There was now a no-produce-allowed rule at You Suck, Ump! Day.
It was still a few weeks away, and Dad’s students had a whole lot to learn before they were out on the field, trying to figure out how to call a game while a whole town was screaming horrible names at them. But now maybe it wouldn’t even happen at all, because for the past few years at least, making sure You Suck, Ump! Day had run smoothly had been Steamboat’s responsibility.
Unless. Wait! This could be my big chance, like a step up. Instead of all the little things I did to help keep Behind the Plate running, I could be in charge of something big. Something that really mattered.
As long as Dad would let me.
Sticking the Call
WHEN we got off the bus, Zeke went straight out to the fields to work on the before videos. I went in the house to drop off my backpack. The phone was ringing.
I loved caller ID so much I should have written a poem about it. I had avoided every call from Mrs. Bob the Baker.
Just because my mother decided it was time she played a bigger role in my life, or whatever . . . did that mean I had to think it was a good idea? Because I had been doing just fine without her. Ever since she left and went on her big adventure with her baker boyfriend, I hadn’t needed her at all. She could spend all her days and nights with Bob the Baker, and I could spend mine without her.
Really.
It had hurt when it was happening. A way-down-deep hurt—like if you were held underwater far longer than you could stand and then were maybe let up for a second but didn’t have time to draw another breath before you were pushed down again. Something like that.
One day in second grade, I had gotten off the bus and my mother wasn’t there waiting for me. I wondered if maybe she had some kind of surprise for me inside—why else wouldn’t she be there? She had always been there.
When I ran into the house, I saw her sitting at the kitchen table with Bob, the baker who used to deliver rolls and bagels and breads to BTP each morning. My mother jumped up and started clearing their plates. She practically yelled, “Why are you home so soon? Why are you home so soon?” It had freaked me out that she’d said it twice.
Bob the Baker left quickly through the back door.
I would never forget the way she concentrated so hard on cleaning all the crumbs off the table, not looking at me the whole time. She put a snack on the table, right in front of me, and left the room.
Not long after that, she told my father she was in love with Bob the Baker. And that she couldn’t stand living at Behind the Plate another minute, with all its rules and people in and out of our lives and noise on the fields all day and a husband who was not really available to her during the five weeks of Academy and every last thing about it. She didn’t even want to keep the books anymore, which is what they called it when she handled the money. She left us to go live with that stupid baker, and I stayed with Dad. And Mrs. G. had another job added to her long list—bookkeeping.
Most kids I knew with divorced parents lived with their mothers. But I guess it must have seemed obvious to everyone that I belonged at BTP. When the lawyers worked out everything about the divorce, they said I was supposed to spend time with her too, but I just couldn’t.
In the beginning, it didn’t even matter, because once the divorce was finalized, Mr. and Mrs. Bob the Baker went on some long vacation, sending postcards I refused to read from Florida and Georgia and South Carolina. And then when they came back and tried to make me stay with her on the weekends, I fought and screamed with my dad and refused to talk to my mother or that baker the whole time I was at their stupid house. At some point, they must have gotten tired of fighting with me or maybe she just wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see her—as in not at all.
When I thought about it, I felt that hurt snaking through me all over again. Which, of course, was why I didn’t think about it anymore. Or talk to her either.
You couldn’t choose to leave.
Correction: You could choose to leave. But then you couldn’t decide you wanted another chance.
Any umpire knew that once you made the call, you had to stick with it.
Stepping Up to the Plate
WHEN I stepped outside to see how Zeke was doing with the videos, I could sense that the place didn’t feel as full as it should. It was hard not to think about the guys who were missing—Steamboat, Phillip, To-Go. And twenty or more students. I was worried about this, how there weren’t enough students, and what if it was worse next year? What if there were fewer and fewer students? Would the school survive?
You couldn’t blame my dad or Pop. You had to blame New Jersey.
Poor New Jersey. It got blamed for so much already. But the other umpire schools were in Florida, where you could hold class in January. In New Jersey, all you could do during January was complain about how long it was until April. New Jersey was the last place you’d want to be if you were interested in doing anything having to do with baseball in the winter. Summer was baseball time in New Jersey, but Dad couldn’t hold Umpire Academy then either, because our instructors all worked as minor league umpires until around Labor Day. So BTP had to hold its classes in the fall. By the time Dad’s top grads got to Cocoa, five months later, I guess they must’ve forgotten what they’d learned in the fall. The umpires coming out of the Florida schools had just finished their classes; everything was still fresh in their minds. And there you have it: third-best umpire school.
***
On my way out to the fields, I stopped by the dining hall. The tables were all empty, but I heard noise from the kitchen. I pushed through the door and saw Chet at the counter, behind a huge tower of meatballs. “Casey!” he said, sort of pointing at me with his chin, to let me know a high-five with a meatball-handed chef was out of the question. Chet never changed—a big bald guy with kind eyes and a bandanna over his head.
“Those brownies last night were killer.”
Chet smiled. I’d almost forgotten how much he liked compliments about his food. Well, duh. Who doesn’t like to be complimented about what they do?
