Screaming at the Ump (6 page)

“Is Ibbit running BTP the same way he always does?”

“I guess,” I said.

“So You Suck, Ump! Day—he'll still have You Suck, Ump! Day?”

“I guess.”

“I want to film it,” he said, and then waited.

I knew some big response was expected, but all I said was, “Why?”

“Think about it from like a director's point of view, or a TV watcher's point of view—it's a sort of amazing concept.”

“I'm not seeing it,” I said. I looked out the window to track the bus's progress, but we were only passing by 4-C, Clay Coves Community College; we still had quite a way to go.

“Really? You are so lucky to have me for a friend, to explain stuff like this to you.”

The logic of that—the lack of logic of that—would have made me want to scream if I weren't so tired. The bus was always hot, and all I wanted to do was close my eyes for a few minutes. I had to help out at BTP when I got home, and I had at least an hour and a half of homework, and for a second, I thought about what it might be like to have a different best friend. Maybe someone bookish—maybe just for today.

“There'd be no need to explain it to me if you weren't here, because you're the one—never mind. What? Go ahead and explain.”

He was on his knees on the seat, like the excitement of this made him bigger or something. “So picture two students out on the field, calling a game. That's what I'd film first, close-ups of the guy behind the plate and the umpire covering first, right?”

“Okay.”

“There's no sound at first, just silence.”

“But it's on You Suck, Ump! Day, right?”

“Exactly. Slowly, I'll bring the sound in, beginning it at a really low level, and then louder and louder. Until you realize that there are hundreds of people screaming at these guys. It's like a horror movie or something. But it's better, because it's real.”

A seventh-grader sitting in front of us turned around and said to Zeke, “You talk too loud, man.” He put his hand of top of Zeke's head and shoved him back so that he was sitting.

Zeke's eyes bugged, and he went to knock the hand away, but the kid had already turned around.

“So that's your big plan? You want to film You Suck, Ump! Day?”

He nodded, really excited.

Then I asked, “And do what with it?” But then I realized—oh, my GOD, You Suck, Ump! Day.

“Zeke,” I said, and my no-longer-bus-tired voice must have sounded full of something, because he actually stopped talking. He gave me his nonverbal “Go on,” which was kind of a tilt of his head with his eyes wide open.

“No Steamboat.”

He gave me an instant replay of his nonverbal “Go on” look.

“There's no one to be in charge of You Suck, Ump! Day. Steamboat's not here.”

***

You Suck, Ump! Day was one of the things that made Pop and Dad's school unique. Not that I'd been to the other two umpire schools, but I just couldn't imagine anyone but a Snowden thinking of it—inviting everyone in town to come scream at our students when they were trying to make calls on the field. That was the point. That baseball wasn't a quiet game. Students had to learn to stay calm and do their job well even when it was loud and unruly.

And You Suck, Ump! Day was both. Loud. And unruly. One year Franco Spinelli's cousin came from New York. He brought a bag full of rotten tomatoes and started throwing them at students while they were calling plays. It had been so surprising, seeing those red blobs fly through the air and then splat right on a student's shoe. Of course, someone made the mistake of also hitting a senior instructor, Lorenzo Watkins. Lorenzo was not amused.

There was now a no-produce-allowed rule at You Suck, Ump! Day.

It was still a few weeks away, and Dad's students had a whole lot to learn before they were out on the field, trying to figure out how to call a game while a whole town was screaming horrible names at them. But now maybe it wouldn't even happen at all, because for the past few years at least, making sure You Suck, Ump! Day had run smoothly had been Steamboat's responsibility.

Unless. Wait! This could be my big chance, like a step up
. Instead of all the little things I did to help keep Behind the Plate running, I could be in charge of something big. Something that really mattered.

As long as Dad would let me.

W
HEN
we got off the bus, Zeke went straight out to the fields to work on the before videos. I went in the house to drop off my backpack. The phone was ringing.

I loved caller ID so much I should have written a poem about it. I had avoided every call from Mrs. Bob the Baker.

