Chapter 4- Who's Ashbury



The Founding Fathers
Colin, Greg, Bruce, & Dave



The Haight Ashbury Umpires Association was born on August 8, 2002 around a table at the Blue Mingo Grille on Lake Otsego in Cooperstown New York.  The founding fathers; Greg Patrick, Colin Ewing, Dave Hendrickson, and yours truly were drunk at the time. The idea started as a joke, mainly to elicit a reaction from Tony Musco, the navy bluest of navy blues. I thought the good laugh at the table was as far as it would go. Much to our surprise, Greg and Dave arrived at CDP in 2003 with sunburst tie-dyed umpire shirts and a determination to actually wear them in a game. They looked great; just what we had talked about the previous year. Tony couldn’t even bring himself to look at them. He’d pretend to shield his eyes and said he was afraid looking at them would make him physically ill. We all said he was just jealous and wasn’t confident enough in his own manhood to wear a shirt that cool. That really pushed his buttons. Suffice it to say, printing his response to that accusation would probably result in these pages spontaneously combusting.   

The South Jersey Sand Sharks proved to be the perfect unwitting accomplice in the introduction of the tie-dye phenomenon at CDP. Their coach was a great guy. His parent group had a mischievous, if not downright evil, sense of humor.  They kept getting guys to approach him and pretend to “like” him. He knew what was going on and he’d immediately back away in protest. “IT’S NOT TRUE!” he’d bellow while turning around looking for the group of parents who were always nearby and howling in laughter. Greg and Dave were scheduled to work one of their games the next day. I approached the coach and said, “Coach, you know some of the parents on your team told me….” Before I could finish, he smiled, shook his head, looked around, and said “IT’S NOT TRUE!”  I told him that there were a couple of umpires from San Francisco who’d heard about him and were really looking forward to working his game. I told him I didn’t know which game they were going to work but that he’d know who they were as soon as they walked on the field.  Greg and Dave arrived in tie-dyed shirts and played it up perfectly. The coach was really uncomfortable, the parents were wild and took tons of pictures, and the kids loved the shirts.  Dave and Greg explained the joke to the coach and he ended up being a really good sport about all of it.

 The Haight Ashbury Umpires Association name was Dave Hendrickson’s idea and Greg took it a step further by having our logo designed by a graphic artist at Dragonaire Pins. It’s based on the old Robert Crumb Keep on Truckin cartoon. Greg had the figure in the cartoon (an image Crumb never bothered to copyright) put into umpires gear with a tie-dyed shirt, and it’s been the logo for our association ever since. The first year Greg had pins made up he decided to send them to me to drive up rather than bring them on the airplane. They arrived at my home and I couldn’t resist opening the box to have a look. Arching over the top of the figure the words Keep on Umping appear with our initials, HAUA, off to the side. My wife took one look at the pin and said “What’s huh-you-uh mean”. 

 “No, no honey that’s H-A-U-A; it stands for Haight Ashbury Umpires Association.”

She said…ready…I swear… you can’t make this stuff up… “Who’s Ashbury, and why do you hate him?”

I almost peed myself right there in the kitchen.

“You were born in the 60’s honey. You don’t know what Haight Ashbury is?” I asked.

She swore she didn’t and I believe her. Once I explained the whole birth of the counter culture hippie movement, and the famous (or infamous depending on your perspective) San Francisco intersection’s connection to the time period, and tied in the whole tie-dye thing, the light bulb went on. She still didn’t see the humor in it and just thinks we’re all a bunch of juveniles who refuse to act our age, but she’s come to accept, and even embrace our antics.

As each year went by a few more guys would show up with tie-dyes. Greg by then had found our official uniform supplier. A guy by the name of Richard Rogers has a web-based company called Dyed in Vermont.  He tie-dyes anything and everything and does some really interesting stuff. The association started a Yahoo Group and has a growing roster of followers. Even the color schemes of the tie-dyes evolved. The basic original is a sunburst swirl pattern dominated by traditional tie-dye colors, yellow, red, blue, & green. A royal blue and black alternate jersey was added and has become popular among our ranks. A patriotic red white & blue version has also been seen.

The more guys that joined the more fun and popular it became.  The parents and kids really loved the shirts. The coaches were a little more wary.  The most interesting thing that evolved was the competence and seriousness of the guys in the group. There was a palpable feeling that if you were going to umpire in one of these shirts you’d better bring your “A” game with you. There was a real danger of looking like a clown and a potential for disrespecting the game if you went on the field in tie-dye and did a lousy job.

We had our detractors, of course, too. Tony wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one of our shirts. We threatened to photo-shop him into one which had the intended effect of getting a rise out of him. There were others who thought it was fine but just didn’t feel comfortable playing along and then there were those who thought we were all asses. As the number of fields grew from 10 to 22 and the number of teams grew from 48 to 104 per week, the number of umpires grew as well. There are now over 100 umpires that participate each week and week 9 is no exception. Naturally, groups that large will tend to break up into smaller groups that tend to hang together and, unfortunately, cliques form. While there is no “us” versus “them” feeling and while we’ve never been shy about inviting or encouraging outsiders to join in the fun, there are those who simply don’t get it or don’t want to. Some think we are trying to draw attention to ourselves when, as umpires, our goal should be to remain anonymous. Personally, I don’t disagree with the sentiment about remaining anonymous.  I get it. Nobody goes to a baseball game to watch the umpires, and the best compliment we can hope to get at the end of a game is that no one remembers who the we were. This is 12 year baseball though. It’s supposed to be fun…for everyone. If wearing a tie-dye shirt brings a smile to the faces of the players, parents, and coaches, and, in the process, makes me seem a little more human and a little more approachable, then I really don’t see the harm, nor do I think I’m doing it to draw attention to myself.  In truth, wearing the tie-dyes actually forces me to concentrate on my game and not get complacent. The last thing I’d ever want is to give a coach the opportunity to criticize my hustle, knowledge, competence, or judgment in calling his game while wearing a silly looking shirt. The bottom line is this; you can have fun AND do a good job. 

