My Father, the Umpire

by Robert Nishihara

Getting called out on strikes is a kind of anathema to a hitter, because the bat is left on shoulder, idle when it should be active. It is a paralysis that no batter ever welcomes. Yet, for this batter, one called third strike in particular has stuck with me to this day. Do I begrudge the umpire for making that call? Absolutely not (though, I contend to this day that the ball was a bit off the plate). In fact, that umpire remains the man I most look up to in this world. That man, of course, is my father.

The incident in question took place when I was nine years old. I was playing in a youth league that spring and summer that was somewhere between Little League and the sandlots in terms of formality and competitiveness. We had full uniforms and nicely groomed fields on which to play and practice. Coaching staffs were comprised largely of benevolent fathers who made out lineup cards and presided over practices but largely let the kids be kids once the games started. We even had official umpires for the games, which were played twice a week, Thursdays and Sundays.

However, on one Sunday in May the umpiring crew failed to show. Instead of canceling the game both teams agreed to enlist a group of volunteer umpires, mostly gathered from the crowd, to officiate the game. As fate would have it, my dad was picked to call the game from behind the plate.

Our burly (and perpetually grumpy) first baseman Mark Wakasa made a point of finding me before first pitch and clamped one of his meaty hands on my shoulder. "Nishihara," he said pointedly, "your old man better call this game right."

By the end of the third, I felt like returning the favor on Wakasa by saying something along the lines of, "My dad is sure doing his job. Now, why don't you start thinking about doing yours?"

Indeed, my dad was calling a fantastic game. Despite having no previous umpiring experience, he did the two things that are crucial to being a good plate umpire: he established a fair strike zone, and he used that same zone for both teams. In hindsight, this really shouldn't have been any surprise to me. In addition to being a very smart and capable guy, my dad possesses a rare calm about him. He isn't intimidated easily and takes apart new tasks calmly and quickly so he can learn the nuances and the broader pieces all at the same time. And so it was that afternoon. My dad simply took a deep breath and taught himself how to be a good umpire in the span of about thirty minutes.

By the fifth, our team was fading. Our whipcord thin starting pitcher, Craig Kanaya, was getting cuffed around. His curveball wasn't curving. It just spun up to the plate on a straight line with a big "hit me" sign on it. The visiting squad, good readers all, obediently followed the sign's instruction and sent line drive after line drive careening around our cozy ballpark.

By the time we had a chance to take our hacks in the bottom of the fifth, we were down 10-3. As I waited in the on-deck circle, I kept thinking about how badly we needed base runners. Draw a walk, lean into a pitch, chop a little seeing eye grounder through the infield. Anything. Just get on base, I kept telling myself. Our leadoff man hit this weird little popup that spun the opposing second baseman around so badly that he actually fell down trying to locate the ball. One man on with no outs. Optimism took a seat on our bench for the first time all afternoon.

So far in the game, I had dribbled a weak ground out to second and lined a crisp single into left. As I walked to the plate, I knew that my dad had established a cool strike zone (from the knees to just over the belt). When I stood in to take my first pitch, I saw a pitch come in low. Ball one. I swung at the next offering, sending a weak grounder to the foul side of third base. Strike one. The next pitch was a mistake, a fat belt-high fastball. With dreams of extra bases dancing around in my head, I swung hard - and missed. Still fuming over my failure to drive the previous pitch, I watched the next offering just miss the outside corner (or so I thought). My dad's voice suddenly pierced the air, "Strike three!"

I didn't even feel the bat fall out of my hands, landing heavily across the plate. I was numb. My dad had just called me out on strikes. I looked over at him in surprise. He returned my look with one of his own, one which seemed to convey, "Son, I'm sorry I had to call you out but the pitch was a strike. I didn't really have any choice."

As I stomped back to the dugout, my face was red with equal parts embarrassment and anger. Even Mark Wakasa left me alone as I sulked in the corner of the dugout. The pitch was a ball, I told myself. I just couldn't figure out how my dad could have missed that pitch. Even if he saw it as a strike, I also didn't know why he couldn't have just called it a ball anyway. Of course, what I was really asking of my dad was for him to have lied and cheated so I wouldn't have been out. To my selfish and angry nine-year-old mind that made perfect sense. I wanted my dad to compromise some of his most important principles and cheapen the game of baseball just so I could keep my ego intact. Luckily, my dad was strong enough to do the right thing.

We did, indeed, end up losing the game, 11-3. I didn't say a word to my dad the entire way home. I was in a pout for the ages, a super pout if you will. Of course, thinking back on that car ride home (and my stupid, petulant attitude that day), I am ashamed of myself nearly beyond words. Here my dad was, one of the smartest men I know, trying to teach me a thing or two about doing the right thing and all I could think about was how mad I was at being called out.

It has been a long time since that silent car ride home. Eventually, I did learn the lesson that my dad was trying to teach me that day, and I am grateful for his willingness to accept the anger of his son in the short-term in exchange for something much more important learned in the long run. My dad is a pretty amazing guy. He continually sacrifices so his kids will benefit. To my regret, I have not told him nearly enough how much I love and respect him.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Thanks for teaching me so many important lessons in life (even if it took me a good long while to get some of them through that thick skull of mine) like the one you taught me about honesty and integrity and respect for the game of baseball on that dusty little baseball diamond so many years ago.