Just because my mother decided it was time she played a bigger role in my life, or whatever . . . did that mean I had to think it was a good idea? Because I had been doing just fine without her. Ever since she left and went on her big adventure with her baker boyfriend, I hadn't needed her at all. She could spend all her days and nights with Bob the Baker, and I could spend mine without her.

Really.

It had hurt when it was happening. A way-down-deep hurt—like if you were held underwater far longer than you could stand and then were maybe let up for a second but didn't have time to draw another breath before you were pushed down again. Something like that.

One day in second grade, I had gotten off the bus and my mother wasn't there waiting for me. I wondered if maybe she had some kind of surprise for me inside—why else wouldn't she be there? She had always been there.

When I ran into the house, I saw her sitting at the kitchen table with Bob, the baker who used to deliver rolls and bagels and breads to BTP each morning. My mother jumped up and started clearing their plates. She practically yelled, “Why are you home so soon? Why are you home so soon?” It had freaked me out that she'd said it twice.

Bob the Baker left quickly through the back door.

I would never forget the way she concentrated so hard on cleaning all the crumbs off the table, not looking at me the whole time. She put a snack on the table, right in front of me, and left the room.

Not long after that, she told my father she was in love with Bob the Baker. And that she couldn't stand living at Behind the Plate another minute, with all its rules and people in and out of our lives and noise on the fields all day and a husband who was not really available to her during the five weeks of Academy and every last thing about it. She didn't even want to keep the books anymore, which is what they called it when she handled the money. She left us to go live with that stupid baker, and I stayed with Dad. And Mrs. G. had another job added to her long list—bookkeeping.

Most kids I knew with divorced parents lived with their mothers. But I guess it must have seemed obvious to everyone that I belonged at BTP. When the lawyers worked out everything about the divorce, they said I was supposed to spend time with her too, but I just couldn't.

In the beginning, it didn't even matter, because once the divorce was finalized, Mr. and Mrs. Bob the Baker went on some long vacation, sending postcards I refused to read from Florida and Georgia and South Carolina. And then when they came back and tried to make me stay with her on the weekends, I fought and screamed with my dad and refused to talk to my mother or that baker the whole time I was at their stupid house. At some point, they must have gotten tired of fighting with me or maybe she just wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see her—as in not at all.

When I thought about it, I felt that hurt snaking through me all over again. Which, of course, was why I didn't think about it anymore. Or talk to her either.

You couldn't choose to leave.

Correction: You could choose to leave. But then you couldn't decide you wanted another chance.

Any umpire knew that once you made the call, you had to stick with it.

W
HEN I
stepped outside to see how Zeke was doing with the videos, I could sense that the place didn't feel as full as it should. It was hard not to think about the guys who were missing—Steamboat, Phillip, To-Go. And twenty or more students. I was worried about this, how there weren't enough students, and what if it was worse next year? What if there were fewer and fewer students? Would the school survive?

You couldn't blame my dad or Pop. You had to blame New Jersey.

Poor New Jersey. It got blamed for so much already. But the other umpire schools were in Florida, where you could hold class in January. In New Jersey, all you could do during January was complain about how long it was until April. New Jersey was the last place you'd want to be if you were interested in doing anything having to do with baseball in the winter. Summer was baseball time in New Jersey, but Dad couldn't hold Umpire Academy then either, because our instructors all worked as minor league umpires until around Labor Day. So BTP had to hold its classes in the fall. By the time Dad's top grads got to Cocoa, five months later, I guess they must've forgotten what they'd learned in the fall. The umpires coming out of the Florida schools had just finished their classes; everything was still fresh in their minds. And there you have it: third-best umpire school.

***

On my way out to the fields, I stopped by the dining hall. The tables were all empty, but I heard noise from the kitchen. I pushed through the door and saw Chet at the counter, behind a huge tower of meatballs. “Casey!” he said, sort of pointing at me with his chin, to let me know a high-five with a meatball-handed chef was out of the question. Chet never changed—a big bald guy with kind eyes and a bandanna over his head.