Dave Lawrence & the HAUA in action

There’ve been many memorable tie-dye games over the years. Colin always arranges a 4-man tie-dye crew to work one of the Upper Perk Chiefs (his home team) games. One year a team came in from Hawaii. Everyone wanted to work their games for two reasons. One, they had the best GLMs (good looking moms) and two, after every game the umpires would get some kind of gift (usually a box of chocolate covered macadamia nuts) from the GLMs. I was working a game in tie-dye that pitted Hawaii against a team from Texas. The Hawaiians were small and fast and the Texans were big bruisers. In the top of the first inning Hawaii sent 11 straight batters to the plate, each of whom bunted and reached safely before the first out was recorded. The Texans just couldn’t seem to figure out how to defend the bunts. When the inning ended 7 or 8 runs had scored and we all thought this was going to be one of those blow out games. How wrong we were. The Texans came out swinging and homered four times in their half of the inning putting up 6 or 7 runs of their own.  The game went back and forth like that for all 6 innings; small ball vs. home run derby. The Hawaiians eventually lost 15-13 but you’d never know it from the attitudes of the players, coaches, or parents. At the conclusion, of what turned out to be a great game, the teams, coaches, and parents met spontaneously in the middle of the field for hugs and handshakes. In some small way I believe our wearing tie-dye shirts for that game broke the ice and set the tone for what became one of the most fun and memorable games I’ve been a part of.

There were a few unwritten rules about the use of the tie-dye shirts. We never wore them past Tuesday preliminary round games. We never mixed and matched, meaning that everyone in the crew wore it or no one did. Tie-dyes were a week 9 happening. There are umpires who attend CDP multiple weeks, but those in the HAUA would only wear their tie-dyes during week 9. Greg Patrick is our unofficial association president and ran interference with CDP management. He always provided a level of comfort and assurance to the baseball operations people that the tie-dyes wouldn’t become a problem or a distraction. Unfortunately, a member or two missed the memo, violated the unwritten rules, and became belligerent with management when told not to wear them. The result was a general ban on the wearing of our beloved shirts that started in 2009. They’ve been gone for two week 9s now but haven’t been forgotten. We still wear our HAUA hats and ball bags.  As a group we decided not to push the issue for a few years and there is a plan to approach management with a request for permission to bring them back in 2011. If the answer is no we’ll all accept it and move on, but regardless of the outcome we’ve been brought closer and have lasting memories of the fun we’ve had in creating and bringing something new and different to our umpiring experience at CDP.

Chapter 3 - Blues Wear Blue

Umpires are universally referred to as Blue by coaches, players, and spectators alike. For decades umpire uniforms have largely consisted of blue shirts; from the Elbeco light blue button down to today's navy blue pullover. It's only been over the last few years that a variety of other colors have gained acceptance, but the moniker has stuck. Many umpires think it a derisive term while others consider it a badge of honor.  I’ve never been offended by it but at the same time I much prefer being called by my first name.  I recall an instructor from the Williamsport Little League school by the name of Joe Johnson. Joe HATED being called blue. He told us to let the coaches get away with it the first 2 or 3 times but to always call them by their first name and correct them.

“Hey Blue, where was that pitch?”

“Bill, it was inside and my name’s Joe”

After the third time he told us his routine was to approach the coach between innings and say something like: “Bill, my name is Joe, I’ve worked awfully hard to become a good umpire and I prefer it if you call me by my name. I ain’t a fucking color and I never blew anyone!” and then walk away.  The story always stuck with me and while I’d never say anything like this to a coach I understood his point.  Personally I think we have too much to do on the field to get worked up by the nickname. I really don’t believe anyone means any disrespect by using this common term.  I can’t always remember the coach’s name and if I forget I’ll simply call him coach. I’ve never had a coach get offended by my calling him coach. Blue could be as innocent a nickname as  it's less awkward and more  friendly sounding than calling someone umpire or Mr.umpire or sir (in the gender neutral sense of the word, of course. No disrespect intended to the many very good female umpires I’ve met and worked with at CDP).  

I tell you all this as a prelude to introducing Tony Musco. Tony was and remains the patriarch of CDP umpires. In his eighties now, he still umpires back home in the local Little League. Until a few years ago Tony, along with a small group of Americans regularly traveled to Kutno, Poland to umpire the Eastern European Little League Championships.  In addition to working the tournament Tony and his crew provided training clinics for the less experienced European umpires. Tony and his guys didn't stop there, however. They would collect and donate literally tons of new and used umpire and baseball equipment to needy programs in Europe. Tony earned a nickname in Poland. The story goes that every morning on his way to the field Tony would stop by a local bakery and bring Polish pastry known as Paczki (pronounced potch-key) for the kids. For that, Tony will be forever remembered as "Papa Paczki". Wherever youth baseball umpires gather, Tony Musco is well known and highly regarded. Tony is slowing down now and hasn’t been to CDP the last few years and probably won’t ever come back. One year one of our colleagues received news that his mother had suddenly passed away. Tony organized a collection and within minutes funds were raised for airfare and a ride to the airport was arranged. I don’t know of a single person that didn’t contribute. Afterward Tony said something I’ll never forget. He said: “You know fellas, there’s no better group of guys in the world than Blues.” He meant it too. The way he saw it there’s no more diverse collection of personalities and backgrounds that come together in pursuit of a common interest than amateur umpires. Tony was obviously one of those guys that wore the name blue with pride.  In addition to the pride he felt in being called blue, Tony took the term literally too. You could say Tony was the Henry Ford of umpires. You could wear any color you liked as long it was navy blue. Umpire attire has evolved over the years. You don’t see guys in black suit jackets with white shirts & ties and beanie caps anymore.  Joining traditional navy blue we now have powder blue, pro blue (powder with black trim), red, white, cream, black, and silver. I’ve also seen brown, pink, maroon and sage green. If you were scheduled to work with Tony though you wore navy blue. No questions asked. No quarter given.

