Barry Lewis
The Rules Reconsidered: Dumping On The Ump
DISCLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY; ANY ATHLETIC WISDOM OR INSIGHT OR KNOWLEDGEABILITY THEREIN, NOT DIRECTLY QUOTED BY MY COLLEAGUES, IS NOT ONLY PURELY ACCIDENTAL BUT UNFORTUNATE.
Jobbing is a thankless task, but boozing isn't. At Ye Olde Bull and Bush on Montgomery 76107 (please no direct correspondence; all mail will be summarily returned), I resolved to have one drink for every customer who that day, five hours prior, had requested corn or flour, and was on my seventh when I found myself pleasantly intoxicated enough to read the words of my colleagues.
And I found, upon my perusal, that The Adam Shirley had a bone (or, more accurately, the whole skeleton) to pick with one Casey Moser, evidently an umpire, whatever that may be. Now, it may seem unduly biased on my part to take Adam's side in a quarrel over a game I never watched, nor would have made heads or tails of if I did. But the generous reader will note that Adam is a writer, a good one, I like him, and most importantly, a Horned Frog. And our opponent was Texas. So, under those circumstances, when The Adam Shirley had a skeleton to pick with an ump, I was more than happy to join his skeleton crew.
According to The Adam Shirley, Casey Moser "needs a new job, because he is terrible at being an umpire."
My ears perked like a puppy's to a whistle at this prospect of a job swap, whereby I could attain one, and this Mr. Moser might be demoted to my daily miserable ministrations of jobbing.
The Adam Shirley continued: "Moser gave UT's starting pitcher 2 inches on both sides of the plate and below the knees all game, ruining at bat after at bat for TCU. Eventually TCU had no option other than to swing at every pitch that wasn't over their head. Of which there were many."
"The scoundrel!" I shouted, whereupon I was accosted by The Ned Foster.
"Writing about me again, I take it."
"Not exactly. The culprit of this piece is a man named Casey."
"Jones?"
"Moser."
"Who is Casey Moser?"
"I don't know. An umpire, evidently. One who thinks any ball that's not direct overhead is a strike. By this piece, penned by the admirable Adam Shirley, it would seem a TCU player could have taken a pitch direct in the face, and this guy would have called it a strike." I paused. "Which, I suppose, technically speaking, it would have been."
I continued: "It was in the 8th inning with The Luke Savage on the mound that home plate umpire Casey Moser completely lost control of his faculties."
"Uh oh," I said.
"Are we worried that Casey Moser went insane? I thought that would have made you happy."
"Perfectly happy with that outcome, Ned Foster," I said. "My concern is that I fear The Adam Shirley committed a redundancy by referring to Moser as a home plate umpire. What other kind of umpire is there?"
"Well, there's the first base umpire, for example."
"No, Ned Foster, that's a ref."
"This is baseball. They're all umps."
"Erroneous! Umps decide balls and strikes. Refs determine fouls and safeties. You would know if you paid more attention to football and basketball."
"Your employers have their work cut out for them."
"Right on."
I continued: "With the score 3-2 and runners on the corners in the 8th, UT umpire Casey Moser decided it was time to make up a phantom balk call to give UT a 4-2 lead. With the runner on first being given second base on the call, TCU coach Kirk Saarloos tried to let the Longhorn umpire know that he wanted to intentionally walk Ivan Melendez. Legendary UT umpire Casey Moser took it upon himself to be the MVumP . . . what the hell is that?" I asked.
"What's a what?"
"An MVumP? You ever heard of that before?"
From a glance at my computer, The Ned Foster gleaned the gist before saying, "I thought you were a wordsmith?"
"Don't discriminate."
"I think it's a pun. On MVP and ump."
"What's an MVP?"
"Most valuable player."
"Who is?"
"It's what MVP means. M is for Most. V is for valuable. P is for player."
"Acronyms," I muttered.
I continued: " . . . Legendary UT umpire Casey Moser took it upon himself to be the MVumP, making the play of the game for the Longhorns, ejecting the Big 12 Coach of the Year for trying to intentionally walk a Longhorn. Apparently that is not allowed."
I paused. "Wait, so this umpire was playing for UT?"
I heard a pop as the Ned Foster slapped his head.
"And what is balking? Is that a misspelling? Did The Adam Shirley intend walking?"
Another pop.
"Obviously, if it was a walk, it's the Casey Moser who should have gone for a walk, a long walk, straight to my taco shop. He'd fit right in there . . . and he ejected our head coach!"
But The Ned Foster was no longer there. Instead, he and The Morgan and The Monet and The Deear and The Blake Barker and The Katreeva and The Stubbs were gathered at the dartboard.
The Monet threw a dart that landed direct on a yellow triangle pointing toward the bullseye.
"Strike!" I shouted.
She threw again. This one struck the black outside the numbers.
"Ball!"
"Oh my God what the hell are you talking about I'm trying to throw darts here do you mind or are you out of your mind?"
"I'm practicing my umpiring skills, our favorite painter," said I to The Monet. "I might have a new job."
"In baseball?"
"According to The Adam Shirley, there is an umpire named Casey Moser, and I couldn't possibly be any worse. He's so bad, he's UT's best player, as Ned Foster can attest with his MVP acronym . . ."
"Don't ask," said The Ned Foster when The Monet gave him such a look as to ask why this was being done to her.
"And anyhow, I live tweeted a game about a month ago. My first and only experience with tweeting or baseball. And I can honestly say, every time the umpire called a ball when it was our pitcher on the mound, they were clearly wrong. And every time they called a strike when our guy refused to swing at a pitch, they were equally wrong. And I let the audience know that, but no one seemed to value my opinion as much."
"What are you on about?"
"I have a career prospect if any body cares to listen."
"Being a baseball umpire?" asked The Stubbs.
"You say it incredulously. And what other kind of umpire is there!”
“Evidently, a darts one.”
Just then The Blake Barker took a step forward, dart in hand.
"Balk!" I shouted.
He must not have been prepared for that, for upon hearing it, he spun and the dart went sideways, landing in The Stubbs' right buttock.
"Oh not again!" shouted the Stubbs, made suddenly a break dancer with, I must admit, considerable skills.
"The Stubbs walks!" I said.
But my call fell on deaf ears and the Stubbs was still limping days later.
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