.

This kid was the coach's son.  Yeah the coach with the BL logo on his
business card.



The last game I worked this tournament, was at 1st base, not behind the
plate.  I was pleased the tournament committee chose me to work the
championship game.  Coaches from both teams were pleased to have us as the
umpires .  I was especially pleased that this team made it to the final
game.  Meant I got to see my catcher-boy one last time.

The universal gesture towards a player making a good play or an umpire
calling a good game, is a pat on the butt.  Not in neon, but discreet.  In
passing.  Perhaps a kind word in conjunction.

This tournament I received several pats on MY butt.  When my catcher-boy
reached 1st on a base hit, he patted me and I patted him.  As he passed by
me, our bare arms touched.  I felt electricity, my own arm hairs got boned
for god`s sake.

Under his breath, he also asked if I liked HIS pics.

You see many good stories here...of athletes, coaches, school faculty,
parents and family members.  So how about the poor umpire's story, lol?.
I'll continue if you wish.

Comments and encouragement to: ref_sport@yahoo.com.  I'll respond to all
constructive emails.