So I wanted to find out where the term “kill the umpire!” came from, and I checked out various on-line data bases, and I Googled the term, and I checked out what they might have on Wikipedia, and I asked my bartender, and here’s what I came up with:
Much like the story of creation, in which God invents the heavens and the earth, stands back, studies his work, and instantly declares everything “good,” the time lapse between the invention of the position of umpire and the first fan to scream “KILL THE UMPIRE!” was anywhere between three and seven seconds, depending on the acoustics of whatever ballpark they were in.
Further research shows that the first time the phrase was altered to its more familiar and advances phase — “I #$#@ing hope you #$#@ing die a slow, painful death you #$#@ing blind-as-a-bat #$#@#$#@!!!!” — occurred during the very first game, as soon as everyone discovered they were playing in Hoboken, N.J., and thus employed a somewhat more colorful version of the King’s English.
Yes, baseball fans have loathed umpires forever, detested them from the get-go. Maybe this comes from the very first baseball fans, immigrants from the Old Country who, back in the day, were taught that the various police forces and constables that patrolled their old villages and towns were corrupt leeches at best and murderous bloodhounds at worst, and thus they were reluctant to trust any kind of authority figure . . . and what better bespeaks the intimidating nature of authority than a chest protector and a face mask?
And this was before anyone had ever heard of Phil Cuzzi.
Now, baseball faces a conundrum because, let’s be very honest about this, while just about everything attached to the sport — from the players themselves to the equipment used to the high-definition broadcasts — is far better, and far more sophisticated than ever, there is one aspect of the game that has gotten worse through the years.
And that’s the umpiring.
We have known that for years. We have complained about it and made it the center of a million saloon conversations, but the subject never has been nearly as popular as it is now because — again, let’s be very honest here — these baseball playoffs have been an umpiring fiasco. Starting with the AL Central play-in game, when Randy Marsh’s name became mud in Detroit because he didn’t see what millions of others plainly saw — a ball brushing Tiger Brandon Inge’s jersey with the bases loaded in extra innings — we unwittingly have learned the names of far too many umpires, arbiters who are supposed to aspire for anonymity as their highest possible goal.
And so we have heard C.B. Bucknor’s name called repeatedly (and, undoubtedly, in places like the Cask’n Flagon and Boston Beer Works and McGreevy’s Saloon, cursed repeatedly) when he made one absurd call after another while manning first base in Game 1 of the Angels-Red Sox series. Think about that: He was umpiring first base! Mob rats in witness protection couldn’t find more low-profile gigs than that . . .
Well, unless you include the position of outfield umpire, a job invented specifically for the playoffs, a job description which essentially goes this way: “Stand straight. Do not pick nose. Twirl finger when ball flies over fence. Call the occasional (the VERY occasional) line-hugging ball fair or foul. Are you kidding? An Olsen sister could do that job, for crying out loud. But as we know, Phil Cuzzi couldn’t.
Had you ever heard of the name Jerry Meals before? Of course not. Now, if you are a Colorado Rockies fan, you hear that name in your sleep every night, because he was the umpire who didn’t see a ball hit Chase Utley after it his bat and before it dribbled for a key infield hit in the ninth inning of a 6-5 Phillies win in Game 3 of the NL Division Series. No other umpire at Coors Field saw it that night, though another few million of their fellow countrymen saw it because of replay, and no doubt were discussing it as the Phillies completed their winning rally.
And there was Tim McClelland’s follies on Tuesday night when he somehow managed to botch two calls separated by about 15 minutes of real time, when he said Nick Swisher had left third base too soon on a sac fly (though replays clearly showed McClelland was looking at the outfielder when Swisher was tagging up) and then prevented the Angels from a forever highlight reel (and Jorge Posada and Robinson Cano from a permanent place on stadium blooper reels) by missing the very plain and obvious truth that both were off the base, both tagged out by Angels catcher Mike Napoli. And here’s the kicker to that:
Tim McClelland is considered by many to be the best umpire in the world.
Think about that. And ponder this plot summary from a 1950 movie called, appropriately enough, “Kill the Umpire”:
“William Bendix plays a former baseball player who continues to be a baseball fanatic whose devotion to the game has cost him several jobs, but who remains steadfast in one thing: he hates umpires. Matters are complicated by the fact that his father-in-law (Ray Collins) is a retired umpire. During a period of unemployment, Bendix is forced by his father-in-law to matriculate in an umpire school . . .
I could go on, but why bother? In this case, the truth is stranger even than a William Bendix movie. I mean, what are the odds?
Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com. For a daily dose of Vac’s Whacks, click http://www.nypost.com/blogs/vaccaro. His book “The First Fall Classic” is available in bookstores everywhere.
VAC’S WHACKS
You think that smile on Bobby Valentine’s face is because he loves talking baseball or because
15 minutes after he showed up for work at ESPN, his old friend Steve Phillips wound up on the front page of The Post?
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Can’t tell you how many people I heard from whose viewing enjoyment of the California portion of the ALCS was altered, and not for the better, by having to look at Scott Boras for every pitch in his field-level suite behind home plate. Maybe the Yankees could have sprung Bernie Madoff and given him a prime seat to return the favor.
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If the Jets lose in Oakland today, they will have the good sense and the good manners not to come back, right?
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I have to be honest: After a week when the biggest worry in regard to the weather is whether you packed enough sunscreen . . . I find myself not as religiously opposed to neutral-site World Series as I was a week ago.
