If You Don't Know Me, You Don't Know Who I am or Umpires Have Families, Too

A few Saturdays ago, Amelia and I visited Brandon at the baseball game. He was ump'ing home plate. She and I stood behind the bleachers for one of the teams. We stood in part because it was shaded and in larger part because I was wearing shorts and I have a policy to not sit down in shorts in public. As we stood and watched, women sitting in front of us began to complain about the ump. They weren't complaining to him, just about him. He didn't make calls loud enough for the spectators to hear. Yeah, and a few weeks before, he refused to call a ball as fair, he would only call them foul. Oh, but they liked Dave, now Dave you could hear. Not this guy, couldn't hear him.

So, I thought about things to say. I could point out that this umpire volunteered his time off - often his whole Saturday - to be here, in 100% polyester, in the sun, because he loves baseball and understands how important it is for these kids to have. Especially in a town like this with so few options. I could say, yes, he makes about 20 bucks a game, but that all he's earned hasn't come close to what he's spent on gear. I could mention that he studies the rules the eve of each game because he's very concerned that he do well by the kids. I could say that he told about refusing to call a fair ball because that's not the way of the real world and could be confusing to kids who are expecting only to hear the fouls called. In the end, I decided to go with my normal passive approach and simply watch them crumple over themselves in embarrassment after the baby and I met him at the fence to say good-bye.

Remember, If you don't know me, then you don't know who I am. Or how diabolical I can be. Mwa ha ha.