You may want to take the jersey off.
Liesel
Why? Are we okay?
Coop
Houston…
She’s piling her plate with fruit, but I see her look up. The hurt I saw earlier is even deeper now. But I don’t have time to apologize or text or even do anything but widen my eyes. Because the representative from the Umpires Association is right behind her, wearing a big, huge Momma Bear of a fatherly grin.
He puts his hand over her eyes, and roars, “LEE!”
She drops her plate with a squeak, grabs his beefy hands, and then spins around. “Dad?”
They hug tightly, and I swear I’m not imagining the glint of violence on Bruce Fischer’s face when he meets my eye.
“Did you see that, too?” I ask Doug.
“I think they saw it from space,” he says. He grips my shoulder. “I tried to warn you.”
He did. And in true Cooper Kellogg fashion, I didn’t listen. I turned it into a game. A show.
Unfortunately, the only audience that matters is the one person I didn’t want to hurt.
Liesel.
In case things weren’t already dire enough, Bruce and Liesel Fischer join Doug, me, our coach, and a couple of VPs at the large round table. Bruce positions himself on Doug’s other side, and Liesel joins him. That means that I can’t even look at her without him seeing. It also means I have both Doug and Bruce staring me down.
Let me tell you something about umps. They wear those huge pads, so they always look bigger and more intimidating than they really are. You could get a guy who weighs a buck fifty, and in pads, he looks like a gladiator.
Bruce Fischerwithoutpads is bigger than any guy with. He could be John Cena’s body double.
I’m not kidding. The dude is huge. I’m six-two, and Bruce is a bit shorter than me, but he’s easily got thirty pounds on me, all of it muscle.
I may be a showboat, but I’m always respectful with umps, with a few minor exceptions when I’ve been upset. And sure, one involves Bruce, but people get heated all the time. He couldn’t have taken it personally, right?
Anyway, I’m polite with umps 99.7% of the time. I say hi when I come up to the plate, and if the pitcher throws something that seems outside of the strike zone, I ask, “Is that as far out as we’re going today?” Or “Is that the edge of your zone?”
And most umps will say, “Yup, that’s the bottom of the zone,” or “Nah, we got a couple inches still, Coop.”
And then I thank them.
I’ve been in the league for long enough that Bruce has officiated plenty of my games. He’s the best ump in the league, with a 96.5% accuracy rating. He’s fair, and consistent, and I’venever seen him penalize a guy for getting frustrated with a call. Not even me.
Doug and Bruce greet each other like old friends, and then Doug says, “Bruce, you know Cooper Kellogg, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Bruce says. I stand up and shake Bruce's hand, hoping for the same fair, consistent treatment he’s always given.
But I’m not dealing with a major league umpire today. He squeezes my hand with his meat hooks, and then he squeezes harder.
I don’t make a squeal.
“Is that as far out as we’re going today, Bruce?” I ask, holding his eye even as the bones in my palm creak.
“Nope. I got another six inches buddy,” he says, murder in his eyes. “It’s gonna be a long day.”
That’s code if I’ve ever heard it.
