by Lee Gutkind
“Cedeno’s a kid,” said Wendelstedt. “He’ll learn he doesn’t need an umpire’s help to get on base. Can do it all by himself.”
“I remember when Frank Robinson (who became the first black manager in baseball in 1974) was a kid in Cincinnati,” said Harvey, “not too different from Cedeno. Boy, he was some hothead. One time Eddie Mathews, when he was playing for the Braves, put a particularly hard tag on Robinson when he was sliding into third base. Robinson gets up slowly, you know, sneering, acting tough, wipes the dirt from his pants, then says to Mathews, gets right up close to his face and he says, ‘You better not ever tag me like that again, you bastard.’
“Eddie waits for a second and then he smiles. Got the goddamned deadliest smile I have ever seen. Smiles really big, almost apologetically. Then he punches Robinson right in the mouth, knocks him three feet behind the base, bends down right in close to Robinson’s bleeding nose and says, ‘How about that tag?’ One of the funniest things I ever saw. The kid didn’t say ‘boo’ for a week.” Harvey shook his head chuckling, then got up to walk around. He stepped heavily, as if stamping at a bug, testing his sore legs.
Williams pointed to the silent television. “That’s what we need, one of them submachine guns. No arguments in a game with Eliot Ness behind the plate.”
“You don’t need a submachine gun,” said Harvey, “you got the Black Panthers to keep order for you.”
“Least I’m pure black and beautiful,” said Williams, “thank God I’m no fucking Indian half-breed.” He turned to Wendelstedt. “When the old chief over there gets mad, he liable to scalp somebody.”
“Bad enough working with a guy who’s half fucking Indian, but when the other half is Californian, we draw two losers in one package,” said Wendelstedt.
“All the goddamn hippie freaks in California come from New York and Florida anyway,” said Harvey. “We native Californians are pure American perfection.”
“You keep Florida out of this,” said Wendelstedt.
“Those Jews down in Florida find out they got a Nazi racist pig in their homeland, they’ll run your ass out of there. Remember what happened to Eichmann.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Wendelstedt, shaking his head, pursing his lips, blowing his face up watermelon red. “I’ll tell ya, I can’t take this any more. You’re always insulting my nationality. You’ve got no moral dignity. Do I insult you because you’re a half-breed Indian, red-faced bastard? I tell you I can’t take this abuse much more. All I get from this crew is abuse. You’ll be sorry when I quit and become a German baker.”
“That’s what you look like,” said Harvey, “a Nazi racist German baker.”
“I tell you,” said Wendelstedt, “all I ever get is abuse around here.”
“Damn,” said Colosi, stomping his feet and shaking water from his black, rain-stained coat as he closed the door. “I been in those stands for half an hour.”
“Thanks for taking my place out there,” said Harvey.
“What for? No infield or batting practice to watch today,” said Wendelstedt.
“I brought my boy here tonight,” Colosi replied. “I stayed to talk to him. I didn’t mind.”
Umpires work a continuous rotation, the crew chief calling the first game of the year behind the plate, the others manning first, second, and third base in order of seniority. In this case that meant Wendelstedt, Colosi, then Williams. In addition to calling balls and strikes, the plate umpire rubs up the balls before the game, keeps score, and accepts the lineups from both team managers. From home, Harvey would move to third, Wendelstedt to home, Colosi to first, and Williams to second. The rotation continues that way through the whole year.
Since it is the easiest and the least taxing position, the third base umpire usually has the added responsibility of monitoring the field before each game. It is his job to sit in the stands during batting and infield practice of both the home and visiting team and enforce the non-fraternization rule. Simply put, players from opposing teams are not permitted to speak to one another before the game.
“It’s a silly rule,” says senior National League umpire, Tom Gorman. “After all, the players are talking to one another all through the game anyway. On the other hand, it just doesn’t look good for the fans to see the opposing pitchers, for example, talking to each other before the game. The fans start getting some nasty ideas. This whole game is based on honesty. We don’t want an idle conversation to cause suspicion.
