Always trust your first impressions

Attending my first Chautauqua County Baseball Umpires Association end-of-season banquet in the 1970s, I was stunned when the top award-winner’s acceptance speech that night in Jamestown was rudely interrupted by an obviously intoxicated umpire with an axe to grind. His loud, profane and self-centered rant centered on game assignments. He felt slighted when, in his mind, the plum ones didn’t come his way and unfairly went to this other, undeserving umpire.

It was distasteful, unwarranted and ruined the rest of the evening for all of the umpires and their shocked female guests.

The award-winner was remarkably gracious to the obnoxious drunk. He immediately halted his remarks, and stepped into the audience to engage him. They privately and quietly discussed the blatantly misdirected complaint at length, then and there.

Impressed by the gesture, my already considerable admiration for this veteran umpire grew.

Bill Hammond

My feelings for his antagonist, who was unknown to me before that night, veered in the opposite direction. I vowed to never umpire with this thoroughly antisocial jerk.

For the next 40 years I kept that promise, turning down the occasional opportunities to work games with him.

Only our board assignor knew of my distaste and unfailingly honored it.

That streak unfortunately ended in a playoff game at the end of a pre-pandemic season. We were paired by a committee and turning down the assignment would have precluded additional post-season work for me that year. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

The day of the game came and I dreaded driving to the field. I was assigned to work the bases, my partner had the plate.

Weekday playoff games start at 5 p.m. and I arrived 45 minutes early, 15 minutes earlier than recommended.

I watched the two teams conduct infield practice as I awaited my partner.

I waited and waited, eventually approaching the field alone and against protocol to perform various pre-game responsibilities and sign the home team’s voucher to ensure I would be paid.

Less than 10 minutes until game time remained when my partner’s car rolled into the parking lot. He was more than 20 minutes late and still had to don his equipment to work behind the plate.

As I safely deposited my keys and bottle of water beyond the out-of-play line, my partner dropped his mask and engaged the dozen or so teenaged players sitting in the first-base dugout.

I couldn’t hear what he told them, but they audibly gasped in unison. My educated guess? An off-color joke. Beyond highly inappropriate.

After meeting with the head coaches at home plate to discuss the ground rules, game time was nearly at hand.

All that remained was our umpire conference, crucial because we had never worked together.

I started to remind him what system we would be using and for him to feel free to ask for help if and when needed.

I don’t think he heard a word I said. Instead, he began to bad mouth his previous game’s partner for overruling two of his calls. The man he was demeaning with locker room language was a respected longtime officer of our board. Clearly this egotistical clown had not changed over these many years.

When he finally finished his diatribe, I was able to offer one brief nugget of useful information. When stationed near the shortstop with men on base – known to umpires as the C position – I would unfailingly help him out by making sure the runner from second base touched third base when heading home. That’s an almost impossible call for the plate umpire to make with certainty because his chief responsibility is home plate.

It did not take long for me to realize I had not been heard. At all.

In the very first inning, a two-out double brought me into the infield to the C position. The next batter singled to centerfield to start the runner from second base on his way home. He did not come close to touching third base as he instead watched his coach wave him home.

The throw was cut off and I moved into position at second base, where I called out the hitter trying to stretch his single. Inning over, I then began returning to my usual spot down the right-field line.

That’s when the head coach of the defense halted his team from leaving the field. He was going to appeal the runner missing third and potentially take the run off the scoreboard.

My partner immediately and vigorously denied the appeal, professing he had clearly seen the runner step on third.

When the coach asked my partner to check with me on the call, he had a mini-meltdown. He loudly decried having his judgment questioned, then threatened to eject the coach if he persisted. He had already ruled and coaches were not allowed to appeal twice, he incorrectly stated.

To now step forward and overrule my partner was clearly out of the question. To say I was fuming was an understatement.

Thankfully, the offended team quickly mounted a comeback and won handily, the 10-run rule ending the game midway through the fifth inning.

Angry and feeling frustrated and helpless, I drove home and quickly checked with some of my board’s top officers for guidance. What, if anything, could I have done in that embarrassing and highly improper situation?

They told me my options were limited to, you guessed it, never working with him again and yup, always trusting my first impressions.

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Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER sports editor