Free Screaming at the Ump by Audrey Vernick Page B

in and sit with him and the staff behind the judging table.
    Instructors were calling out situations that could occur in a game (like man on second, two outs), and other instructors and some students were putting those plays into action on the field. Working in teams of two—one ump behind the plate and the other in the field, plate ump and base ump—students tried to make the right calls on the plays. (Because only the major leagues used four umpires, all schools taught the two-umpire system.)
    Just like in a game, students had no idea where or if the ball would be put in play, so they had to be ready to make any call. To watch, read the play the right way, remember which umpire needed to make each call, get into the correct position, and make the right call with all the right body movements, or mechanics.
    Billy and Joe, two guys Dad had hired when they were baseball players at Clay Coves Community College and who had come back every September since, were working with Dad and Bobbybo and Soupcan and half the students. Pop had the other half on the rear field, along with some other instructors.
    I watched Dad’s group. It wasn’t pretty. There was a man on first, and instead of covering third on a hard hit to the outfield, the plate ump took off his mask and just kind of stood there, watching the ball. The base ump wasn’t much better. He was able to run to the right position to call the play, but he didn’t get there in time to position himself at the best angle. And when he got the angle right, he was too far away to make a good call on the throw to first.
    Dad and the other instructors watched each student run through about ten different situations, and then the students were called over to the outfield to listen to what they had done right and what they had done wrong. It was one of the things I liked least about BTP—the way students had to stand there and be told that that their feet weren’t set far enough apart or they blew a catcher’s interference call. I didn’t think I could handle that part if I were a student here. I understood they needed feedback to know what they had to work on, but who really wanted to hear about all the things they were lousy at? You had to look the instructors in the eye and nod, like,
Yeah, I want to hear this! What else did I do wrong? Okay, what else? Thank you, sir, may I please have another?
    When Dad came back to the table after a face-to-face evaluation, I asked, “Do you know how I can reach Steamboat? I want to talk to him about You Suck, Ump! Day, find out everything I need to do.”
    â€œCheck with Mrs. G.,” he said. Which I probably could have figured out for myself.
    I reached back behind where Dad was sitting and opened the cooler. He was so predictable. There were three bottles of iced tea and tons of packs of sunflower seeds. I grabbed one of each and headed to the rear field, where Pop was sitting in the bleachers behind home plate.
    I climbed up next to him.
    He pushed his green hat back and scratched his forehead while pointing with his chin to the plate ump. “What do you think of that one, Casey?”
    I watched for a minute. He was kind of clumsy pulling his mask off. That was one of the first lessons they got about their uniforms—how to hold the mask, how to put it on, take it off. They were supposed to always have their heads up, staring out at the field (almost staring down the players) as they put on their masks. No matter what he was doing, an umpire’s eyes always had to be up and facing forward.
    Pop held a ball and strike indicator as he watched this guy, and he was turning its dials without a break. I had forgotten about that—that was what Pop did when a student was making him crazy.
    This guy’s crouching position seemed right. His feet were spread wide, he had one hand below his chest protector and the other above his knee, his chin was above the catcher’s head, and he was