“They don’t say ‘Hey Red, where was that pitch’ out there” Tony would bellow. 

It was inconceivable to Tony that anyone would consider or even want to wear anything else. He’d make fun of you if you came out of the bunkhouse in other colors. Guys would intentionally talk about wearing other colors in front of Tony because it would get a rise out of him.

“Hey Greg, we working together at 4:30?”

“Yeah Bruce, I’ve got the dish”

“What colors you want to wear?”

“How bout we go white with blue under?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“You guys sound like a couple of girls talking about your silly white shirts” Tony would chime in. “What’s the matter with you guys? You gonna tell the coaches to call you Casper with those white shirts on?”

Everyone would laugh and Tony would act mad. He wasn’t really mad. I think he loved the attention and knew that we knew he wasn’t serious. He was just giving us the reaction we were looking for and keeping us all entertained in the process.

One year, even though I know he knew my real name, he called me Shane all week. I never knew why but he called me Shane every time he saw me. Colin thought it was funny and would laugh his ass off when Tony would walk around the corner, see me, and say something like “Hey Shane, why don’t you wear a navy blue shirt like a REAL umpire?” I kept asking Colin if he thought Tony really thought my name was Shane, which just made Colin laugh more. 

Thursday night has become the last supper of sorts for our group. After we pick up our CDP rings at closing ceremonies we head back to the bunkhouse for a quick changes of clothes. We have a few hours to kill before the championship game begins and out of that a traditional dinner has evolved for our last night together. It’s always held at the Blue Mingo, an outdoor dockside restaurant right on Lake Otsego.  Unless you know where it is, or go there with someone who does, you’d never find it. For my money it's the best restaurant in the area as well as the best kept secret. The first year I went along, I started getting nervous about where I was being taken.  You pull off the highway onto a winding stone path that leads behind a row of trees and down a hill toward what appear to be abandoned boat warehouses.  It’s dark. Pitch dark. And desolate. And there’s no one anywhere around.  You start thinking about those old gangster movies where they take the unsuspecting gang member out for a ride and he winds up being fitted for concrete galoshes. You park next to one of the old warehouses and start down the stone path, hanging back a bit that first time in case you have to make a run for it. As you go around the corner in between two of the buildings you see a small shack-like structure with a lit hurricane lantern hanging on a hook by the double doors. As you enter you suddenly find yourself inside a cozy gift shop (where my wife’s souvenir for the week is traditionally purchased). Through the rear of the shop is a hostess stand adjoining a friendly little bar that leads to the deck where the restaurant opens up onto the water. The upper tier tables are arranged under rustic awnings. A grand stairway leads down to the lower level tables right on the dock, under the stars, surrounded by twinkling accent lights, with the waves lapping against the bulk head and the rocking boats. The atmosphere is perfect.  Handwritten on chalk boards, the menu is first class, and different every night. The wine list is extensive and excellent. Everything is top notch but at the same time unpretentious. Dave Hendrickson, Greg Patrick, Colin Ewing and I sat down on the lower deck not ten feet from the lake that year. Greg selected a fine wine and ordered the cheese course, as has become his custom. Dave, as you all know by now, ordered a Nectar of the Gods (Coors Light). Colin would have ordered a milkshake, but alas the Mingo doesn't serve them so he went with a Blue Moon instead.  As the drinks flowed and our new friendships grew we talked about the week and the subject of Tony and his obsession with navy shirts became the topic of our conversation. As we laughed over various Tony-isms someone, no one can remember who, probably because we were all hammered by then, (except of course for the designated driver) said “Wouldn’t it be funny if we got tie-dyed umpire shirts and wore them in front of Tony.”I replied “If we got tie-dyed shirts shouldn’t we get tie-dyed hats to go with them?” Greg paused looking as though he was about to say something profound and the rest of the table went silent. He was really giving the idea serious consideration. After a few moments we could see he’d made his decision. “No” he decreed, “that would just be silly.” Maybe it was the alcohol but the whole table exploded in uproarious laughter. We were probably disturbing the other patrons but no one complained. Colin fell over. The conversation continued after we caught our breath.  Dave decided our tie-dye idea needed a name and those who wore them needed an organization.  Thus was born what would become the legendary Haight Ashbury Umpires Association (HAUA).

Chapter 2 - Rest in Peace Longsnapper

Nobody liked Sam Tablet* from the moment he arrived. (*Name changed to protect the monumentally stupid). He sauntered into the bunkhouse like he owned the place. He was loud, brash, and obnoxious.  He was big too; almost 6’0” and near 300 lbs. He came in with a team from San Diego. He claimed to have been the back-up long-snapper for the USC Trojans football team. He certainly didn’t appear to be in football shape when he made his way to Cooperstown, but he made it clear to everyone right from the start that he was the root-n-est, toot-n-est, best umpiring-est stud this side of the Pecos.  He seemed to love to listen to himself talk and eyes were rolling, behind his back, within minutes of his grand entrance.

It was my first year at Cooperstown Dreams Park. Colin Ewing had talked me into coming up to umpire and I didn’t know anyone or what to expect. Colin knew everybody and spent the first few hours reconnecting with all his friends and introducing me around. 

We lost track of Sam until he made a spectacle of himself during the King of Swat event of the skills competition. King of Swat is the CDP moniker for home run derby. Each team gets to enter one player and each player gets 10 swings. The top 10 players after the preliminary round get to face off on the main field where Lou Presutti himself works the pitching machine for the finals. Sam was one of several outfield officials and was charged with the responsibility for judging whether a batted ball was a home run. He spent nearly the entire competition with his back to the batter trading pins with kids in the stands. At one point a line drive appeared to be headed right for him and missed hitting him square in the ass by mere inches. Several of us watching laughed out loud. Sam was completely oblivious to what had just occurred. Some of the other umpires were visibly annoyed and made clear their hopes not to be paired up with "that buffoon". Sam seemed to be operating under the assumption that people were there to see him; that he was some kind of celebrity.  Most umpires like nothing better than to be anonymous in the exercise of their craft, but it was clear that Sam didn’t subscribe to that philosophy.

