Tossed!

I don't think of myself as an edgy person. Oh sure, I have my moments and been known to fly off the handle occasionally, mostly in gridlocked traffic. Yet whenever possible I tend to keep life on a low simmer rather than letting it boil over.  Seems easier that way; healthier anyway. That’s how it was when I played sports, too. Even the time I got kicked out of a hockey game for fighting, it was an anomaly. More like a spontaneous explosion in the heat of the moment than the predictable overreaction of a perpetual hot head. Same story in the non-violent world of slow pitch softball; I was always the picture of composure. I practically never lost my temper.

 I said, practically.

Probably the best softball team I was ever got to be a part of was the squad sponsored by Kabinet Kraft wood works in Spokane. We were good enough, anyway, to have jerseys. (I wore # 19). Whether or not it was the uni’s that made us so formidable is hard to say; maybe all it takes is a number on your back to raise your level of confidence. But we played with more of a swagger then we might have otherwise. In the recreational "B" league that season we were never a soft spot on the schedule and challenged for the league championship right down to the wire. There were a lot of good guys on that team, including Whitworth buddies Gary Frank, Dennis Bossingham, Keith Ward and Paul Christianson. Don Randall played for Kabinet Kraft too, a strange but likeable fellow, who held down second base for us, until he got himself killed (see blogpost 7.9.11; "The Life and Death of Don Randall").

I played third base and hit lead off. Not gifted with a ton of girth and muscle, I made up for it by being a speedy little runt. Hitting left handed I got on-base a lot more than I didn't. I could run like the wind, legging out grounders to the infield, turning singles into doubles, doubles into triples, and the random, once in a blue, moon inside the park home run. I was 24 then. Needless to say, I don't run that fast anymore. But it sure is fun to remember when I could.  

Anyway, a couple Saturday's after Don died we had a 10 a.m. game scheduled against a team out in Medical Lake. It was a beautiful late spring day, a great day to be alive and a great day to be outside playing ball.  We, of course, were the visiting team and, after warm ups and setting the lineup, at 10:03 the ump called "Play ball" and I stepped into the batter’s box to lead off the game. Not wasting any time I hit the first pitch I saw, a grounder to deep short. But with my speed, it was the type of ball I’d been able to turn into infield singles all season and sprinted down the first base line expecting the same and hearing the ump call me safe. But he didn’t. He called me out.

And he was wrong. I knew it, too, because I my foot hit the base before he heard the ball pop in the first baseman’s mitt. And for a split second, knowing that and knowing I’d been robbed of a hit, made me mad. So mad, that as I coasted to a stop after the call, I angrily slammed my cap to the ground and let out a barely audible bad word. Okay, it was that bad word and, no, I'm not proud of it. But back then I was as quick on my feet as my tongue was with profanity. Anyway, when I said it I was way past first base, half way to the outfield fence and was staring away from the diamond. Nobody heard me out there, except maybe the right fielder. 

Or so I thought. But before I could get back to the dugout, before I could catch my breath, before the second batter of the game had even gotten up to hit,  from way back at his position near home plate, where he hadn’t heard the ball until after I’d crossed the bag, the umpire delivered a stinging little message.“That’s it, one-nine. You’re gone!” He’d just tossed me out of the game. I’d been ejected in the top of the first inning. I couldn’t believe it. The game began at 10:03. It may not have even been 10:04 yet, but my day was already over.

I don’t know if it was the f-bomb that got his attention, or the more obvious flinging of my cap. I suppose it didn't matter; he'd given me the boot anyway. Not really mad before, I was now. The guy hadn’t heard the ball until after I’d crossed the bag, yet he’d heard me muttering during a momentary blip of frustration.  From 50 feet away. I call that selective hearing. I also called him on it.

Darting back to home plate, if he was gonna run me then I wanted to earn it. “What?! What the hell for?!” I screamed. ”I didn’t do anything! I wasn’t even talking to you!" After that, I may have uttered a couple other things, too. I can't recall the exact words, but may have compared him to a less than intelligent rabbit-eared horse's behind. I'm not even sure anyone else heard me but I guess he did because he took off his mask and, with malice aforethought, met me head on. “What?! What did you say?” The umpire wasn't a big guy, but looked as if he might have spent some time in the military. He was kind of wiry, maybe a few years older and a head taller than me and put together pretty well. Then he barked, “You wanna back that up you little retard?!”

Time out- if we’d been scoring on debate points, right then he’d have picked up several because that was a great line. Not only was Medical Lake an arm pit, it was also housed one of the state hospitals for the mentally challenged. There was no political correctness in 1979 (indeed, these were the good old days) and even now I get an ironic chuckle thinking about being called a 'retard' by a guy who chose to live in Medical Lake, Washington, sight of one of the state’s loony bins. I'd have laughed at him back then at the ballpark, too, if he hadn't been so mad.  I don’t think he liked me.