“Actually, it’s not much trouble for umpires,” Gorman continues. “When the weather’s nice, it’s relaxing sitting out there, and when it’s raining, they won’t have infield practice anyway. The Spanish-speaking ballplayers break the rule more than anybody. There aren’t too many people in the game who speak their language or talk about their homeland on each team. So when they see ballplayers from their own country, they take advantage of the situation. The only thing is, the league considers this a serious infraction and we have to report all known fraternization to the league office. The player will usually be fined a hundred dollars. I’m not quite sure a five-minute conversation is worth that much.
“There are a lot of things about baseball I’d like to see changed,” says Gorman, fifty-five, a major league umpire for twenty-three years, with thirty-seven years in baseball. “This fraternization rule, though, is something different. I like it because the rule puts the umpire in a position to see things he isn’t necessarily supposed to see.
“One time I was sitting in the stands, for instance, in Candlestick Park in San Francisco. Only a few years ago. The Giants were playing Los Angeles. It was a good two hours before the game, and I was just sitting, enjoying the sun. There were some other people around me, so I couldn’t be recognized from the field easily. Besides, we’re supposed to sit out there in street clothes.
“Suddenly I see Herman Franks, who was the Giant manager at the time, stick his head out of the dugout and look around. Then he motions with his hands, all the time looking around, and suddenly I see three, four guys from the groundcrew come up behind him and start dragging out a fire hose. You know what they did? They soaked down the first and second base paths, quick as a flash, then they dragged that hose back in. Didn’t take them more than two minutes, but it was lucky I was there.
“The point was, the Dodgers had Maury Wills at the time, you see. Not only could Wills steal bases, but he liked to bunt to get on. Now, in the two hours before the game, the field would dry sufficiently so that you couldn’t tell it had been soaked down, but it would also be soft enough to slow Wills up by maybe half a step.
“Well, I delayed the game an hour and a half till the basepaths were completely dry. Franks was apologetic. ‘Oh,’ he said, I never considered Wills,’ he said, T was just smoothing out the terrain a little, wanted the field to look nicer, you know? I was cleaning up.’ He went around apologizing to everybody. OK, I figure, I give him the benefit of the doubt and I don’t report this to the league office like I should have.
“You know what happened the next day, don’t you? I’m sitting in the stands talking to a friend. It’s early, couple hours before the game, and we’re just sitting around, and suddenly I see Herman Franks peek out of the dugout, then motion behind him. And damn. It’s that same groundscrew with the fire hose and Franks directing them. They soak down the base paths a second time. Can you figure that? Two days in a row, after I warned him. Well, you can imagine I wrote him up good.
“But that didn’t bother me nearly as much as what happened a couple weeks later. Now, all through those two days with Franks soaking down the base paths, the Dodger manager, Walter Alston is indignant, bitching all over the place about how I should have called a forfeit of the game. He kept screaming about good sportsmanship. Oh, he was furious.
“So a couple of weeks later, I pull into Los Angeles, it was the Coliseum at the time—Dodger Stadium hadn’t been built yet—and the Dodgers are playing the Giants. Well, I’m on third base, and it’s my turn to watch for frate
rnization. Now I have to admit that maybe half the time umpires forget about this rule. They just don’t want to go to the trouble of getting there especially early and sitting in a hard uncomfortable seat watching players and coaches beat the ball around the infield. Even the fans don’t watch this. I’m as delinquent as anybody.
“It so happens I was there early that day and sitting up in the stands. Then I see Walter Alston, two weeks ago the indignant manager, and now he’s peeking around the corner of the dugout, looking to see if any official is watching. He doesn’t care if there are a few fans out there because they won’t understand what he’s doing anyway, but he looks around, then sort of nods his head down toward center field. You see, since managers don’t know which umpire crew is coming into town for each series, it puts them at a disadvantage. They don’t know what faces to look for.
“Suddenly I hear an engine start and see this goddamn big bulldozer come pulling out through the opening in the center field wall, roaring down and across the infield. You know what Alston’s doing? He’s hardening up the base paths, flattening them down so that his man Wills can get more traction. Also, he has the base path pressed down, but the foul line is still raised, making it almost impossible for a soft bunt to roll foul. Can you imagine the nerve?” said Gorman. “Of course, Franks and Alston weren’t the first guys to pull these tricks. It happens more than I’d like to think about.
