First Person: April 17, 1996
BASEBALL BY THE BOOK
What's a game if it's not played by the rules?
BY MICHAEL A. MORSE '91
Bottom of the first, two outs, three balls, two strikes. No one on base. I set my feet, take a breath, get into my crouch, and open my eyes wide. The pitch comes in fast, angling just below and to the right of my face. I watch the ball hit the catcher's glove and take a fraction of a second to consider the ball's precise height when it crossed the plate. Top of the knees. I wait for one more breath as I was taught, to get the timing right, then stand up, shoot out my right arm, and explode.
" 'RIIIKE THREE!"
Completing the third-strike call, I tuck in my right arm and punch air with my left. As my body relaxes, I hear behind me a loud clank and an exclamation that is probably "Damn!" Wheeling around, I see that the batter has flung his bat against the fence.
Suddenly I am faced with another call. If I wait more than a second, the play is over, and it will be too late. But my reaction is instinctual. It is a call I think about a great deal because of its unique place in the game of baseball. I transfer my mask to my right hand, take a step, throw my left arm forward, and shout, "YOU'RE GONE!"
I did not eject the batter primarily for cursing or throwing his bat, but for what the rule book calls inciting the crowd. In baseball, arguments are supposed to proceed verbally. Throwing a bat, helmet, glove, or cap, or even waving one's arms, can all be grounds for ejection when done in protest of an umpire's call. It may seem a draconian rule, but it enforces a gentleman's code of conduct. It's a code not every baseball community accepts.
On this particular occasion I was umpiring at Hersh High School, deep in Chicago's South Side and not far from the University of Chicago, where I am in graduate school. I knew I would be in for a long day when I arrived and saw that the infield looked as though it hadn't been mowed since the beginning of the season, a month earlier. In fielding practice, balls were literally lost in the grass. The visiting coach approached and muttered how he hates coming to games in the city.
I am new to umpiring in Chicago. Each league, it seems, has its own rhythm and character. I'd previously umpired in New York City, where the schools pay the umpires' association a lump sum for the season, and each umpire, in turn, receives a single check at the end of the season. In Chicago, coaches are supposed to pay the umpires at each game. I'd learned to demand the check at the beginning of a game, but the Hersh coach had so much trouble controlling his players and gathering his equipment that I knew this would be fruitless.
The game started about 15 minutes late because the home team was disorganized, taking too long on what can generously be called fielding practice. I was happy to wait, because my partner had yet to show, and umpiring alone involves more guesswork than I like. His absence didn't surprise me. Earlier in the season, I had found myself assigned to a game that already had two umpires (the usual complement for high school); I had shown up at a game and been the only umpire; and I had gone to fields that had no game. Meanwhile, I dressed to be the plate umpire, donning the special steel-plated shoes, leg guards with special pants, and chest protector. When my partner at last arrived, he was upset to see me ready to go behind the plate-I was new to the league, and he didn't trust me to call the pitches. Rather than make us both change clothes, however, he agreed to work the bases.
As Hersh took the field, I could tell we were in for a long game. The pitcher looked uncomfortable on the mound, and I noticed his team only had nine players.
The visiting team began the game with an onslaught of runs. I don't know how many exactly (that's the scorekeeper's job), but it was close to 10. The outs were basically flukes, like a fly ball hit directly to an outfielder who somehow failed to drop it. Meanwhile, the pitcher committed several balks. Each time this happened, my partner stopped the game to explain the offense. Technically, umpires aren't supposed do this, but perhaps it would help Hersh get through the inning. Soon the Hersh coach switched the pitcher and catcher. The new catcher wasn't very good, and he showed little interest in getting in front of bouncing balls that popped up and hit the plate umpire in the arm. Fortunately, the new pitcher was somewhat better than the old, and the top of the first came to a close.
The visiting team had a competent pitcher, and the first two Hersh batters went down quickly. The third fought off some pitches and got the count to 32. I learned later that he was Hersh's best athlete and that he took a strong interest in his personal performance, even when his team had no hope of winning. This was the player who cursed and threw his bat, leaving me no choice but to eject him from the game.
Normally, a team isn't allowed to compete with fewer than nine players. But in high school, games can proceed with eight, provided an out is recorded in place of the absent batsman. I explained this to the Hersh coach, but without his top player he decided to forfeit the game. His kids resumed the mayhem of fielding practice, which they seemed to enjoy much more than the game, anyway. The visiting coach shook his head and led his competitionstarved team back onto the bus.
Now I had a problem. The game was over, the home team blamed me for its premature end, and I still had no check. Once the visiting team's bus had departed, the Hersh coach also pointed out that I was the only remaining white person left in the area and that everyone on the field was angry at me for ejecting their top player. It was time to negotiate.
In a long discussion with my partner and the Hersh coach, I found myself alone in defending my correct interpretation of the rule book. My basic argument was "This is baseball," and the basic objection was "This is the ghetto." I told how I'd once seen Ricky Henderson ejected for throwing his bat much less demonstrably. The Hersh coach told how he never enforces the rule against cursing in his biology class.
With me comparing high school baseball to the major leagues and the coach likening it to biology class, it was evident we would find no common ground. He saw baseball as an extension of his educational philosophy-let the kids break the rules if it keeps them in school and off the streets. I saw baseball as a unique game whose essence and moral purpose derive from its consistency.
After promising to think things over, I received my $30. The coach and my more experienced partner left me to remove the heavy gear I had only recently put on, and I embraced a free spring afternoon.
After weighing my philosophy against the realities of umpiring in public high schools, I concluded that my philosophy comes first. In my copy, baseball's rules do not contain exceptions based on socioeconomics or anything else. So I decided to leave public high-school baseball to those who would let it be played according to mores rather than rules. Still, I can't get rid of the nagging thought that this is the wrong move-not because I am unwilling to participate in a culture that refuses to punish a thrown bat on a third strike, but because I am abandoning these kids to a baseball philosophy I abhor.
Michael A. Morse '91 is studying for his doctorate in the history of science at the University of Chicago.