Tine in- we were still standing toe to toe, but our short discussion hadn’t gone very well. Not from my standpoint anyway. Maybe he thought I was showing him up, which I wasn't. Or maybe he really was just a horses' ass. I think he was. But I wasn’t going to pop him or anything. I wasn’t brave enough or stupid enough. I said he was wiry, I didn’t say he wasn’t strong. He had arms bulging at the shirt sleeves and could’ve dropped me with one punch. Besides, I didn’t want to be banned from the Spokane Softball League for life for fighting with an umpire. So I accepted that my day was over. Case closed. Mr. Umpire wasn't going to change his mind and un-kick me out of the game. But I wasn’t ready to just walk away. Yet.

Somebody from Kabinet Kraft was trying to pull me away. However, I got loose, took one more step closer and whispered the same word the ump thought he’d heard me say before. Only this time as a salutation; kind of like “Thank YOU!” Then I retreated to the dugout. My teammates were as shocked over the early banishment as I was. They didn’t understand probably because they hadn’t heard what I’d said. Either the first or second time. Only the umpire had and only once, when there was nothing else to lose, had it been said to him. But by then, it was a moot point and there wasn’t anything the guys could do about it except play on. We’d only brought 9 players so they’d have to improvise covering all the positions. As a team player I felt bad about it too, but I could no longer participate. All I could do was sit back and watch the rest of the game and be a cheerleader. It wouldn’t be as much fun as playing; in fact it wouldn’t be fun at all. But at least I knew I’d got in the last word with the umpire. So, at least on a personal level, the day hadn’t been a total loss.

Before the game could resume, though, my umpire friend noticed I was still on the bench and stormed to the dugout fence, fuming. “I said get the hell outta here. I don't mean tomorrow or next week. I mean NOW! If you’re not out of that dugout and out of my sight in one minute, your team forfeits!" Now I was pissed. Again. “Well, just where the hell do you want me to go? Seattle?  I don’t have a car. I don’t live here. I don’t know the neighborhood. Should I go camp out in your porn-strewn living room till the game's over?" I'd already complied with his wishes by leaving the playing field, what else did he want me to do? Besides, I'd hitched a ride to the game with someone else so I really didn't have an expedient way to remove myself from the premises.  But once more the ump took off his mask and used it to point at me. ”I don’t care if you go whack off in the bushes across the street, smart boy” Raising his voice a notch, he ordered. “I said leave! NOW”

But for the first time since the disagreement started, the man paused and drew a deep breath. Maybe he felt the conversation had gone on too long, had gotten out of hand. That he needed to re-assert control. Or maybe he just felt someone needed to be the grown up.  Whatever his reasoning, he dialed it back and tried sounding more reasonable. ”Look, you can’t stay in the dugout. I’ve tossed you. You’re gone. You have to leave the area of the field, and you have to go now or I will declare a forfeit.” Finished talking, the umpire then left the dugout area, walked back to home plate and stood there waiting. I felt like everybody on both teams was looking at me. It was uncomfortable. The game clearly wasn't going to resume until I left. I felt helpless. ”Guys, where should I go?” I asked nobody in particular, hoping for someone to come to my defense. But there was nothing to defend. If I didn’t get lost, my team was going to lose.

Bossingham and Keith Ward pointed to an empty field. It was about two blocks from the field down. It sloped away from the street and ball diamond and there was a big oak tree standing the middle. If I sat on the side facing east I wouldn’t be able to see the game. And the ump wouldn't be able to see me.  Gary Frank spoke up. ”There’s some beer and pop in the ice chest. Go grab a couple of whatever you want and hang out over there till we’re done. Sorry man." We were all friends, but I also knew the guys would rather try winning without me then lose for sure providing a dugout sanctuary. So, like a little boy being sent to his room, I picked up my glove and sadly crossed the road.  Grabbing a couple Dr. Pepper’s, I found my way down to the place of punishment and settled under the big oak tree to cool my heels.

I opened a soda. It was cold and tasted good, certainly better than the left over bile from not being allowed to play. Just for saying one stinking little word.  So much for freedom of expression.  From my spot in softball purgatory, I nursed the Dr. Pepper and listened to the traffic out on I-90 off in the distance. Overhead, an occasional plane would take off and fly over, or land, at nearby Fairchild Air Force Base. And somewhere over the rise of the terrain, I was tortured by the sounds of bat pinging ball, and sporadic exited shouts and claps of softball players, both theirs and ours. I wanted to be there with them and felt totally stupid being ”sent to my corner.” But I had to sit there for over an hour before the last out was made. And from the happy chirping coming from voices I recognized, I knew Kabinet Kraft had prevailed. However, not wanting to risk a post-game forfeit if he saw me too soon, I waited another ten minutes until I saw the umpire drive away before walking back to the field.

Well, that was fun. Not.

It’d been a very long drive, from North Spokane to Medical Lake, all for a very short and unsung outing for me. Too short.  One pitch and a quick heave-ho. I got to play about thirty seconds. However in hindsight, though the ump was wrong and blew the call, I was more wrong for being a poor sport and a potty mouth. I deserved getting the gate. But fortunately my teammates came through and won the game. Short-handed. Without me. Which proves, I guess, at various points in life we're all expendable. Yet I learned my lesson and it never happened again. I never swore or cursed at, or openly challenged an umpire on any ball diamond of any kind, since.

However, to this day, on that day, that ump was a tool and I was safe!!!!.