“I’ll tell you, there’s a lot of things to be thankful for. Baseball has given me a good life. But the most disappointing part of the game, at least for me, is the ballclubs’ attitude toward it. We spend a lot of energy talking about fair play and sportsmanship, but you find out over the years that that’s not what the game is all about.
“The ballclub officials spend a few days a year making and discussing the rules, then expend all their energies for the rest of the year trying to find a way around the rules. They’re sissies, they’ll do absolutely anything they think they can get away with to win—as long as the fans don’t find out about it.
“In the end you realize that with the players, managers, coaches, and owners, it’s not how you play the game, it’s simply whether you win or lose that counts. That fraternization rule may sound silly to some people, but I’m all for that or any other law that helps put a stop to the people who care more about their own skins than the quality and dignity of the sport.”
Harvey stuffed a second wad of tobacco in his mouth; the tobacco was the size and shape of a dying fig.
Wendelstedt grimaced. “Jesus Christ, that’s a disgusting habit, chewing that seaweed. My wife says although I’m not too good looking, she gives thanks I’ve never allowed that saliva-soaked poison in my mouth.”
“It’s better than chewing gum,” said Harvey.
“How do you figure?”
“There are no calories in tobacco, for one thing. For another thing, you’ll never find a wad of tobacco sticking to your ass after sitting on the subway train. Chewing tobacco is hygienic.”
“That logic escapes me,” said Wendelstedt, shaking his head in amazement, “Talking to an Indian is like talking to a totem pole.”
“You believe what you want,” said Harvey. “I’ll believe what I know.”
“How many times you been spit in the face with tobacco?” asked Wendelstedt.
“Couple.”
“Goddamn right, more than a couple. Plenty more. I’m telling you that stuff is a lethal weapon. I can name one guy that’s got me probably a hundred times …Walter Alston.”
“Well, that’s a different story,” Harvey said.
“What’s so different about it?” Wendelstedt turned to Williams to explain. “You know how Alston stutters when he gets mad? Well, when he stutters, the goddamned tobacco comes out in a spray. Soaks your face.
“Herman Franks is worse than Alston, though,” Wendelstedt continued. “He’s a goddamn gnat catcher. When he chews tobacco, the juice rolls down his chin in a gooey sweet mess, and when it’s a hot day, the gnats and flies collect there. They just stick to his chin. Sickening. Of course, Franks spits at you, too, but he does it on purpose. He’s been ejected a number of times for spitting on umpires. I’m telling you, Art, one of the things you gotta learn is that we take a lot of abuse.”
Said Harvey: “When Gene Mauch (Montreal Expo manager) gets mad, his veins start to pulsate in his neck until it turns all different shades of crimson. He looks like a pinball machine. Mauch’s a good manager. He probably knows the rule book better than any other player or manager in baseball.”
“Quit trying to change the subject,” Wendelstedt interrupted. “He’s trying to change the subject,” he turned to Colosi, “so I won’t tell you what happened to our fearless leader once in an argument with Expo coach Walt Hriniak.”
“I don’t care if you tell or not,” said Harvey, hockering into the trash can. “It’s just not true.”
“It’s true all right, you just don’t want to admit it.”
Harvey shrugged.
“The Indian squaw over there,” said Wendelstedt, “is having this big discussion with Hriniak last year over a play. Hriniak was coaching first base, and he was really steaming about a call our leader over here made. Hriniak is a worse gnat catcher than Herman Franks. Sometimes he’s got a beard of bees and flies around his chin, he’s such a slob, and he and Harvey are hunched over first base, jawing and chawing at each other.
“Suddenly, Harvey stops midway between a sentence and tears ass toward the dugout.
“Well, I don’t think much about it for a while, but the minutes pass and we had to get the game going, so I went down to see what was holding up our half-breed crew chief here, and wouldn’t you know I find him in the goddamn visitor’s dugout gagging over the water cooler.
“‘Aha! Aha!’ I yelled. ‘You finally did it. I told you that stuff was horseshit. You swallowed your chaw!’ “
“Serves him right,” said Colosi, laughing.
