Page 2 of The Umpire Strikes Back

The catcher shakes his head slightly as he throws the ball back, probably telling Riptide to breathe, to steady his arm. But the pitcher’s expression is stormy, and his gaze darts back to me more often than it does to the catcher’s signals.

As the at-bat continues, I notice the runner on first creeping off the bag again. The tension is back. If Riptide tries another pick-off move, he’ll have to be flawless. The crowd knows it too. Every time he lifts his foot, the entire stadium seems to hold its breath, waiting for a repeat of that balk call or some other meltdown.

He hurls another fastball. “Foul!” I announce as the batter clips it, sending it dribbling up the first-base line. The runner retreats, and the tension ratchets up another notch. We go through a few more pitches—two more balls, another foul, then finally a sharp grounder to short. The shortstop scoops it neatly and fires to second. They catch the runner in a force play, and the second baseman whips it to first, but the batter beats the throw by a step.

“That’s two outs!” I yell. The scoreboard updates, showing the home team’s fleeting chance to salvage the inning. Riptide stands on the mound, hands on his hips, glaring at the dirt as if it’s personally offended him.

Between batters, I step back to give the catcher some space. He glances up at me. “You all right, Kali?” he asks softly, sounding almost sympathetic.

“I’m fine,” I reply, shifting my mask up to my forehead. “Just hot as hell out here.” My throat is parched, and I’d love a big swig of water, but I can’t leave my post now. The game is still on, the next batter stepping up to the plate. The scoreboard clock says we’re two hours into the contest, and it feels like it’s just heating up in more ways than one.

The next batter is a switch-hitter who opts for the left side. He digs in, adjusting his gloves, and peers at Riptide. I take a moment to look at the man on the mound. His posture is rigid, but there’s no denying his skill. When he’s not fuming at me, his form is something to admire—fluid, powerful, and precise. It’s ironic how someone so talented can let pride sabotage his own performance. So good-looking too.

He delivers another blistering pitch—right down the middle. “Strike!” I call. The batter steps back, presumably to gather himself. The crowd, still a bit rowdy from the earlier drama, begins chanting for a hit.

A group of children leans against the chain-link fence near the dugout, craning their necks to see the action. They’re the purest fans out here, just wanting a good game. They don’t know or care about the drama swirling around Riptide and me. Their innocence is refreshing.

The next pitch is high and outside. “Ball!” I announce, and I notice Riptide flinch. He might be second-guessing every move now, afraid another balk call is coming. The scoreboard still shows a tie, which means this game is on a razor’s edge. A single swing could change everything.

The at-bat stretches longer than usual—fouled-off pitches, more balls, a lot of head shakes from Riptide, and anxious stares from the batter. Finally, on a full count, Riptide unleashes a wicked curveball that breaks late and sends the batter flailing. “Strike three, batter’s out!” I yell, motioning the end of the inning.

That should be the last out for the top of the seventh. Relieved, I peel off my mask and walk toward the umpire’s station for a quick breather and to switch out a couple of scuffed balls. The home team jogs off the field, Riptide heading straight for the dugout without looking at me. I can practically feel the waves of anger emanating from him, but he keeps it tamped down.

As I reach for a fresh set of baseballs, the second base umpire, a veteran named Tully, ambles up behind me. “He giving you trouble?” Tully asks quietly, jerking his chin in Riptide’s direction.

“He’s not thrilled with my call,” I reply, shrugging. “But it was a balk. No question in my mind.”

Tully nods. “I saw it too. Had to happen at some point. Kid’s got good stuff, but that pick-off move’s always been on the edge of legality. Sooner or later, someone was gonna call him for it. Good on you for sticking to your guns.”

I give Tully a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to keep the game fair.” And that’s the truth I remind myself of every time I step on the field.

When we return to our positions, the scoreboard transitions to the bottom of the seventh. The stadium announcer’s voice booms over the speaker system, reminding fans of the post-game fireworks if the home team manages to pull off a victory. The crowd cheers, eager for any sign of a home-team comeback. I check my watch—time is marching on, but the tension remains thick as ever.

Riptide’s team takes the field for defense. I notice he’s still out there, stretching his shoulder and rolling his neck to shake off the previous inning. Despite the drama, he’s staying in the game. I almost respect his determination… almost. But I remember the way he got in my face, accusing me of everything under the sun. That, I don’t appreciate. There’s a line between frustration and hostility, and he tiptoed right over it.

The bottom of the seventh begins with a base hit to left field, and the crowd roars its approval. The next batter bunts, advancing the runner. Then a ground ball to second results in an out, but it moves the runner to third. Just like that, there’s a scoring threat. Riptide’s team scrambles, trying to keep it together. A base hit here would mean the home team takes the lead.

The crowd rises to its feet for the two-out pitch. The batter connects with a solidcrack, and the ball screams toward the right-center gap. The runner on third sprints home, crossing the plate before the outfield can scoop and relay. A fresh wave of cheers explodes, making the bleachers quake. The scoreboard updates: 4–3, home team in the lead.

My chest tightens with the excitement of the moment—I love a good nail-biter, even if I’m the neutral official. The intensity, the roar of the crowd, and the tension among the players is what keeps me coming back game after game.

I jog off the field, my throat yearning for water. I can see Riptide reemerging from the dugout, snapping at a teammate who probably offered some unwanted advice. He picks up a bat, likely taking some practice swings for his own turn in the lineup.

I can’t help but shake my head. He’s clearly still fuming, and I brace myself for another confrontation if he crosses my path. However, I remind myself that I’ve dealt with worse. Arrogant players come with the territory. Some nights they calm down; other nights they hold grudges. Either way, I have a job to do, and I intend to do it.

I slip into the small umpire area behind the backstop, grabbing a quick sip of water from a cooler we keep there. My shoulders ache from the constant crouching, my gear feels heavier than ever, and my face is flushed, but the thrill of being on the field overrides every complaint.

As I head back out, a few fans shout at me. “Hey, ump! Call it down the middle, will ya?” one hollers. Another, wearing the visiting team’s hat, yells, “Don’t bail them out again!” I ignore them both. The crowd will always be divided. One side thinks you’re great; the other side thinks you’re blind. That’s the nature of officiating.

When I take my position for the bottom of the seventh, I notice Riptide is next in the batting order. I wonder to myself why he’s even batting. It’s probably his God complex kicking in. Now I’ll get to see if his frustration carries over to the batter’s box. Part of me braces for more fireworks.Will he try to show me up? Maybe get ejected by yelling about something else?

“Why not use a designated hitter?” I mutter as he passes by.

He strides up to the plate, bat propped on his shoulder, eyes locked on me rather than the pitcher. “And let you miss the opportunity of watching me knock it out of the park?” The tension between us is almost tangible. But I focus on the new pitcher, who’s shaking off two signals from his catcher. Finally, the pitcher sets, winds up, and fires a high fastball. Riptide doesn’t even move. “Ball!” I call.

He taps the dirt with his bat. “Well, at least you can seethatwas high,” he mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

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