Screaming at the Ump by Audrey Vernick Page B

impossible not to think about the fact that in the past we had always needed four fields.)
    During the first week of Academy, instructors did a lot of demonstrations. With a mix of students acting as batter, base runners, and fielders, two instructors ran through a bunch of calls in the two umpire positions, as plate ump and base ump. They’d call for the students to act out a certain play, like ground ball up the first-base line with nobody on base. Then everyone watched as instructors showed exactly what position umpires needed to get into. It was something they taught with diagrams in the classroom in the morning, and now, in the afternoon, they put it into play on the field.
    After they demonstrated correct positioning and technique a bunch of times, they had students give it a try.
    It was always hard to watch at the start of Academy. A lot of students had a tough time making their feet and arms and head do the right things out on the field, even though they had some experience. Still, it was kind of cool to see them all suited up. They had all the gear on—shin guards, chest protector, mask, cap, strike and ball indicator, the little brush in the back pocket for sweeping off home plate. Dad and Pop believed it was important for students to get used to the feel of all the equipment from the start.
    Zeke and I watched the students on field one, but seeing all those feet in the wrong spot, and instructors getting impatient, and field umps being unable to get into the right position to make the call was kind of exhausting. We loved this place more than anything, but even for us, all that stumbling and fumbling wasn’t even funny—it was too much. We went to the supply locker, grabbed two gloves and a ball, and went out to the rear field to play catch.
    Zeke had terrible form, but he usually managed to get the ball to me. And I didn’t mind running after it when he threw it four feet over my head; it didn’t matter. The thing about playing catch was, it had more to do with rhythm, ball in glove, transfer to other hand, throw, with the sun in your eyes a little. You didn’t need to think when you were playing catch. It was just catch, throw. Catch, throw. Catch, throw. I learned this in the days after Mrs. Bob the Baker left, when Dad and I played catch every night.
    It’s nice, sometimes, not to think.

Striking Out
    Y OU always hear people saying how the hardest thing about journalism is that you have to be objective. I was
born
objective. My family specialized in being objective. It was in the blood. Even if a team was great—your favorite team—that had to disappear when you were an umpire, when you called a game. I totally got that.
    When writing an article, you had to show readers the facts, just the facts. It was like standing behind the plate. Umpire and reporter both had to be impartial and fair.
    At lunch, I gave it one last shot as I watched Zeke unpack his lunch: a large, unopened box of crackers and a chocolate bar. “I’ll give you my sandwich if you’ll go to the meeting with me after school.”
    This got the interest of Charley and Andrew. I was not generally a lunch sharer—the lunches Chet sent me with were the stuff of legend.
    Zeke sort of shook his head with a face that said no way, but still asked, “What did Chet give you? Is it ham, salami, and provolone? Because I think I might be able to make it if it is . . .”
    I unwrapped my sandwich and had to catch my breath for a second. I knew it was stupid, but Chet always cut my sandwiches straight across, and today it was cut on the diagonal, the way my mother used to do it. It was like my body was confused, thinking maybe my mother made this sandwich, just like she used to, only I knew that wasn’t true. Chet had left the bag for me yesterday afternoon. I didn’t feel like crying or anything, but it was a weird moment of emotional and lunch confusion.
    I looked in between the