Favorite Food: Boneless, skinless chicken breast, the least confrontational of all meats
Preferred Stance: Slightly crouching, with his hands resting on his knees. This is known in refereeing circles as the Regulator stance.
Turn-ons: Silence, a flawlessly organized sock drawer, people who can whistle just by putting their fingers in their mouth, Serbian mob funds (NBA officials only), expense account reimbursements, Latin, Sam Waterston
Turnoffs: Happiness, jewelry, professional wrestling, chewing gum, that fucking Forget Paris movie, shoes that are any color besides black, trying to argue in Spanish
Marital Status: Married
Children: Two, one of whom usually has a drug habit. An official takes solace in knowing that the outcome of games is perhaps the only thing in life that he can exert some control over.
How to Get Him to Like You: Talking to him prior to game time or just generally acknowledging his existence, ridiculing Rasheed Wallace’s bizarre gray spot, asking him about his dreams outside of refereeing (usually it’s to write a best-selling legal thriller), and telling him when he’s done a good job. Remember: refereeing is just like French kissing. You can get it right 99 out of 100 times, but mess up just once and everyone calls you a face-licker. Such bullshit.
What Will Make Him Turn on You: Looking at him wrong on a bad day, pouting (see next page), appearing to enjoy yourself, ganging up with teammates to argue a call, giggling, condescendingly patting him on the head, causing a delay of game (officials fucking hate this), doing that thing after a three-point shot where you keep your arm in the air until after the shot falls (officials really fucking hate this)
HEAR IT FROM AN UMP!
Yes, that was a strike. Now shut the fuck up.
by Joe Cargill, Major League umpire
STRIKE!
What? You thought that was a ball? Wow, what a shock. Yeah, I see the look on your face. You’re clearly stunned by my ruling. Well, you know what? That was, indeed, a strike. Now shut the fuck up.
Aw, you’re still mad. Oh, you poor thing! Perhaps you don’t agree with the way I enthusiastically called that strike. My heart goes out to you. You get to make millions of dollars and give curtain calls to thousands of fans who love you more than their immediate families. Whereas I get to walk into the ballpark and have everyone throw Choco Taco wrappers at me. Boy, do I have it great! Pardon the shit outta me for actually showing some enthusiasm while performing my duty. Excuse me for taking just the slightest modicum of joy here. Did I bruise your pride? Are you hurt? Did you get a little boo-boo on your vajayjay? Let me give it a kiss to make it better.
Asshole.
We don’t get to choose our passions, you know. Do you think I like the fact that I love umpiring so much? God, no. I wish my lifelong passion had been for bra engineering, or luxury catamaran bartending. Instead, I realized at a very early age that my one true love was to be a professional Major League whipping boy and to deal with whiny assholes like you. Every. Single. Plate. Appearance. Hooray! Lucky me! What fun it is to love something that makes me want to curl up into a very tight ball and cry my eyes out!
So guess what? I wouldn’t change that call even if you gave me a lifetime supply of Big League Chew. Dick.
Still annoyed? Oh, I see. You still think it was a ball, eh? Still hanging on to that idea for dear life, are you? Good thing the league gives all of us umpires a pocket-sized rule book to carry around with us! Let me just consult it to make sure I didn’t forget rules that I’ve had memorized for thirty goddamn years. Or that the league didn’t change the strike zone right before your at bat!
Here it is. Rule 2.00: “The Strike Zone is defined as that area over home plate the upper limit of which is a horizontal line at the midpoint between the top of the shoulders and the top of the uniform pants, and the lower level is a line at the hollow beneath the kneecap. The Strike Zone shall be determined from the batter’s stance as the batter is prepared to swing at a pitched ball.”
Well, what do you know? The rule on strikes is still the same, which means that pitch that grazed the inside corner of the plate while remaining below the numbers on your uniform was a strike. And there’s no replay. And my visual acuity is 20 / 10. Suck it.
Perhaps next time, you might actually want to swing at the ball instead of standing there like a fucking golem. Perhaps you’re taking your anger out on me because you refuse to confront your own glaring pussyness. That’s too bad. Let me get a string quartet to provide a soundtrack to your gripping inner struggle.
You remind me of Paul O’Neill.
Fucking loser.