At the conclusion of the skills competition Sam was disappointed to learn of the mandatory meeting of all coaches and umpires in the dining tent. He had announced his intention to visit the local watering hole to quench the enormous thirst that had been building up all day and this meeting was getting in the way of his slaking. Colin had introduced me to Greg Patrick and Dave Hendrickson, whom he had met the year before in their inaugural year at CDP.  They had flown in from the Bay area of California and the four of us ventured off to the steakhouse for a bite and a beer after the meeting. We secured a table in the already busy bar area and ordered some burgers. Dave ordered "nectar of the gods" (Coors Light). Greg and I tried a local favorite “Old Slugger”. While I don’t remember clearly what Colin ordered I’m willing to bet it was a milk shake. Colin is legendary for his milk shake intake during mental health week.  Sam was already at the bar and well on his way to total inebriation.  In addition to the vast quantity of beer he was putting away I have a pretty vivid memory of him imbibing Jagermeister shots. Several coaches were in attendance at the bar. Perhaps they’d had enough of their 12 year old charges and left other coaches on guard duty while they snuck out for a quick pop.  I recall a conversation with two coaches from a team called the Mako’s who were convinced their team was the cream of the crop and would run away with the tournament. (They had a losing record for the week and didn’t sniff Thursday play).  I’m pretty sure these were the same two coaches Sam got into a shouting match with later on in the evening. It was difficult to discern the gist of the disagreement with all the slurring.  At 11:30 Greg, Dave, Colin and I decided it was time to call it a night since we all had 8:30 games and were wiped out. A few other umpires and coaches were still in the bar but the crowd was thinning out. Sam was holding down his spot and didn’t look anywhere near ready to leave.  The remaining part of his night has been pieced together from several eye witness accounts and some whisper down the lane embellishments. It’s become the stuff of legend.

The bar closed at 2:00am and Sam was the last holdout. He was allegedly well over any legal limit and probably beyond the limit most human beings could endure and remain alive. He had soiled himself and fallen over several times. The bartender, a well-tattooed brunette and probably feeling somewhat responsible for Sam's condition, took pity on him. She managed to steer him into the backseat of her car and proceeded to (with the windows down to reduce the fragrant emanations) dump Sam at the CDP entrance. As luck would have it a maintenance employee with a “gator” style vehicle happened to be driving by and proceeded to pour Sam into the back of the cart and drive him toward the bunkhouses. Sam was coherent enough to ask the driver to drop him off at the bathroom. Somewhere between the bathroom and the bunkhouse Sam either passed out and collapsed, or decided he needed a nap and the macadam under the Aquafina machine looked like as good a place as any. 

At 4:00am two players (I believe they played for the Portsmouth Pequods) emerged from their berths and headed for the head.  As they ventured from the safety of their bunkhouse these players, I’ll call them Ishmael and Queequeg, sighted the great white whale just to the port side of the Aquafina machine. Being harpoon-less they approached with caution.  The great beast was still. It appeared to have a several wounds. (Turned out it was only vomit and poop stains).

“Is he dead” inquired Ishmael.

“No, I think he’s just resting” replied Queequeg.

“Should we wake up Coach Ahab?”

“We’d better not. You know how cranky he is this early.”

(OK this part didn’t actually happen, but two kids did happen by and see him lying under the Aquafina machine and were upset by the thought he was dead.)

Just then a security vehicle drove up and told the kids to go back to their barracks. Steve DeAngelis, a fellow umpire, was heading for the bathroom and saw what was going on. He hurried over and convinced the security guys to let him help Sam back to his bunk. 

I woke early Sunday morning and spied Sam half hanging out of his bunk and snoring loudly. Then I caught a whiff. I’ll never forget that smell. It was a combination of Jagermeister and crap. I like to call it Jager-sheisse. It was not pleasant.

He slept through his 8:30 game assignment and somebody had to scramble to cover his slot. By 3:30 he was vertical and getting himself ready to go out and umpire a 4:30 game. Most of the guys were back in the bunkhouse at the time and one of the umpires who I only knew as “Diggy” was talking about his last game and what a bone head the coach had been. Sam, of course, felt compelled to chime in and tell Diggy he should have ejected the guy.  (A word on ejections at CDP – If a coach gets tossed up here he’s gone, not only from the game, but from the park, forever. Coach ejections at CDP carry a life sentence. Umpires, as a result, are very reluctant to exercise their powers of ejection.) Diggy told Sam to mind his own business. Sam made some kind of sarcastic remark and Diggy (a prison guard by profession) took offense and the conversation escalated. Greg, I believe, stepped in and calmed things down with some words of wisdom.

Sam turned his attention to Colin Ewing and began regaling him with his exploits of the previous evening. (How he remembered anything is beyond comprehension but it did convince me that we were not dealing with a mere amateur lush. He’d been there before.) In the midst of the conversation Colin advised him that he’d better tone it down a bit since the park didn’t take kindly to public drunkenness in front what amounts to a small town of 12 year old kids.

Sam's response was to inquire laughingly, “What do think they’re gonna do? Throw me out!”

Colin said in reply “No Sam, I don’t THINK they’re going to throw you out, I KNOW they’re going to throw you out.”

Sam laughed out loud at that and (this couldn’t possibly have been scripted any better) within seconds Terry Ange appeared at our bunkhouse door.

“Where’s Sam Tablet?” Terry boomed.

“Right here” said Sam.

“Need to see you outside... NOW” said Terry.

“Give me a minute to finish getting ready for my game” Sam replied, resplendent in sliding shorts with a jock, long black socks and a tee shirt.

“Don’t worry about that. Just get your fat ass out here, RIGHT NOW!”