“I have some stashed away for your lunch tomorrow,” he said.
“Awesome!”
“You wanna help?” he asked.
When I was little, I did sometimes help on meatball night. I liked trying to make them all the same size, perfect spheres of meat. But I was kind of itching to get back to some BTP stuff. “Another time, okay?”
“You got it, chief.”
***
Students were just finishing up afternoon break, and I could see that they were starting to hang out in groups now. Even June Sponato had found herself a little posse.
Like always, Pop had a group of students gathered around him. Pop had seen a lot in his career as a major league umpire and at all the umpiring jobs he’d had on his way to the big leagues. He said he also learned a lot about umping from teaching it, whatever that means. Anyway, there was often a whole circle around him, nodding. This time one guy was taking notes.
Meanwhile, Dad was talking seriously with someone, in his teacher way, rolling back on his heels as he stood there. I looked closer and realized it was the same guy I’d seen him talking to the past few days.
“Who’s that?” Zeke asked.
“I haven’t figured out most of their names yet.”
Dad looked up, saw me, and smiled. “Hey, Case! Zeke!”
We went over.
“This is Patrick MacSophal. He’s already showing a lot of promise.”
The guy, a little older and a lot taller than the average student, smiled.
“MacSophal? Like Jimmy MacSophal?” Zeke said.
“Same last name, yeah,” the guy said.
“Any relation?” Zeke asked. This guy was clean-shaven and J-Mac had been known for his overgrown beard, so it was hard to tell if there was any family resemblance. When you thought J-Mac, you thought BEARD.
The guy gave a sort of shrug/head-shake gesture and shuffled off.
�
��Ooooooooooooooookay,” Zeke said.
“Well, would YOU want to be related to a pitcher who’s only remembered for some steroid scandal?” I said.
“Let it be,” Dad said. “We’re getting back to work now. Zeke, you finished all the befores?”
“Yup.”
“Great. Why don’t you go find something to eat, then you can come watch or help or whatever you want.”
“How’re they looking?” I asked.
“There are some,” he said.
“I have to stay at school late tomorrow,” I told him while I still remembered.
“You in trouble?
Zeke nodded his head far back and forward.
Pop walked by and swatted him on the head. With all that hair for cushioning, I wondered if he even felt it.
“Just a newspaper meeting,” I said.
“Oh, good,” Dad said. “You’ve been waiting for that.”
“And also—Steamboat’s not here this year,” I started.
“I know, Casey. I understand that you’re disappointed—”
“Well, no. I mean, I figured you might have forgotten that he’s the one who handles You Suck, Ump! Day, and—”
Here Dad slapped his forehead and looked a little nauseated.
“But listen,” I continued. “I’ve got this. I’m going to do it. It’ll be the thing I do from now on, okay?”
Dad didn’t really have time to say no, or try to think of someone else who could handle it, because students were waiting to do warm-up exercises. Some guys were digging in their bags for sweatshirts. Clouds had rolled in, and the almost-cold in the air reminded me that fall was going to start for real soon.
Dad nodded slowly, like he was still thinking about it while also agreeing to it. “You’ve got it,” he said. “Mrs. G. is usually involved too—talk to her about flyers and anything else you might want. And ask for help if you need it.”
Look at us: Zeke was the official A/V guy, and I was running You Suck, Ump! Day. We high-fived, then walked out to the bleachers to watch.
Students were split up onto three different fields. (It was impossible not to think about the fact that in the past we had always needed four fields.)
During the first week of Academy, instructors did a lot of demonstrations. With a mix of students acting as batter, base runners, and fielders, two instructors ran through a bunch of calls in the two umpire positions, as plate ump and base ump. They’d call for the students to act out a certain play, like ground ball up the first-base line with nobody on base. Then everyone watched as instructors showed exactly what position umpires needed to get into. It was something they taught with diagrams in the classroom in the morning, and now, in the afternoon, they put it into play on the field.
After they demonstrated correct positioning and technique a bunch of times, they had students give it a try.
It was always hard to watch at the start of Academy. A lot of students had a tough time making their feet and arms and head do the right things out on the field, even though they had some experience. Still, it was kind of cool to see them all suited up. They had all the gear on—shin guards, chest protector, mask, cap, strike and ball indicator, the little brush in the back pocket for sweeping off home plate. Dad and Pop believed it was important for students to get used to the feel of all the equipment from the start.
Zeke and I watched the students on field one, but seeing all those feet in the wrong spot, and instructors getting impatient, and field umps being unable to get into the right position to make the call was kind of exhausting. We loved this place more than anything, but even for us, all that stumbling and fumbling wasn’t even funny—it was too much. We went to the supply locker, grabbed two gloves and a ball, and went out to the rear field to play catch.
Zeke had terrible form, but he usually managed to get the ball to me. And I didn’t mind running after it when he threw it four feet over my head; it didn’t matter. The thing about playing catch was, it had more to do with rhythm, ball in glove, transfer to other hand, throw, with the sun in your eyes a little. You didn’t need to think when you were playing catch. It was just catch, throw. Catch, throw. Catch, throw. I learned this in the days after Mrs. Bob the Baker left, when Dad and I played catch every night.
