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THE HOME PLATE CHRONICLES
by FRANK O'DONNELL
AUGUST 15, 2007
Watching a Babe Ruth game in North Providence is a lot more than baking in the sun or getting ravaged by mosquitoes.
There's much more fun afield than just teenaged baseball action, if you know where to look.
I direct your attention just south of home plate, where a full-fledged adult crouches low to pronounce judgment on the efficiency of each pitch.
During a recent post-season spree, I was able to chronicle the behind-the-catcher antics of a half-dozen or so of North Providence's finest umpires. Next season, stop by the field and watch for yourself. Some are far more entertaining than anything ever presented on The WB.
On its face, the job of home plate umpire is fairly simple: call balls and strikes, keep track of them, and allow no more than six outs in a given inning.
But just as no two snowflakes are like, no two umpires do this simple job the same way.
Some show up to a game wearing so much padding underneath their blues, you think they just rushed to the field after taping a Michelin commercial. Others wear nothing more than a seat cushion duct-taped to their torso. Those are the guys who do deep knee bends with each pitch, using the catcher as a human shield.
Some are very loud when calling strikes, while dismissing balls with a simple flutter of the right hand. One guy really loves the sound of his own voice, barking out every call. When a ball is batted out of play, his cry of "Fowwww-ull!" sounds like a beagle baying at the moon.
On tricky situations - like deciding if a batter checked his swing - some umpires will wait until someone asks before making the call. One guy removed all doubt right away, yelling, "Yes he did!" before the ball even smacked the catcher's mitt.
I was hoping for a call to go the other way, just so I could hear the Michelin Man scream, "No, he did not!"
There's one ump that doesn't utter a sound. Instead, he pantomimes. It takes at least three innings before you can figure out what Marcel Marceau's calling.
There's another who makes all sorts of noises, none of them intelligible. I call him Mumbles the Ump. Most of his calls sound like "Uh humh."
"What did he say?" asks another fan. "Was that three and two?"
"I don't know. Sounded like 40-love to me."
My favorite umpire is Mister Miyagi, who I named after the character Pat Morita played in the "Karate Kid" movies. I think this guy might have learned everything he knows about baseball officiating by watching the "KK" trilogy.
When he calls strikes, it's like watching Bruce Lee warm up. Miyagi extends his right arm out from his body, closes his fist, and brings it viciously across his chest. On the first strike, he accompanies the motion with a "Hoo!" The second strike earns a "Wah!"
On strike three, he punches straight down, yelling "Hoo-wah!" Sort of a cross between Steven Seagal (the move) and Al Pacino (the shout from "Scent of a Woman").
You'll love the way this guy cleans home plate. He moves his brush up and down, then side to side. Extremely meticulous, until every grain of sand is gone. Up and down, side to side. Up and down, side to side. A combination of Miyagi's gifts to Daniel-san - "paint the fence" and "sand the floor."
The true test of an umpire in this town, though, is how he uses his hands to signal a count of two balls and two strikes. Some umpires make the mistake of holding up the index and pinkie fingers on each hand.
Here in North Providence, that gesture is known as the mal' occhio, or evil eye. It's not a good thing. But not to worry. Everyone on the field and in the stands quickly touches the horn hanging from the gold chain around his or her neck, and all is well.
After the game, the umpire will get a good talking to, and will never make that mistake ever again.
Those umpires who've learned the lesson the hard way simply make a double peace sign, looking like Richard Nixon climbing into the helicopter after handing the keys to the chief executive washroom to Gerald Ford.
None of which would have happened, by the way, if an unsuspecting Babe Ruth umpire hadn't mistakenly whacked Nixon with the mal' occhio 60 years earlier in San Clemente. But, that's another story.
- What are you waiting for? Join the North Providence Gang, and get in on the fun. Occasionally, I send out e-mails to get the Gang's opinion on topics related to our town. Send me an e-mail at frankocomedy@cox.net and I'll sign you up!
Reprinted with permission from The North Providence Breeze
Cartoon by Charlie Hall
