Performer: Dire Straits
Songwriters: Mark Knopfler
Original
Release:
On Every Street
Year: 1991
Definitive
Version:
On the Night, 1993.
Sometimes
in life when you ask for something, you get it. No, I’m not talking about a
three-way, which, of course is the subject of this dirty blues song. I’m
talking about the time I umpired Matt’s T-ball game.
In
1992, I went home to Columbus a couple of times during the spring for reasons
I’ve long since forgotten. While I was home, Matt had a T-ball game scheduled.
Of course, I had to go to Northam Park—the site of my own little league
baseball triumphs and failures—and watch my brother play baseball, or attempt
to play baseball as is the case with any 8-year-old.
The
second time was something of a rainy and cool Saturday morning, and I drove
Matt over early for practice with Dad and Laura to arrive later. As the game
drew closer, the umpire who had been scheduled to work the game was late. I
wondered whether he’d show up at all and whether they’d need a volunteer. That would
be cool. After all I had the experience.
I’ve
mentioned this in passing, but a decade earlier, I umped T-ball and baseball
games at Northam Park. I remembered the rules, although there was a new one
concerning the last batter of the inning, but because I’d seen another of
Matt’s games, I had that one figured out.
Almost
as soon that thought was in my head, sure enough, the league commissioner came
by and said they were short an ump and would someone handle this game? I
immediately stepped forward. He gave me a clicker and the necessary paperwork
to register the final score at the end of the game.
Dad
got a big kick out of it. He used to come watch me ump when I was in high
school, and, of course, he watched me play. (Did I ever tell you about the time
my son got three outs on three pitches?) So when he showed up at Matt’s T-Ball
game and saw me on the field, he was delighted.
It
wasn’t much of a game, like most T-ball games. Matt’s team won something like
30-2, and Matt coincidentally hit seven homers. Just kidding. I think he got a
hit every time up, like a double and two singles, but so did almost everyone
else.
I’d
say I’d forgotten how much fun it was to ump T-ball, but then remembering was
why I volunteered that day in the first place. The game was easy. I remembered
my rules, calling strikes if the batter lifted his bat before the catcher said “ready”
and even calling a base runner out when his coach grabbed him after running
past third base and dragging him back to the base. No one argued.
And
my technique was exemplary if I must say so myself. I’d noticed at the earlier
game that the ump typically avoided something that umps were trained to take
care of when I did it. If there’s a runner on base, when the batter hits the
ball, the ump is to grab the T and get it out of the way to prevent any
collisions with it at home plate. At the earlier game, the ump left it where it
was every time, and I complained to Dad about how doing so was dangerous.
Well,
not this seasoned pro. Dad said later that the parents were amazed how this fan
handled the game, doing things like grabbing the T, tossing it to the side,
running out to the bases to make calls. They wished he were available to do
more games. Unfortunately, work in Flint beckoned.
Ah
yes, always leave them wanting more.
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