Terry led him away from the bunkhouse, across the road over by the fence that borders the property, well out of earshot.  We crowded around the windows to watch. It was clear Terry was reading him the riot act.  Sam’s shoulders seemed to slump lower and lower with every waggle of Terry's finger.  After what seemed an eternity Sam returned to the bunkhouse and began packing his things. Terry gave us the high sign to vamoose. Later we learned Sam had attempted to plead his case for reprieve by stating he had no place else to go. He had a non-refundable, non-transferable plane ticket for Friday. Terry told him he didn’t care where he went or if he walked back to San Diego he just couldn’t stay there. That was the last we ever saw or heard from Sam. He flew all the way from California to umpire in Cooperstown and never got to see as much as his first pitch. Eight years later a small memorial plaque was reverently placed on the Aquafina machine (upside down at first…because it was dark…and Greg didn’t take his reading glasses with him…but it’s fixed now... OK!?!). It reads simply:

Sam Tablet* Memorial

2002

Rest in Peace Longsnapper

Chapter 1 - Mental Health Week

Once a year mental health week approaches, seemingly more slowly than the last and races by only to begin another countdown to the next. Mental health week for us is Week 9 “Here at Cooperstown Dreams Park, Home of the American Youth Baseball Hall of Fame.” And we are umpires. We come from all walks of life, from all over the country. There are lawyers, bankers, sign makers, trash collectors, cops, military men, diplomats, coal miners, golf pros, factory workers, teachers, and everything in between. We’re from Pennsylvania, California, Virginia, New Jersey, Louisiana, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Georgia, New York, and everywhere else. But up here we are all “Blues".

The other 51 weeks of the year, I’m a small town community banker from Hilltown Pennsylvania. In my spare time I help coach the Pennridge American Legion Baseball team and I umpire amateur baseball as often as I can. I work everything from Little League to Varsity High School to small College to men’s leagues. I can’t get enough of it and my not so secret wish is to umpire in the Major Leagues. I know now, at 48, it’ll never happen, especially after reading Bruce Weber’s As They See Em about how difficult and long a road it is. I’ve been married to Susan (whom I met in college in 1982) for 24 years and have two wonderful sons, Michael and Tyler. Michael you met in the introduction. Tyler is the younger and is off to Bloomsburg University for his freshman year. Tyler is decidedly not a baseball player, although he would have been a good one. It’s too slow a game for him. He’s probably the better natural athlete but his interests are so varied he never settled into a passion for one sport. He’s an extremely talented guitar player.

For Colin Ewing and me the anticipation begins Friday when my 2003 Explorer, with 168,000 miles, affectionately nicknamed “Dora” by my kids, rolls into his driveway and Sherry wishes us a fond farewell on our Brokeback Cooperstown journey. That’s what Sherry calls it. Brokeback Cooperstown. Wives, and we are blessed with the best any man could wish for, will never understand, nor are they frankly expected to, just what mental health week means to most of us. The friendships that have developed, the camaraderie, the shared experiences, the laughs, the old stories from years gone by, the new stories from just last game, the fallen comrades, the newbie’s, the lousy food in the tent, the great food in the restaurants, the uncomfortable bunks, the snorers, all of it, make each week each year unique and yet familiar and more looked forward to next time around. On the trip up we talk about everything; the baseball season, our kids, our wives, our jobs, all the things that in a few hours will get left behind in the real world while we lose ourselves in that one magical week. The trip for us is 3 ½ hours. I break it down into stages mentally and with each advance the anticipation grows. Heading North up the PA turnpike to Clark’s Summit is stage one. Conversation is lively as we catch up. Route 81 takes us into New York and usually involves some sort of frustrating construction delay that I have to endure alone because Colin is power napping by now.  Dave Lawrence and Mitch Evans, on their 7 hour drive up from Virginia, usually call to either give or get the traffic report and deliver their ETA. The exit off 81 to Route 88 always feels like entering the home stretch even though we’re still 75 miles away. The ride smoothes out, the traffic dwindles, the terrain opens up and the views are spectacular. Rolling green hills and wide open country are all we see until Exit 17…Cooperstown.   Invariably, somewhere along Route 88, Colin, back among the living by now, will blurt out “the line.”

“You know Bruce,” he’ll say, “before you know it we’ll be headed back down the other side.”

The ride goes quiet for a while after that as we let the reality of how fast time really goes by sink in.

Soon enough we’re on Route 28, the last leg, and approaching the Center of the Universe, the famed intersection of Main & Main, in the Village of Milford, next to the Town of Milford. Seriously, there’s an intersection in Milford, next to Milford, called Main & Main. The town fathers were nothing if not creative.

“Arriving at Center of the Universe” says Karen, my Aussie GPS voice, as we pass through.

Colin laughs that contagious laugh and it gets me started too. We are close now.

Meanwhile the day for Greg Patrick, John Volkert, and Mark Pascale begins the night before as they catch the red eye from San Francisco to Boston’s Logan airport where they hitch a ride with Bob Meyers.

Somehow we all seem to arrive at about the same time and the reunions begin at Pop’s Place over chocolate malts, burgers & fries, and ice cream sundaes in upside down batting helmets. Hugs are exchanged all around. Even Bob Meyers, clearly uncomfortable with the whole guys hugging routine, gets and gives. I think some of us force Bob’s participation BECAUSE it makes him uncomfortable and this week no one is exempt. The ribbing is merciless. We laughed until we cried one year listening to Mitch Evans rant at Sean “Woosta” Knittle, who wanted to stay in our barracks so badly he slept on the floor because there was no room left at the inn.

“Get up Woosta, you friggin' vagrant” Mitch would bark.

The park won’t let you line up for entry until 5:00ish. We sit across the street in the antique store lot watching car after car try to sneak in and get turned away. Once the first one goes through it’s “Gentlemen, start your engines!” and a mad dash across Route 28 to get in line. Hurry up and wait to move ahead for more hurry up and wait. My most anxious moments arrive. I don’t know why because it’s never NOT worked out but I can’t relax until we get through this process, secure our bunk house, label the bunks, and unpack our gear. I guess it sets up the whole week, making sure you have the guys you want in your house. There are generally twelve to a bunkhouse and the conditions are Spartan at best. Each of us gets a 3 inch mattress on a spring cot. The tops are on so you have a place to lay out your stuff. There's no TV, radio, newspapers, or air conditioning. Those who choose to bring laptops can keep up with the outside world but most of us don't because we don't want to. This is mental health week after all and I come to escape all those things. I don't check emails or call in to the office. Most of the time, I don't even carry the cell phone around with me.

