Ump
Ump
By Paul Vivari
As the ball left the pitcher’s hand, it was destined to be too high—the trajectory was leading it center-cut, but up around the letters of the batter’s uniform. The heavy downward rotation on the ball caused it to start dipping, slowly at first, then more sharply as the ball approached the plate. By the time it slapped the catcher’s mitt, it had settled just around the hitter’s belt, right on the tip of the top of the strike zone.
The ump raised his fist and pumped it, casually signaling the strikeout. No yelling, no theatrics. He disdained umps who turned calling strikes into a whole calisthenics routine. The batter looked back at him.
“Are you sure?” the teenager said.
“Yep,” said the ump. “Hit the top of the zone.”
“I thought it was high.”
“Beat it, kid. Next batter!”
The teen scowled and slowly walked back to the dugout. The punks in these high school games were always arguing balls and strikes with him, complaining about his calls, thinking they knew what they were talking about. He knew his strike zone was pure and was confident in his abilities. He had always liked being an umpire, even at this level. Controlling the game, making the ultimate call if a pitch was good or not, if a runner sliding into home was safe or out, if a volatile manager had to stay or go. Over the years it had become part of his identity, something he was proud of. And he was good at it, good enough to make it all the way to the top, once.
The new hitter, a wisp of a sixteen-year-old, settled into the chalk-outlined box and heaved a few practice swings with a bat that was clearly too heavy for him. It was the bottom of the first, a high school regulation seven-inning game ahead, a smattering of students and parents of the players in the stands. A far cry from three months ago, when he stepped out of the dugout in a shiny downtown stadium, the grass glistening and dirt freshly raked and bases sparkling white. Twenty thousand plus in the stands, a nationally televised game. It was the peak of his chosen profession, a big opportunity after years calling games in the minors, college, high school, anywhere. From volunteer gigs to pathetic paydays, he finally had the chance to show he belonged in the big leagues.
But that was then. Now, in a small sandlot under a freeway overpass, he was calling games for teenagers. He still relished it, enough to continue showing up, but things weren’t the same, and he knew they might never return that way again.
The pitcher went into his motion and rifled a fastball down the middle. The batter had barely started his awkward swing when the catcher snagged the ball.
The ump raised his fist again and pumped it. Strike one.
It had already been three months, but if time heals all wounds, it was going to take longer than that.
He got the call early in the morning, in the car on his way to his daily visit to the gym, mostly working his legs so he can squat on his heels for three-plus hours and not get a cramp. First-timers in the big leagues typically start somewhere in the field, they said, but they had heard good things about his tight strike zone from some college games he had called that got some regional exposure.
The ump immediately said yes. He had been painfully close to getting called up to the majors a few times before, passed over for others with more seniority or better connections. This was finally his chance. He made a quick U-turn and headed for home. He had to get ready, and besides, he wanted to tell his wife the good news.
Things had been going south over the last year, the financial limitations of his current profession a key part of their trouble. Surprising her with his big call-up would hopefully put things back on a positive track.
He opened the door to their small ranch house and heard muffled sounds coming from down the hallway that led to their bedroom. He shut the front door loudly and the sounds stopped. The inevitability made him want to get it over with, so he walked to the bedroom door and opened it.
His wife was sitting up in bed, the covers pulled up, her skin sweaty and hair mussed. Next to her in bed was a man smiling at him, covers down around his waist, a thick gold chain entangled in his chest hair. The ump didn’t recognize him, but the way the man was grinning made it seem like they knew each other. He was muscular, with a shaved, square jaw, and his black, slicked-back hair formed a tight helmet around his head, unmovable.
The ump just stood there, unable to react or move or even get angry. The man in bed with his wife stretched his right arm over her shoulders and gently squeezed her close to his frame, looking the ump in the eyes the whole time. The confident smirk was still pasted on his face.
But he couldn’t do anything. He had to get to the stadium. He felt like he had to say something, but all he really wanted to do was leave as quickly as possible.
He coaxed life back into his legs and left, head down, shutting the door behind him. As he went for the front door, he noticed a pair of khakis strewn over an ottoman in the living room. They couldn’t even wait to make it to the bedroom. He picked them up and fished out the wallet in the back pocket, staring at the man’s license. He couldn’t place the name. But he would remember it.
Top of the fifth inning, another pipsqueak teen at the plate. The kid whiffs on a slider, takes a fastball that was too high, then watches another one that came in right above his knees. The ump raised his fist. Strike two.
“That was too low,” said the batter, pouting.
“Caught the bottom of the zone.”
“You suck. You’re worse than that ump that was on the news a few months ago.”
“What’d you say to me? Say that again.”
The batter just turned and settled back into his stance. He considered tossing the kid from the game for insubordination, but he didn’t want to call attention to what he had said.
Worse than that ump. If the kid only knew.
He walked onto the freshly manicured field and tried to take in the size of the crowd, the majesty of the stadium, the magnitude of his accomplishment in making it this far. But all he saw was the grin of the man who was in his bed. In a strange way, it was less about his wife cheating on him, and more about who she cheated on him with, that smirk. The ump and his wife’s relationship had been going downhill, he could have seen this coming, as hard as it was to accept. But with that guy?
