Blue

You see him there, waiting, patiently waiting for all 20 people to show up.

He waits because, well, without all 20 people--or, 18, depending on the league--there is nothing to DO but wait...wait for the inevitable:

Wait for the very ordinary men and women to don uniforms bearing their local bank, union or firm name and pretend, for the next 65 minutes, that they are professional athletes.

The softball umpire. I would contend, having served as an umpire for the last three summers, that being a softball umpire might be the toughest job in all of recreational sports, just tougher than being the overbearing parent/coach of one of your players while trying to convince the parents of your other players that their kids are just as important. It's also a little tougher than coaching adults in football, soccer, softball, or basketball leagues because, well, no one wants to be told that they are not good enough to compete against real athletes to win.

But, just barely.

This year, I decided to get certified with the NSA (National Softball Association) so that I could umpire games in the DC area as a part-time job, and I believe this to be a reasonably smart move on my part. I am umpiring games for eight different leagues this summer in Montgomery County, and the only similarity between the eight leagues is that, well, none of the players in these leagues is threatening the title of Greatest Athlete Ever.

We should first discuss the role of softball in the lives of working-class Americans. I say working-class Americans because, by and large, rich folks don't play softball. They've got better things to do--like, say, playing polo, washing their Cayenne or drinking on the Waterfront in Georgetown--and they don't want to be bothered with such menial tasks as playing rover in the outfield or beating out infield singles. In general, the poor don't play softball either; softball (and baseball) have a weakness in this area, since buying even the most basic of equipment--a glove--can cost the casual player too much money to seem worthwhile.

Slow-pitch softball is quite possibly the least athletic sport in history. I think that even fast-pitch players would admit that save for the pitcher--which is without question a tough assignment in fast-pitch--most of the players spend their time hangin' out during their time in the field. Generally speaking, fast-pitch is also played on a smaller field than slow-pitch, so outfielders don't even get a good workout. But, at least fast-pitch players look like athletes.

During a typical slow-pitch game, there is so much sauntering, lolligagging and just plain standing that you would think they were handing out free beer at the field...and then, it hits you: they ARE handing out free beer at the field. Although some slow-pitch players will try to convince you otherwise, I think that slow-pitch might be the only American sport where you can actually gain weight by playing it. You've got a fuckin' keg on either baseline, and you only spend time running around when an outfielder boots your line drive and you have to try and score to get yourself a home run before somebody can hurl the damned thing back to the catcher. Otherwise, you jog on ground balls (70-foot base paths make it tough to beat out the infield dribbler), you jog on fly balls (four outfielders make it tough to squeeze one in there), you jog on base hits (clean triples just don't happen on fenced fields, plain and simple), you jog on the occasional walk, and you jog on the home run ball.

And, in-between innings...you guessed it, you don't hustle, you jog in, and you jog out.

But, the great thing about slow-pitch is that a blind, red-headed retarded bastard stepchild can play it. And that means that everyone and their mom--sometimes, on the same team--comes out to play softball, which puts money into my pocket. Unfortunately, it also means that for those rare souls that play on recreational teams but are actually pretty good at it (real or imagined), the umpire must deal with an agonizing amount of pain.

I have only been doing games here in Maryland for the last two weeks or so, but already the promise of some fantastic confrontations has reared its ugly head. As much as I love sports, I have never...WILL never...understand some people's passion for the game of softball, especially where all you are playing for is to make it to the postgame bar of choice.

"BLUE?! What the hell was that call, blue??" During a game with the DCJCC (DC Jewish Community Center) recently, I had to deal with one guy about a dozen times. First it was the strike zone. Then it was a call at first where he thought he was safe. Then he wanted to argue a questionable slide. Then it was a tag play at first. Then it was an infield fly rule no-call (he thought the ball had gone high enough into the air to justify the rule; he was wrong, and naturally pissed since his third basewoman had dropped the ball and not made the resulting force play at third). By the fifth inning, I just about lost my cool with this guy.

"HEY! This is softball! Take it easy, sir. You're taking the fun out of it for everyone."

Don't get me wrong: for some guys (it's rare that it's a woman, but you never know), this softball game is the most important thing they have going all week, and I umpire every game that way. And, even as recently as college, I still took the weekly spades and hearts games VERY seriously. I used to be quite competitive, until it hit me that sports should only cause you pain if you are a UVA fan.

But seriously, what are we trying to prove here? Softball bragging rights go about as far as a Wade Boggs homer--BARELY into the next day's conversation. You might remember your last softball game, but really, who did you tell about it? Did you go home to your spouse/partner and say

"Honey, you aren't going to believe this...we beat Miller's Plumbing 16-15 today on my two-run double!"

and then jump into that person's arms in joy? Come on!!! I played in a men's game on Sunday with my buddy Greg "Abes" Abel, and even in that game--a 28-27 win for the good guys on an eight-run rally in the bottom on the seventh inning--we were pumped for roughly 12 minutes after the game ended. Then, it was back to reality. (Although, even I will admit that Greg's Monday e-mail roundup had me laughing hysterically, because it was a great comeback, and we can't even really share it with anyone.)

But, the umpire in these games--and lately, that's been me--has to put up with former "athletes" so much that I sometimes wonder if it's all really worth it. True, I do meet some very cool people that have some perspective on where softball sits in the whole scheme of things. But, for every one of those folks, there's always someone around the corner who wants to argue a called third strike.

Swing the bat already, ya punk!

Random Bellviews, courtesy of Bell and Longer Community Trust:

The eye candy at Eyebar: Opening Weekend
The Yankees' thrashing of the Oakland A's: $9.50 Show
Hot women...that laugh with the "Smoker's Rasp" cough: Matinee
The trailer for "Soul Plane": Rental
Flights on Memorial Day: Hard Vice

bellview--when in doubt, shoot the three

Blue