Rookie-To-Rookie: Call YOUR Game, and Never Vomit on the Catcher

By Scott Watkins

Ok, so it’s my first year of umpiring anything at all. I have a billion dollars invested in equipment and uniforms, books and videos. I walk around the house at night calling the roaches "Safe!" or "Out!", and stop my wife in her tracks when she tries to move a pan off the stove – "BALK! You twisted your shoulders ILLEGALLY!". I often restrict my 15-year-old daughter to the dugout. My family thinks I am certifiably insane.

My first game in blue was a JV Baseball game. I wound up calling the 2^nd game all by myself, and well – that was a day for another article. Having tested for both high school baseball and softball here in my home state of Ohio, I was fortunate enough to be living in a small rural community where no one takes anything or anyone too seriously. In other words, I knew if I blew some calls, I would be lynched by friends. There is something to be said for that.

But in order to ensure my rookie year as an umpire was a memorable one (that’s the only reason I can come up with to explain this), I called some folks in nearby Cincinnati and actually volunteered to call fast pitch AAU, USAAA, JO, and all those other initials that really spell "R.I.P." for the unsure and unskilled.

After rising at 5:30 a.m. to go to my very first preseason fast pitch club tourney (10, 12, and 14-year-olds), I arrived only to discover that the man I would be working with had attended MLB Ump School. Now, Greg is a very nice guy, don’t get me wrong. I like Greg. He calls NCAA Division I ball, high school, all of it. He has for years. He loves it. A lot, he loves it. But I knew I was in some real trouble when he called me to the side for our pre-game meeting, and said, "Scott, I don’t care if you’re calling a little league t-ball game, you call it like it’s the 7^th game of the World Series. That’s what I expect of my umpires".

Although I had been scheduled to call the "Dish" (see – I even know some lingo now) for that first game, Greg was already geared up (I think he sleeps in his chest protector and mask), so I breathed a sigh of short-lived relief and took the bases. My wife, who had volunteered to come and watch me ump for the first time (Sure, pick the day I am tossed to the wolves), smiled encouragingly at me as I trotted off in my brand new powder blue ASA logo shirt, taking up my position along the foul line down first base. And that is when my education really began.

Greg "moved" me around every 2 pitches, and the more he signaled me left, right, back, forward, upside down, etc., the more nervous I became. I mean, the field is small enough, you know? But move I did. You don’t argue with a man who actually does call a 12-and-under fast pitch game as though it is the 7^th game of the World Series. Lemme tell ya, those batters knew they were out on the third strike.

But I was coming unhinged. I was running everywhere, never sure of being in the right place, never sure who had what base runner, nothing. I had lost every ounce of sense between "Play Ball!!!" and "SCOTT – OTHER SIDE! OTHER SIDE!" By the time inning 7 was done, I wanted to crawl into my equipment bag and have my wife plop it in the underbelly of a Greyhound bus going anywhere.

I wanted, you see, to be a good umpire. A fair and accurate ump that knew his rules, his timing, his pace, his place. I was sure it wouldn’t be that hard. Whoops.

Game two of the day, and Greg and I were still paired up. I had the dish. What I wanted was a bucket to throw up in. But I geared up, listened to him tell me in between every inning what I needed to be doing and watching for, and nodded my head dizzy. I worked the slot. I made my calls with zero mechanics (I was afraid to move my arms after watching Greg’s Academy-Award-Winning performance behind the plate, so I just yelled real loud).

And over and over again, I told myself, "Don’t throw up on the catcher. Just do NOT do that."

Later, as my wife took her ego-mangled husband to a quick lunch in between games, I lamented to her that I was "Off my game", that I "didn’t have the edge today"; on and on and on I moaned and whined. I had tried to beg off of the plate earlier, but Greg would have none of it. I felt through the whole game like a phony that didn’t belong where he was.

Then game three of the day took (oddly) a whole new turn. Greg had left to go home, and I was paired with a man who also coaches – I had the dish again, despite my valiant efforts to get out of it. The assignor just looked at me, smiled, and said, "Gear up". I thought her crueler than Lizzie Borden at that moment, but gear up I did. And I did something else even more odd – I RELAXED. Actually, I think I was just exhausted with being nervous, and decided "Heck with it – I’m in".

The truth is, I had become so intimidated umpiring with a man of Greg’s impressive credentials and mechanics, his knowledge of the game, that I realized later I had been trying to call HIS game, not mine – such as it was. And that is how I got myself into such a neurotic frenzy. I had even lost track of the count not once but three times during my turn at the plate.

But game three was much better. I made mistakes, yes indeedy. I missed a thing or two, oh yes I did. And my partner was good and quick to let me know, too. But the difference was, I took them in stride and went on. I won’t lie to you and tell you that I was in complete control, and was the umpire I felt I should be. But I was not on the verge of a nervous breakdown, either. I was "Calling it as I saw it". I was doing my job.

I call my next tourney for them in a week. I am ok with that, and looking forward to it. No matter who I am paired with, no matter how weak and inexperienced I feel, I will show up in my ASA cap, and I will call my game. I will not call a perfect one. But it will be mine, for better, or worse.

I learned a lot from those first two games in my version of "The Big Show". First, never, ever take your wife along on your first ‘Major League’ outing: That way, the option to run and hide under a rock remains in play.

Second, there is a fine line between learning from a pro and scrambling to please one. When you are the Fred Flintstone of Umpires to his Bill Klem (see the history of Umpires on the front page here) you still have to show up, and do your thing. The minute you start thinking, "I am not good enough to be here", you take yourself right out of the game, and it becomes work (ugh).

Last, I learned that you had darned well better be ready to put up or shut up. You are there for the players, to make it a fun and good game to play. And once you don the cap and shirt, there is really no excuse for not doing exactly that, to the very best of your ability.

Look, listen, and learn. Then just make the call. But if nothing else helps calm you down, pause between pitches, and remember how cleanly you made that one call at home when that roach tried to slide in under the trim molding: One shoe wipe, and that runner was "Out!". And your mechanics were perfect.