It’s nice, sometimes, not to think.
Striking Out
YOU always hear people saying how the hardest thing about journalism is that you have to be objective. I was born objective. My family specialized in being objective. It was in the blood. Even if a team was great—your favorite team—that had to disappear when you were an umpire, when you called a game. I totally got that.
When writing an article, you had to show readers the facts, just the facts. It was like standing behind the plate. Umpire and reporter both had to be impartial and fair.
At lunch, I gave it one last shot as I watched Zeke unpack his lunch: a large, unopened box of crackers and a chocolate bar. “I’ll give you my sandwich if you’ll go to the meeting with me after school.”
This got the interest of Charley and Andrew. I was not generally a lunch sharer—the lunches Chet sent me with were the stuff of legend.
Zeke sort of shook his head with a face that said no way, but still asked, “What did Chet give you? Is it ham, salami, and provolone? Because I think I might be able to make it if it is . . .”
I unwrapped my sandwich and had to catch my breath for a second. I knew it was stupid, but Chet always cut my sandwiches straight across, and today it was cut on the diagonal, the way my mother used to do it. It was like my body was confused, thinking maybe my mother made this sandwich, just like she used to, only I knew that wasn’t true. Chet had left the bag for me yesterday afternoon. I didn’t feel like crying or anything, but it was a weird moment of emotional and lunch confusion.
I looked in between the slices of bread: “Looks like roast beef today,” I said.
“Then I definitely don’t have time,” Zeke said, as though that made sense. He started feeding crackers into his mouth at an alarming rate. “Ouottarink?” he asked.
“WHAT?” Andrew said.
“Dude, don’t ask him what,” Charley said, annoyed. “He’ll talk more. Look at all that cracker spew. Just wait. Zeke. Chew. THEN talk.”
Zeke nodded, like this was the first time such a thing had been suggested and it was a pretty good idea.
“He asked if I had a drink,” I explained. “If you get a cup, I’ll pour you some of my water. I don’t want cracker spew backwash, thank you very much.”
Zeke nodded, like of course, he could understand why a person wouldn’t want that. For such an agreeable guy, it seemed just mean that he wouldn’t come to the meeting with me. “Anyway,” he said, “I don’t want to stay late at school. Isn’t today the day they start working on obstruction and interference? You know I love watching people run into each other.”
“But isn’t it raining?” I asked. It was hard to tell from the cafeteria, which had no windows, but it had been raining all day. That meant a whole day indoors at BTP—a big group in the lecture hall and then smaller groups in the classrooms. “They’re not going to do fieldwork in the rain.”
Zeke shrugged. “Rain’s gotta end sometime.”
***
Of course I wasn’t able to talk Charley or Andrew or anyone into coming to the meeting with me, so I went alone. The room was full and buzzing with the voices of seventh- and eighth-graders who all seemed to know each other. They were sitting on desks, laughing. I looked around for a familiar face, but there wasn’t one. Not one. It was like I’d walked into a meeting for a school newspaper in Toronto or Australia instead of Clay Coves, New Jersey.
I pulled out my English homework and started to read a short story that was originally published in 1918. Of course, given my gene pool, I started to drift, thinking that that year was the last time the Red Sox won the World Series before winning again in 2004. But I was also wondering why Mr. Donovan couldn’t assign something slightly more current. Maybe e
ven written in the kind of English that was the same English I knew how to speak.
I was struggling through the second page, going back to the first to see if the author was talking about the same characters or different ones, when Mr. Donovan showed up. With Chris Sykes. The kid who hated me.
“Thank you for coming. It’s great to see all your faces back,” Mr. Donovan said, looking around the room. He spotted me in the back and added, “And some new ones. A new one.” Everyone turned to look at me, and I had the strange desire to dive out the window.
I closed my book and bent to put it away.
“I know you’re all anxious to get going, but for our new visitor, I’d like to explain how things work around here. Eighth-graders are pretty much in charge. I am the faculty advisor, and all articles must be approved by me. But to a great extent, this is a student-run enterprise. Eighth-grade students put in their time last year, shadowing last year’s editors during spring semester. Seventh-graders will of course play a big role, reporting and editing. We love for new students to take part too. In the spring, Casey, you and any other interested sixth-graders will get a chance to work with upperclassmen on copy editing.”
I did not have a poker face—you could almost always tell what I was thinking just by looking at me. My hand wasn’t raised, but my confusion must have been right there in my expression.
“You have a question, Mr. Snowden?”
“No. I mean not a question, but it just sounded like—I mean, anyone who wants to write can write, right?”
“Everyone can write for the paper,” he said, “once they’re in seventh grade.” Everyone laughed.
“Wait, what? So in sixth grade, nothing? There’s no section or kind of article or anything?” I had been waiting for this forever, and now I couldn’t do it? “Do you have, like, a sports section? Maybe we could try to put together a sports . . .”
Screaming at the Ump Page 5