Up until last year we had to share bath and shower facilities with the coaches but a separate umpire’s only facility was added much to our surprise and appreciation. The last thing I want to run into in the shower is the coach who just lost the game I called. Of course, his team lost because of me and not the 12 errors his team made or the 6 homers his pitchers gave up.

Our core group has evolved over my 9 seasons and Colin's 13 and includes Greg Patrick, a sign maker from California; Bob Meyers, a lawyer from Connecticut; Mitch Evans, who works at the Pentagon in Washington DC; Dave Lawrence, a diplomat at the State Department in Washington DC; Mark “Scoreboard" Checki, a teacher from North Jersey; and Mark Pascale, a school nurse from California. Dave Lawrence’s son Will joined us this year. Just a little something to make us all feel that much older. Will is the only person on the planet (that we know of, and we really didn’t do too much research) to have played, coached, and umpired “Here at Cooperstown Dreams Park, yada, yada…” So, he’s got that going for him…which is nice.

Ron “Boomer” DePaulo from Pennsylvania was a fixture with us but hasn’t been back in two years. John Volkert, a golf pro from California, missed a few years but has returned and is a solid member of the core group. Matt McMahon, a physical education teacher from New York who frankly should be an MLB umpire, he's that good, hasn't been back to week 9 in a few years but stays in touch. Dave Hendrickson, from Portland Oregon, stopped coming a few years ago and has lost touch with the group and reportedly stopped umpiring altogether. He is sorely missed and fondly remembered every year at the traditional Friday dinner at Portobello with a ceremonial glass of “nectar of the gods” or as the rest of the civilized world knows it…Coors Light, placed reverently in the center of the table.

“I’ll have a Coors Light” Dave would say......frequently.

“Philistine” Greg would utter under his breath.....every time.

“Nectar of the gods” Dave would reply.....after each and every rebuke.

Friday night dinner at Portobello has become a ritual. The first few years a four top would suffice, but it’s grown into an event. Now a reservation for 14 isn’t uncommon. I'm sure we're the biggest check of the evening, week, month, maybe year for Josh and Alicia, the owners. The atmosphere is terrific, the food is good, and the wine is better. Greg always insists that Dave Lawrence pick the wine mainly because he's really good at it and the rest of us, other than Greg, wouldn't know good wine from mediocre Sterno. Those of us who partake nod our heads in great appreciation for Dave's excellent taste.

Remembrances of years past dominate the conversation.

"Remember the time Mike Walsh umpired third base in the playoff game with an ice cream cone!" or "How about the time that third base umpire called the game from under his umbrella in the rain" or "Remember when Shane Hummel traded a zucchini for a pin." or "If only you had called that balk in the championship game from left field....you'd have been a god!"  You just can’t make this stuff up.

The newbie’s want all the details and the veterans are more than happy to oblige.

The beauty of the system here is that you'll meet and work with guys from all over the country with varying degrees of umpiring experience, from first year Little League guys to guys with minor league and Division I college chops. Those of us somewhere in between, take advantage of learning from the latter and helping out the former. In addition to reuniting with old friends you're bound to meet and make new ones every year. 

Saturday begins with a 6:00am run to Jackie's for breakfast. Jackie's is one of those wonderful places that every town has; the same people, in the same seats, at the same time, eating the same food, every day. We are never made to feel like outsiders, even though that's just what we are. Brenda, and Susan always make us feel like they just saw us yesterday, even if yesterday was a year ago. Unbelievably, they seem to remember that I like my Jackie McMuffin with sausage (although it hasn't been called that for years probably because some McDonald's jerk threatened to sue over trademark infringement. I refuse to call it anything else and the gals remember that too), and to bring Greg extra butter and brown sugar for his oatmeal. A run to the dollar store and the grocery store and the hardware store follows breakfast where everything from deodorant to gallon jugs of Febreze to ear plugs to shoe shine sponges are stocked up on for the week.

The mandatory umpire clinic begins at 2:30 on Saturday. The clinic is designed to make sure everyone is on the same page as far as field mechanics go. There are a lot of guys from a lot of places with a lot of difference in experience levels. Who covers what, where and when is a pretty important aspect of umpiring and the last thing we need is to have two guys at second base making a call (particularly if they don't agree) or worse yet no one there at all. We’ll work in two, three, and four man crews at times during the week and the mechanics are different for each. Rotations are required on certain plays and everyone needs to communicate to make sure everything is covered.  For the first few years the clinic was taught by Scoot Ciallella. Scoot is one of those guys you instantly like and are terrified of all at once. He's about five foot something, thin as a rail with deeply tanned sandpaper skin. Even though he's slight of stature you know right away you want him on your side in a bar fight. He's got a gravelly voice probably made so from years of smoking, umpiring, and shouting out the finer points of our craft, but you have no problem hearing him or understanding his meaning. If you're foolish enough to interrupt him with a question he'll waste no time making sure you pay for your indiscretion while getting a laugh from the rest of the group at your expense. Scoot was an umpire in the minor leagues for a time and the rumor is that when he goes behind the plate the only protective gear he wears is a mask and a cup. No shin guards, no chest protector, with guys throwing 90 plus on the bump. Tough or crazy, take your pick, but you now understand why you like and fear him at the same time.  Once you get to know him, he's one of the sweetest guys you could ever meet but he doesn't want you to let his secret out and you feel like an insider once you know that about him. The clinic was the same every year and no matter how many times you heard it you learned something new and laughed your ass off in the process.

"How many innings we play here?" Scoot would say.

"6" someone would answer.

"Wanna know how to get through 6 innings without any trouble from the coaches."

