You know the guy. Every ballpark has one, but this past Cubs-Cardinals series at Busch Stadium, the teenaged fan behind home plate took it to a whole new level. We’re not talking about your run-of-the-mill manager, mind you. This fellow was a full-blown, self-appointed umpire-in-the-stands, and frankly, he was driving everyone nuts.
From the moment the first pitch was thrown, his booming pronouncements echoed through the television set, often drowning out the actual crack of the bat or the roar of the crowd. “Ball!” he’d bellow, with an authority that suggested he’d just consulted the rulebook and found the official umpire woefully mistaken. Strike! he’d declare, often a split second before the real ump’s hand went up, as if to say, See? I told you so.
Now, a little bit of fan passion is great. It’s what makes baseball special. But there’s a fine line between enthusiasm and outright interfering as a fan. This kids parents were dumb to get seats directly behind home plate. Every swing, every pitch, every close play at the plate was met with his immediate, definitive ruling. It was like watching the game with an overly opinionated, slightly unhinged commentator sitting right behind you, only without the benefit of a mute button.
His most annoying moments came on close pitches. A perfectly respectable curveball that dipped just below the zone would be met with a loud call of Ball! from this teenager arbiter, sometimes even before the catcher had fully secured the ball. Conversely, a slider that barely nicked the corner would elicit a triumphant Strike Three! even if the official count was still 1-1. You could almost feel the collective eye-roll by fans in his section or those watching on television.
What was most perplexing was his unwavering confidence. He never seemed to doubt his own judgment, even when it directly contradicted the actual professional umpires on the field. It was as if he believed he possessed some secret, superhuman vision that allowed him to see the intricacies of the strike zone with unparalleled clarity, a clarity apparently unavailable to the men paid to do just that.
You’d occasionally see a player glance back, perhaps out of curiosity or sheer annoyance. Even the umpires, who are usually masters of poker-faced indifference, seemed to subtly shift their weight or take a beat longer after a call, almost as if acknowledging the unwelcome voice in the cheap seats.
Here’s the thing, folks: We all have our opinions on calls. We all groan when our team gets a bad break, and we all cheer when a questionable call goes our way. But there’s a social contract in sports spectating: you cheer, you boo, you complain under your breath, maybe even shout a friendly (or not-so-friendly) suggestion to the umpire. You don’t, however, attempt to do their job.
With that… By the ninth inning of the final game, after countless Out! and Safe! calls that often preceded the actual ruling, a collective sigh of relief seemed to sweep through his section and around the world by fans watching on television when the last out was recorded. The Cubs lost the series, and while that was certainly cause for concern, there was a quiet satisfaction that, at least for now, the teenaged umpire in the stands would be going home, his reign of unsolicited rulings temporarily over. And honestly, for a few blessed moments, the only calls we wanted to hear were those made on the field.
Some fans might have a dream to be something we never wanted be. That does not mean we should hate them.