“Those brownies last night were killer.”

Chet smiled. I'd almost forgotten how much he liked compliments about his food. Well, duh. Who doesn't like to be complimented about what they do?

“I have some stashed away for your lunch tomorrow,” he said.

“Awesome!”

“You wanna help?” he asked.

When I was little, I did sometimes help on meatball night. I liked trying to make them all the same size, perfect spheres of meat. But I was kind of itching to get back to some BTP stuff. “Another time, okay?”

“You got it, chief.”

***

Students were just finishing up afternoon break, and I could see that they were starting to hang out in groups now. Even June Sponato had found herself a little posse.

Like always, Pop had a group of students gathered around him. Pop had seen a lot in his career as a major league umpire and at all the umpiring jobs he'd had on his way to the big leagues. He said he also learned a lot about umping from teaching it, whatever that means. Anyway, there was often a whole circle around him, nodding. This time one guy was taking notes.

Meanwhile, Dad was talking seriously with someone, in his teacher way, rolling back on his heels as he stood there. I looked closer and realized it was the same guy I'd seen him talking to the past few days.

“Who's that?” Zeke asked.

“I haven't figured out most of their names yet.”

Dad looked up, saw me, and smiled. “Hey, Case! Zeke!”

We went over.

“This is Patrick MacSophal. He's already showing a lot of promise.”

The guy, a little older and a lot taller than the average student, smiled.

“MacSophal? Like Jimmy MacSophal?” Zeke said.

“Same last name, yeah,” the guy said.

“Any relation?” Zeke asked. This guy was clean-shaven and J-Mac had been known for his overgrown beard, so it was hard to tell if there was any family resemblance. When you thought J-Mac, you thought BEARD.

The guy gave a sort of shrug/head-shake gesture and shuffled off.

“Ooooooooooooooookay,” Zeke said.

“Well, would YOU want to be related to a pitcher who's only remembered for some steroid scandal?” I said.

“Let it be,” Dad said. “We're getting back to work now. Zeke, you finished all the befores?”

“Yup.”

“Great. Why don't you go find something to eat, then you can come watch or help or whatever you want.”

“How're they looking?” I asked.

“There are some,” he said.

“I have to stay at school late tomorrow,” I told him while I still remembered.

“You in trouble?

Zeke nodded his head far back and forward.

Pop walked by and swatted him on the head. With all that hair for cushioning, I wondered if he even felt it.

“Just a newspaper meeting,” I said.

“Oh, good,” Dad said. “You've been waiting for that.”

“And also—Steamboat's not here this year,” I started.

“I know, Casey. I understand that you're disappointed—”

“Well, no. I mean, I figured you might have forgotten that he's the one who handles You Suck, Ump! Day, and—”

Here Dad slapped his forehead and looked a little nauseated.

“But listen,” I continued. “I've got this. I'm going to do it. It'll be the thing I do from now on, okay?”

Dad didn't really have time to say no, or try to think of someone else who could handle it, because students were waiting to do warm-up exercises. Some guys were digging in their bags for sweatshirts. Clouds had rolled in, and the almost-cold in the air reminded me that fall was going to start for real soon.

Dad nodded slowly, like he was still thinking about it while also agreeing to it. “You've got it,” he said. “Mrs. G. is usually involved too—talk to her about flyers and anything else you might want. And ask for help if you need it.”

Look at us: Zeke was the official A/V guy, and I was running You Suck, Ump! Day
. We high-fived, then walked out to the bleachers to watch.

Students were split up onto three different fields. (It was impossible not to think about the fact that in the past we had always needed four fields.)

During the first week of Academy, instructors did a lot of demonstrations. With a mix of students acting as batter, base runners, and fielders, two instructors ran through a bunch of calls in the two umpire positions, as plate ump and base ump. They'd call for the students to act out a certain play, like ground ball up the first-base line with nobody on base. Then everyone watched as instructors showed exactly what position umpires needed to get into. It was something they taught with diagrams in the classroom in the morning, and now, in the afternoon, they put it into play on the field.