(Now as you read this next part think Gunnery Sergeant Hartman played by R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket)

"One, show up on time, looking sharp, clean shirt, tucked in, nice crease in your pressed pants, SHINED SHOES, run a crisp plate meeting, they'll leave you alone for 2 innings. Two, hustle all the time, be in the right position, communicate with your partner and they'll leave you alone for 2 more. Three, SELL THE SHIT out of all your close calls. SAFE or OUT in a loud clear voice. Look 'em in the eye. Be confident. They'll leave you alone for 2 more innings. How many we play? 6? ... Fooled ‘em again. Right?!"

"You HAVE to calls these corners" Scoot would emphasize during the plate portion of the clinic.

"Establish it early and call it every time. Move these games along. And when the games get out of hand widen it further. In a 15-1 game in the 4th inning two balls out is a strike and the good coaches know it and you don't give a shit about the bad ones."

Some Yahoo will invariably want to challenge you Scoot would tell us.

"Hey Blue, is that a strike"

"Hey Coach, is that the score" (pointing at the scoreboard is a necessity for proper effect).

"Yeah"

"Then yeah, that's a strike"

Most of them shut up after that.

One of my favorite Scoot stories was one he told about a time he was umpiring third base and the plate umpire called a strike on the batter. The coach looked at Scoot and said "Scoot that pitch HAS to be outside" to which Scoot replied "Coach in the bottom of the last inning with a one run lead do you want your pitcher to get that pitch". The coach paused for a second and without saying a word to Scoot turned to his batter and screamed "YOU GOTTA SWING AT THAT PITCH JOHNNY!!"

Scoot doesn't come to CDP anymore but his memory lives on and Scoot stories still get told year after year.

After the clinic we get broken down into crews with crew chiefs and assigned our field for the week. The whole crew chief experience is another cause for anxiety. “Am I going to be a crew chief? Who will I have on my crew? Will I get a decent field? If I’m not a crew chief will I get a good one or a jerk?” All these questions race through your mind while Jesse Estrada, who took over this year for Mike Page, who took over for Scoot & Terry Ange, reads off the names. The crew chief is responsible for setting up the field schedule for the week. He assigns each crew member a slot with a partner. In a lot of cases you don’t know all or sometimes any of the guys on your crew. The crew chief’s other main responsibility for the week is to evaluate each crew member’s performance and ability and make recommendations for the Thursday playoff assignments. Before this system was in place, Terry Ange ran the umpires with Scoot’s help. The system he used was a simple field assignment system whereby each umpire was assigned a number and then a computer program spit out a schedule of your particular assignments each day. You worked all over the park with lots of different partners. It was a great system and trading off games to work with your friends was really easy. Terry always said he didn’t care as long as all the games were covered with at least two umpires. The crew chief system we use now isn’t bad and probably works better from the park’s perspective but from where we stand it has some flaws. You get limited to one area of the park for the entire week and if you get stuck on one of the fields down across the train tracks or way back in the upper section you’ve got a long walk or ride to every game. If you get on a crew with guys who aren’t good, don’t care and/or have no desire to get better, it can be a long week. Every year there are always guys like this who show up and I’ll never understand why they come. If you get a power hungry, big ego, crew chief that wants to control every aspect of your week it can be a real hassle. Boomer, a former championship plate man, was stuck one year on a crew with a chief we nicknamed “The Praying Mantis.” By the end of the week Boomer was ready strangle the guy and the Mantis would have deserved it if he had. Mantis wanted to have crew meetings about every 45 minutes all day long to talk about every single detail of the prior and upcoming games. Boomer was missing meals with his friends because this guy seemed to forget that we are on VACATION. Then someone went to watch the Mantis work a plate and his mechanics were so awkward and unconventional (this is where he got his nickname, incidentally) they videotaped his performance because a live demonstration wouldn’t have been believed. After that things went downhill for Boomer and his week ended with an ugly confrontation with Mantis back at the bunkhouse. We haven’t seen Boomer since and we miss him terribly.

I’ve been blessed in the six years since the crew chief system went into practice. My first one was Mitch Evans. Mitch is a Cooperstown Dreams Park legend. He’s been assigned the championship plate game more than once. Mitch is fiercely loyal to his friends and I’m glad to count myself among them. He’s also got the teeth of a pit bull if you get on his wrong side. He says what he means and he means what he says….most of the time.  He can be an instigator with a mischievous sense of humor. He’ll poke and prod you to get a reaction, but it’s always done in the spirit of good humor and I think he only picks on the people he loves. When I showed up in Cooperstown for my first year, Mitch was one of the first people Colin introduced and I could tell right away Mitch was one of those guys I wanted to be around and soak up as much as I could. I was one of those Little League only guys who thought he knew a lot about umpiring. This attitude came in part from the Little League hierarchy who preach the virtues of the volunteer umpire over all those “Johnny Paycheck” and “Charlie Patches” guys who actually take money to do this job. I was also the “go to” guy for any rules question back at Deep Run, my home league. As a result, my opinion of my abilities and knowledge were severely inflated.  Don’t get me wrong, I still work Little League games and have fond memories of 2001 when I attended the Williamsport Little League Umpire School. Little League was where my passion for umpiring was born and my passion for baseball was reborn. I was pretty solid with 2 man mechanics and my plate game was passable but when I think back now to the first 3 and 4 man games I worked I laugh at how many rotations I kicked and how many times I was out of position because I had no idea where I was supposed to be. Mitch never made me feel like the idiot I was. He took the time to take me aside and talk about it after each game. More than any other aspect of my game, Mitch taught me how to slow down and why good timing is so important to good umpiring. I take great pride now in my timing and I believe I’m a better umpire because of it.  Some guys will rib me about how long I take to call a pitch. Calvin Hess likes to joke; “If the pitcher throws the pitch on Good Friday, we might hear Bruce’s call by Easter Sunday.” I’ve learned more in 9 weeks from Mitch Evans than I have in 9 years from anyone back home. Mitch Evans made me into an umpire.

