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The Old Bawl Game

Isolation can really sneak up on you. You may not notice that you've begun to refer to automobile accidents as "owies," or that you have begun to leave phone messages in sing-song Dr. Seuss rhyme schemes, and even your friends may be reluctant to point out these warning signs to you. In any case, should you ever find yourself drinking vodka from a Winnie The Pooh sippy-cup, it is time to strongly consider a little change of scenery.

My craving for social contact with Bigger People has escalated to the point that I am once again moonlighting as a Little Leagueà baseball umpire. It is a great gig for anyone with a pure love of baseball who also doesn't mind wearing a uniform and telling others what to do. It is an exhilarating feeling, after all these months of infant care, to be around people with the intellectual sophistication and self-control of twelve year olds. Of course, I am referring to the coaches and league officials. The kids are great too.

The Standard Infant Rules of Engagement shift from moment to moment, and are deeply rooted in the concept of "Right Now." You can't haul out a rule book and make an appeal for Nap Time. It is strictly the baby's call. So you can understand the satisfaction in officiating a game which is run by a very strict set of rules. Never mind that the Little Leagueà rule book is so confusing that it seems to have been written in a country where baseball is not played and then translated back to English by someone with a bad sense of humor.

Being an umpire does present us with some scheduling conflicts. The early weeknight game starts at 5 PM which means I have to be there at 4:30 in order to break up the fist fight between the opposing coaches over which team gets to take infield practice first. Julia usually can't leave work till 5:00 so there is a window of an hour or so where we need to plan for baby care. This week I enlisted the help of my friend, Mark, whom Emma knows, and who figured an hour at the ballpark might make a nice little work break.

Ah, but nothing ever goes according to plan. Emma was not interested in eating in the afternoon before game time, and in my rush to get out the door I neglected to bring along a jar of baby food. No problem, I thought, Julia will be here soon enough. My greater concern at the time was to maintain my gruff authoritarian umpire's countenance as I approached the diamond pushing Emma in her stroller.

A small group of kids watched in confused silence as I pulled spare diapers, chew toys, and a supply of baby books from my duffel bag to outfit Mark for his short stint. Most of the moms thought it was pretty cute but I could tell the players were concerned. I could hear the muttering in the visitors' dugout: Why does the Ump have a copy of "Pat The Bunny" sticking out of his pocket? I stayed with Emma as long as possible, talking goo-goo talk and making faces for her till it was time to run onto the field and bark out "Play ball!"

I can't remember what happened during the game because somewhere in the top of the first inning, Emma succumbed to the aroma of the snack bar and decided that she was ready for that meal after all. Taking her cue from both coaches, she began to make her needs known to anyone within earshot.

Without a jar of baby food or a pair of lactating breasts, Mark was helpless. After the third out I sprinted to the bleachers to cuddle the baby and reassure Mark, but moments later I had to hand her back and dash back onto the field. And thus my routine was established.

Unfortunately, Julia was detained by a late-running meeting, and by the middle of the third inning my attention was badly divided. One coach began to question my powers of concentration, and his needling distracted me even more. The situation threatened to get out of control until I remembered my trusty little rule book. With a manner of authority I cited rule 9.01(b), which states, "Each umpire has authority to order a player or coach to do or refrain from doing anything which affects the administering of these rules ..." On the basis of this rule I ordered him to go to the bleachers and help Mark read "Green Eggs And Ham" to Emma, so that I could get on with the business of running the game. When he protested on the grounds that nowhere does the rule book mention anything about hungry babies, I cited rule 9.01(c): "Each umpire has the authority to rule on any point not specifically covered in these rules." He didn't like it, but he agreed with the call. Rules are rules.

As luck would have it, Julia arrived and everything sorted itself out. Emma got her meal, the coach was allowed to skip the Dr. Seuss reading and return to his dugout, and I was able to direct my attention to the usual situations: runners on second and third with less than two outs, the runner on second leaves the base early as the batter, who turns out to be batting out of order, tries to hit an illegally-delivered pitch which hits the ground first but which also hits him at the same time as his swing is interfered with by the catchers glove. Good thing I had my rule book.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.