Once the first inning started and the pitcher initially wound up, he was confident he’d be able to put what just happened out of his mind and could concentrate on calling the game. But when the first pitch hit the catcher’s mitt he realized he had no idea where it landed. Ball? Strike? It could be anything. He called it a ball, the crowd grumbled in unison, and the catcher turned to him.
“Man, that was right down the middle.”
“Uh, a little high,” said the ump.
It got worse as the game went on. He was calling pitches woefully out of the zone as strikes and ones over the center of the plate as balls. A runner slid into home plate well ahead of the throw from the outfield and he weakly signaled him out. He almost tackled the bat boy because he thought it was a fan running onto the field. He couldn’t see, couldn’t react. All he saw was that bed, their bed, in their house, with that slick jerk in it, smiling at him, staring at him, rubbing it in his face. He knew it was getting really bad when the laces on the ball started to resemble shiny teeth, spinning and laughing as it hurtled towards him. All he was doing out there was guessing, and guessing wrong.
He was yanked before the third inning started, replaced by the second base umpire, who in turn was replaced by an emergency relief umpire they found in a hurry. The national television coverage of the game made him the unwitting star of the evening, his historically awful performance featured in every late-night show and sports broadcast that week. He was finished, as far as the big leagues were concerned, and was only able to find work calling high school games. Not even the minors or the colleges would touch him. And through it all, that grinning face never left his mind, always spiraling towards him.
The change-up had too much spin and bounced in the dirt in front of the plate. The ump signaled for a walk, loading the bases in the bottom of the seventh, the home team at bat and down by a run with two outs on the board. He motioned for the next batter, a pinch hitter coming in for the pitcher’s spot in the lineup. The P.A. announcer leaned over the mic and called the kid’s name through the tinny speakers.
The ump’s eyebrows went up behind his facemask. He’d heard that last name before. Trying to place it, he looked over at the new batter, the face vaguely familiar, that jawline, that black hair. The kid smiled at him.
Now he knew, that grin was unmistakable. A voice called out from the crowd, cheering the batter on. The ump scanned the stands and found the source, not surprised to see the man who was in bed with his wife, his son the spitting image. His wife was now living in the guy’s lakeside house, having moved out before his disastrous game was even over, leaving him in their old house.
The rest of the crowd picked up on the cheering and joined in. The kid dug into the batter’s box and took a few generous practice hacks. He could really swing. Well, of course he could. Son of the man who always gets what he wants. About to win the big game in front of the home fans. His proud dad telling everyone in the stands, look, that’s my boy, we always come out on top. Hugs and high-fives and laughing and smiling, always smiling.
The pitcher went into his wind-up and the ump had to refocus on the fastball coming right down the middle. The batter swung violently and crushed the ball, a moonshot with tremendous arc that immediately got the crowd on their feet – but he had swung just a bit too early and sent it flying to the left of the left field pole, a foul ball. The near grand slam got the crowd into an even bigger frenzy, the cheering getting louder and louder as their hero at the plate settled into his stance, ready to pulverize the next one.
Which he did, but this time making contact a little too late with the high fastball that sat up in the zone waiting to be demolished. The ball looped to the right of the right field pole and bounced into the parking lot, closer to a home run than the last one. Now nobody was sitting in the stands, everyone screaming and calling his name, and the teen on the mound looked terrified. Not wanting to give up the bases-clearing home run, he fired off three straight sliders that were nowhere near the zone.
The batter didn’t bite on any of them, and the ump called them what they were. As much as he wanted to ring the kid up, he knew one bad call would be enough to get him kicked out of the game for good. For the first time, he wondered what was more important in the grand scheme of things.
The batter had worked a full count. If the pitcher threw another ball, he’d draw a walk and the tying run would come home from third. Throw a strike, and the batter would destroy it over the fence and win the game—a win-win for the kid, the smile that can’t lose.
The curveball left the pitcher’s hand and fluttered towards the plate, the release point too low and with way too much spin on the ball. It started belt-high but began dipping too soon, spiraling downwards until the catcher grabbed it with his mitt around the batter’s ankles. The batter let out a big smile, pumped his fists, and turned to walk to first base, the big hero tying the game.
The ump found the kid’s father in the stands again, everyone around him slapping his back and shaking his hand and having a fine old time. The guy who stole his wife, who cost him his one shot in the majors, who caused him to be humiliated on televisions across the country. It isn’t fair, he thought, but what can he do about it? All he can do is call balls and strikes.
Everyone in the stadium was waiting on his call. The kid at the plate stopped walking to first base and looked back at him, expectantly, with a grin on his face.
So he made the call.
Paul Vivari is a writer from Washington D.C. His short fiction has previously been published in the Washington City Paper, The Dark City Crime & Mystery Magazine, and Free Spirit: Revenge Short Story Collection.
Jeff Brain is a retired public school teacher. You can find more of his art on his website or on Instagram.
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