Matt McMahon was my crew chief the second year the system was in place and he was just awesome. Ramrod straight and looking like he was just chiseled out of a block of granite, he commanded respect immediately. He’s younger than me with fewer years of umpiring experience than me, but he’s a WAY better umpire and I learned a lot from him that year. We had a good crew, good games, and a lot of fun.

One game story stands out in my mind from that year. Matt has the plate and I have the bases in a two man game. The visiting (blue) team is getting smoked by the home (red) team 10 to 1 in about the 4^th or 5^th inning. Red has a runner on first with nobody out. Batter hits a ground ball to the shortstop and flips to the second baseman nowhere near the bag. Second baseman catches the ball, looks down at his feet, looks at me, knows he’s not on the bag and by the time he throws to first the batter has beaten the play. Everybody’s safe. Here comes the blue team coach.

“Why is he safe at second?” the coach asks.

“He never touched the bag or tagged the runner coach” I reply.

He walks over to the area around second base, looking down at the ground as though he’s lost something. He turns to me and says, “Show me the footprint!”

I look at the coach then look at the ground and say, “Coach there’s a thousand footprints around this base, what do think this is CSI?”

He looks back, shakes his head, turns around, and while heading back to the dugout mutters something like, “Jesus Christ, I’m losing 10-1. You’d think I could get one call to go my way.”

I chuckle.

I look back in at Matt and he has to put his mask back on in a hurry to keep from laughing right in the guys face. The CSI comment strikes his funny bone and for the next half inning I can see his shoulders shaking every time we make eye contact.

Matt and I established a great rapport that year and, in no small way, I believe his input into my evaluation led to the highest Thursday playoff assignment I’ve achieved; a semi-final 1^st base. Greg Patrick had the plate in that game and it’s one of my most treasured memories.

After the clinic and crew assignments comes the opening ceremony, where all the teams parade into the main stadium followed by the most painful part of our umpiring duties; the skills competition. Road Runner, Golden Arm, King of Swat, and Around the Horn. Umpires are assigned to specific duties and no one is allowed back into the bunkhouse area until all the competitions are over and they drone on and on forever. This is about the time each year my feet start to hurt. Finally the skills competitions end and it’s a quick change of clothes and on to the mandatory coaches/umpires meeting where Lou regales us with the history of the park (which is interesting the first 100 times you hear it). Lou is an entrepreneurial genius. He's figured out a way to take what normally would be one of his biggest expenses....paying umpires, and gets us to come here year after year for.....yes, you guessed it.....free. What a bunch of rubes we are. It's a conundrum wrapped up in a paradox surrounded by an enigma. It's really quite simple though. We don't come back for Lou, or the kids, or the baseball, or the umpiring. Its mental health week and we come back for each other.

After the meeting it’s off to the Neptune, a 24 hour diner way down in Oneonta. It's a good half hour drive but if you want anything to eat after 9:00pm it’s the only game in town. The Neptune has a bar that serves until midnight, has a menu the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica and has been the scene of many of our most memorable experiences.

Sunday morning comes quickly and the preliminary games begin. There are five time slots beginning at 8:30am with the last game going off at 7:00pm. Most guys get assigned at least two per day but most of us work 3, 4, or all 5 (except Colin who is notorious for the lack of games he actually umpires). We all try to jump on games that our friends are working and turn two man crews into 3 or 4 man crews as often as we can. It's great experience for those of us who never get to work anything but 2 man crews back home. Sometime, usually between the 4:30 and 7:00 games on Sunday, someone in the bunkhouse will utter the most often repeated line of the week.

"It's going too fast."

"I know" is the dejected response.

And it is going too fast. It always does.

By Wednesday morning all the teams have played 6 games and the whole field gets re-seeded for the start of the single elimination playoffs. Ties are broken by the lowest average runs allowed system. Running up the score on an opponent is frowned upon here. The sheer number of teams attending each week will undoubtedly pit some very weak town teams against some very strong AAU type teams and will lead to some pretty lopsided contests. It’s the nature of the beast and nobody likes getting one of these debacles, but it happens and you deal with it. 

That first time slot on Wednesday is when the real tournament begins. The coaches are edgier than they’ve been all week. No more friendly banter between innings. If you lose you go home. With each successive round the kids get a little more tired and the coaches get a little less nice. The higher seeded teams that got byes really benefit from not having to play back to back to back to back. The 8:00pm Wednesday time slot sees some great games. Everyone wants to say they advanced to Thursday and everyone who’s been here before knows exactly what playing on Thursday means. 

By Thursday morning the field is down from 104 to 16 teams. The first games are played at 8:30. By 3:00pm we’re down to the final four and the semi-final games begin. These are usually the most hotly contested games of the week. There’s lots of tension because the stakes are high. No one wants to get this close and lose. Getting a semi-final umpiring assignment, for many of us, is the pinnacle of achievement here for two reasons. First, as I said before, these are usually the best games of the week, and second, if you get assigned the championship game you miss dinner at the Blue Mingo later that night.  (Much more on the Mingo will follow in later chapters).

Friday morning arrives, all the bags are packed and lugged out to the cars, and it’s off to Jackie’s one last time. I’d stay another week or two or three if I could, but only with these guys. Maybe it’s good that we can only do this one week every year. Maybe it wouldn’t be as special if it happened more often.  Maybe I’d end up sad and pathetic if I hit the lottery too…maybe.

Just what binds us and keeps us coming back?

I’m reminded of the James Earl Jones soliloquy near the end of Field of Dreams: 

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.

For me it’s the memories both on and off the field. Baseball and friendship are the ingredients that combine to create the strong epoxy that binds this group. Where else could such a diverse collection of personalities and backgrounds come together? If not for baseball and Cooperstown Dreams Park I’d have never met any of these truly special people. In subsequent chapters I shall attempt to recount some of the shared experiences that have turned this group of umpires into something much more…true friends.  

Back at Jackie’s goodbyes are hard. We all promise to keep in touch and to a certain extent we do, but somehow it’s not the same. We all go back to our real lives, our responsibilities, our families, our jobs, and start looking forward to mental health week…next year.