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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Maybe Umpires Aren’t All That Horrible, After All

Bill Plaschke Los Angeles Times

At least he died an umpire’s death. So said baseball’s misty-eyed sages last week, and they were right.

But not because John McSherry was wrapped in blue, or lying behind home plate, or working in the only city that still has an opening day parade.

He died an umpire’s death because he died alone.

Every day of every summer, one of them dies alone.

Maybe it’s behind second base, a stumpy old manager spraying him with lunch, the crowd roaring for more.

Maybe it’s near first base, a $10-million imbecile kicking dirt and popping veins while the children in the front row wonder, just who is this bad man in blue?

Every day they die alone, but only when it’s permanent do we pause. Only when the game is canceled do we care.

What happened to McSherry Monday in Cincinnati, when the giant man’s heart stopped beating in the first inning of a game between the Reds and Montreal Expos, should make us think.

Where have we seen this before?

How many times have we sat in the stands and watched an umpire succumb to his human frailties, missing that one call in 100, losing his temper, falling on his face?

The difference this time was, nobody screamed for McSherry to get up. To get back to work. To get eyeglasses. To get a new job. To go to hell.

Neither saint nor hero, McSherry was only a man.

Yet only in death was he treated like one.

For the sake of the 63 co-workers he left behind, we must think.

“You know, we’re not just a blue shirt and a pair of pants out there,” said Brian Gorman, a National League umpire.

The baseball establishment treats them like exactly that. An empty suit. Props.

No job in sports involves as much verbal abuse as major league umpiring. Basketball and football coaches draw penalties if they step on the court or field.

Yet Tom Lasorda hobbles across the diamond to jump in the face of a second-base umpire, and he will receive a standing ovation.

“What we’ve never figured out is how somebody is allowed to delay the action - I mean, actually stop the game - to argue,” Gorman said. “Where else does that happen?”

Always working without a home crowd. Always working among the enemy. The stress mounts. The heat is trapped.

And some erupt. Those are the ones you see fighting back, stalking players and pointing fingers. Those are the times baseball executives say arguing is bad for the game. When the umpire starts the argument.

Then there are the others, such as overweight McSherry, who simply crumble and die. He was the second umpire to die of a heart attack in the last eight years. Lee Weyer died in 1988.

“We are losing too many good men to this sort of thing,” Gorman said. “There is a trend, and it’s got to stop.”

The umpires must do their part by losing weight. The McSherry tragedy should scare them skinny.

It’s difficult, considering they eat dinner at 11 p.m. and breakfast at 3 p.m. and may not get home for six months. But with average six-month salaries approaching six figures, they can afford personal trainers and better self-images.

The managers, players and fans must also do their part. Not by backing down, but by backing off.

The umpires don’t mind the jeers. They don’t mind somebody running to second base to ask for an explanation.

“It’s fun to come to the ballpark and boo the umpire; we have no problem with that,” Gorman said.

What they abhor are the 10-minute shouting matches with a manager who never saw the play, but simply wants to show his team he’s not asleep. Or the spit-fests with the aging veteran hoping to substitute reduced bat speed for increased machismo.

Worst are the arguments that continue off the field, such as the one in a Chicago restaurant that forced Gorman and his crew mates to physically restrain hecklers.

“The stress out there is incredible,” Gorman said. “It’s not just a cliche that we have to be 100 percent right on our first day, and then improve.”

Gorman told his new neighbors this winter that he was a major league umpire. They thought he was joking. This is a guy who spends time working in his garden, running errands at the grocery store, training a mutt puppy he saves from the pound.

This is a guy who will be thrilled to go to Dodger Stadium this year, jogging onto the field with the big eyes of a man who still marvels at being part of the game he loves.

It’s great to be home, he will think.

Kill the ump, you will scream.