Many times have I, in the excitement of the moment, protested against the decision of an umpire, but fundamentally I know that the umpires are honest and are doing their best, as all ball-players are. The umpires make mistakes and the players make errors. Many arbiters have told me that when they are working they seldom know what inning it is or how many are out, and sometimes, in their efforts to concentrate their minds on their decisions, they say they even forget what clubs are playing and which is the home team.
The future of the game depends on the umpire, for his honesty must not be questioned. If there is a breath of suspicion against a man, he is immediately let go, because constant repetition of such a charge would result in baseball going the way of horse racing and some other sports. No scandal can creep in where the umpire is concerned, for the very popularity of baseball depends on its honesty.
“The only good umpire is a dead umpire,” McGraw has declared many times when he has been disgruntled over some decision.
“I think they’re all dead ones in this League,” replied Devore one day, “considering the decisions that they are handing me down there at second base. Why, I had that bag by three feet and he called me out.”
Many baseball fans look upon an umpire as a sort of necessary evil to the luxury of baseball, like the odor that follows an automobile.
“Kill him! He hasn’t got any friends!” is an expression shouted from the stands time and again during a game.
But I know differently. I have seen umpires with friends. It is true that most ball-players regard umpires as their natural enemies, as a boy does a school teacher. But “Bill” Klem has friends because I have seen him with them, and besides he has a constant companion, which is a calabash pipe. And “Billy” Evans of the American League has lots of friends. And most all of the umpires have some one who will speak to them when they are off the field.
These men in blue travel by themselves, live at obscure hotels apart from those at which the teams stop, and slip into the ball parks unobtrusively just before game time. They never make friends with ball-players off the field for fear that there might be a hint of scandal. Seldom do they take the same train with a club unless it cannot be avoided. “Hank” O’Day, the veteran of the National League staff, and Brennan took the same train out of Chicago with the Giants in the fall of 1911 because we stopped in Pittsburg for one game, and they had to be there to umpire. It was the only available means of transportation. But they stayed by themselves in another Pullman until some one told them “Charley” Faust, the official jinx-killer of the Giants, was doing his stunt. Then they both came back into the Giants’ car and for the first time in my life I saw “Hank” O’Day laugh. His face acted as if it wasn’t accustomed to the exercise and broke all in funny new wrinkles, like a glove when you put it on for the first time.
There are several types of umpires, and ball-players are always studying the species to find out the best way to treat each man to get the most out of him. There are autocrats and stubborn ones and good fellows and weak-kneed ones, almost as many kinds as there are human beings. The autocrat of the umpire world is “Silk” O’Loughlin, now appearing with a rival show.
“There are no close plays,” says “Silk.” “A man is always out or safe, or it is a ball or a strike, and the umpire, if he is a good man and knows his business, is always right. For instance, I am always right.”