“Teach you a lesson,” said Williams to Harvey.
“You think our fearless leader here, Cochise’s answer to the atom bomb, would tell the truth? You think he would own up to it?” asked Wendelstedt.
“I told you what happened,” said Harvey, “why do I have to repeat it again and again?”
“Because I can’t believe it.”
“I don’t see what’s so hard to believe,” said Harvey, “a bee flew down my throat.”
Wendelstedt dragged a box of sparkling white Spalding baseballs over to the wastebasket and pulled up his chair with a scrape. After emptying the box and removing the orange tissue paper wrapping from each of the balls, he lifted a three-pound coffee tin filled with mud down from the shelf above and poured a half cup of water into it. He scooped a dollop of mud about half the size of a level teaspoon with the index and forefinger of his right hand, spat into his left hand, rubbed his hands together, then lightly blanketed a virgin white baseball with a translucent coating of the mud. With the mud applied, he began rubbing it in hard but evenly with his thumbs and palms from one end of the ball to the other until the mud almost completely disappeared into the cowhide and the factory-new gloss had been thoroughly rubbed away. With the ball still white, but now dull in finish and with only traces of the mud remaining around the stitches, Wendelstedt threw it back into the box and picked up another. It had taken him approximately twenty seconds to properly prepare a game ball.
At the beginning of the game, umpires are given five dozen new baseballs to rub this way (eight dozen for a double-header). The balls remaining at the end of each day are counted by the home team and new balls are placed in the umpires’ room to equal the required number. Ninety-five percent of the time, five dozen will be far more than enough.
Umpires, however, are not ruining a good game ball or sabotaging a pitcher’s best efforts. The ball is mudded-up for some awfully good reasons.
First, the gloss on baseballs coming directly from the factory makes the ball too slippery, often too difficult, for a pitcher to
maintain a grip. A sophisticated pitch like the knuckler, for example, is thrown only with the thumb and the tips of two fingers. As it is, the knuckler is difficult to control, but without a sure grip, it would be impossible. To control even the most elementary of pitches, however, a pitcher’s body movements must be in perfect synchronization with time of release. A slippery ball could inadvertently be released too quickly. It could sail way over the catcher and harmlessly bounce into the backstop—or it could rocket directly at the batter’s head.
One might think a shiny white ball would be easier to see and consequently to hit, but actually it is both dangerous and difficult for a batter. The ball, new and bright, is often swallowed by the sun during a day game or melted into the lights at night. A ball with a contrasting color rubbed into it is much easier to follow.
More often than not, a pitcher will request a new game ball because it isn’t rubbed up enough. He will almost never complain if a ball gets by an umpire’s watchful eye with too much dirt or with grass stains for, with any external matter attached, the ball can and usually will do some amazing tricks. Without half trying, a pitcher can make such a loaded ball dip and twist, spin or somersault; it is the umpire’s responsibility, by carefully inspecting the game ball after virtually every play, to make sure a hurler doesn’t get that opportunity.
A batter will obviously request a new ball if he suspects foul play or if he thinks the ball hasn’t been rubbed evenly enough. The most difficult ball to hit is one with only a patch of factory gloss remaining. That patch will glint off the sun or the lights, giving the batter a distorted picture of where the ball really is. When a pitcher throws this ball, the batter will turn to the umpire and ask, “Shine ball?” If so, the umpire will throw a new ball in.
Not all mud will dull the gloss of a new baseball without significantly changing its color, not even some mud, but only a special kind of mud found in one place in the United States, a secret location on the moist banks of the Delaware River. This mud, discovered nearly a half century ago by Lena Blackburne, a former ballplayer for the St. Louis Browns, is very heavy and dark and consists of minute black particles of a substance similar to silicone. These particles remove the gloss from the ball, yet they are so translucent as to be almost invisible. Many other muds, from locations all over the world, have been experimented with by enterprising ballplayers and entrepreneurs, but the descendants of Lena Blackburne, to whom he passed down the secret location, are the only people who can successfully supply the material that can do the job without staining the ball.