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
What a sad tale; sad because he didn't get to umpire, and sad because he was nearly unlikable until the final beating of remorse at the end there. The Moby Dick references gave me a good chuckle.
ReplyDeleteExcellent post--compelling, and just the right length for blogging.