1/8/2014
This one is a little lengthy. Sorry!
In 2007, I had the opportunity to be the official scorer for the Winston-Salem Warthogs (Single-A affiliate of the Chicago White Sox; they're now called the Dash). It was a good experience and I'm glad now that I did it, but at the time, it almost made me hate baseball. See, being an official scorer is not unlike being an umpire. You can't be a fan anymore. You have to watch the game critically. And you have to face the players and coaches about your decisions, which can be very unpleasant.
One day in January of '07, I was perusing the Warthogs' website just for fun, and I saw that they were looking for an official scorer. I thought getting paid to watch baseball games would be a good way to spend the summer, and it might open doors for other jobs in baseball. So I applied, was called in to meet with Director of Public Relations Ed Collari, and was recommended to the Carolina League office (official scorers work in their respective cities, but they are employed by the league, not by the team). I had some idea of what lay ahead of me, but I was really not prepared.
My duties were thus: I would get to the park about an hour before game time, pick up my pre-printed scorecard that Ed provided for me, call the lineups in to the Minor League Baseball office in New York, and wait for the game to start. After each half inning, I would call MiLB and report all the details. At the conclusion of the game, I would call them back and go over all the final numbers and totals, print off three copies, and take one down to the Warthogs' manager, pitching coach, and hitting coach (Ed would take one down to the visiting coaches) and answer any questions they had. I could change any decisions I made within 24 hours, so this was their time to make their cases.
The job of a minor league coach is to help his players succeed and move on to the next level. And that sometimes involves fighting for a hit or an error. I understand that and I respect them for it. The job of the official scorer, however, is to fairly and impartially decide hits and errors (among other things), and therein lies the conflict. If I determine that a batter should be awarded a hit and he later scores, it goes as an earned run against the pitcher and mars his record. If, however, I rule it an error and he scores, it goes as an unearned run which makes the pitcher look better, but the hitter's batting average goes down.
Hitting coach Wes Clements made it clear to me what I was to do: "We need you to give us all the calls you can," he told me. "When we go on the road, those guys give their teams all the breaks, so we need you to do the same thing for us. If it can go either way, it goes to us." I told him I would keep that in mind, but that I would be as fair as I could. J.R. Perdew, the pitching coach, was even more direct. "F--- fair," he said. "Give us the f---ing calls." Baseball people love the F-word, and Perdew is to profanity what Beethoven is to music. To be fair, both Clements and Perdew are congenial, likeable men and I have no reason to regard them as anything other than fine gentlemen. And the team's manager, Tim Blackwell, is one of the nicest people I ever met in baseball. I hold no ill will toward any of them. They are astute baseball men and they are good at their jobs. But if they think you're wrong, they will let you know, and not always in a tactful way.
"You're f---ing wrong," Clements told me one night after a game. Perdew chimed in. "F---ing-A right," he said. "We've been in this f---ing game a long f---ing time, and there is NO F---ING WAY that f---ing ball is a f---ing hit." Six times in one sentence. Message received, loud and clear.
My seat in the press box was up high and slightly to the third base side of home plate, which is really not a great view. I also didn't have the benefit of any sort of videography or replay, so I had to make decisions as the plays happened. If I was unsure, I relied on the input of Dan Collins, the local sportswriter who sat next to me. Often the White Sox would have a scout or roving coach in the press box, and their help was invaluable. One such gentleman was Nate Oliver, who was the roving baserunning instructor for the White Sox. He was an infielder for the Dodgers, Cubs, Giants, and Yankees in the 1960's. He was one of the kindest, sunniest people I have ever met. He traveled with former Phillies and Cubs infielder Manny Trillo, who was at that time the roving infield instructor for the White Sox. The two of them regaled us with story after story of big league ball. One night I had a tough call and was unsure how to score it, so I asked Nate what he thought. "It's an error," he said, "but if you score it that way, you're gonna get a lot of grief from Wes. Up to you." I gave it an error and received the aforementioned grief. Telling Wes that Nate said it was an error didn't help.
I thought about it during a game one night: out of a hundred plays, probably ninety don't need an official scorer. Strikeout, walk, home run, double to left, etc. Of the remaining ten, five are usually pretty easy: obviously a hit or obviously an error. It's those last five plays out of a hundred that can go either way that can get an official scorer chewed out.
The low water mark came pretty early in the season, on May 19. The Warthogs were hosting the Lynchburg Hillcats, then a Pirates affiliate. It seemed like almost every play required my judgment and most of them could have gone either way. By the end of the game, both teams wanted to string me up. Gary Redus, former first baseman and outfielder for the Reds and Pirates, was in Lynchburg's dugout as a roving coach. He stared and pointed up at me several times. He sarcastically clapped his hands in my direction when I made a call that pleased him, which meant it displeased the Warthogs' coaches, and one or all of them would come out of the dugout and raise their hands at me incredulously. I had no friends that night.
Lynchburg had a leadoff hitter named Pedro Powell who was by far the fastest guy in the league (he stole 67 bases that year). About the 5th inning, he dropped a perfect bunt down the third base line. The Warthogs third baseman, Victor Mercedes, was playing in and was on the ball quickly. Knowing Powell's speed, Mercedes tried unsuccessfully to field the ball barehanded. As the ball trickled under his fingers, I looked over at Powell who was only about halfway to first base. It would have been a very tough play for Mercedes even if he had fielded it cleanly, but my judgment was that he probably had a little more time than he thought he did and didn't need to barehand the ball. So after much deliberation, I scored it an error on Mercedes. The Lynchburg dugout went ballistic.
After what seemed like years, the game finally ended. I wanted to get out of the press box, turn in my box score, and get out of Dodge. But on my way out of the press box, Lynchburg's radio broadcaster walked in with his cell phone to his ear and said "Here he is, Branny. Hang on a sec," and handed me the phone. On the line was Lynchburg's manager, Jeff Branson (he was recently named the hitting coach for the Pittsburgh Pirates). He was a good player for the Reds in the 1990's and played on the US Olympic team in 1988. He wanted to discuss the Powell play. I was expecting to get reamed out, but he was very cordial. He asked me what I saw that led me to score it the way I did, listened patiently, and explained why he thought it should have been a hit. He asked me to at least consider changing it. I said I would, thanked him for not yelling at me, and handed the phone back. I braced myself and headed to the Warthogs' clubhouse.
"All right, guys," I said as I walked into the coaches' office, "I know I had a rough night. I've already had to talk to Jeff Branson about the Pedro Powell play." J.R. Perdew chuckled. "Only f---ing call you got right all f---ing night," he said.
That was my worst night of the season, but there were other skirmishes. It all boiled down to arrogance vs. ignorance. "We've all played at this level," the coaches told me, "you haven't. We know what we're talking about. You listen to us. We'll tell you what to do." They saw me as a nerdy, Bill James following stat-head who knew all the numbers but didn't know a curveball from a kumquat. I don't think I was ever able to earn their respect.
There were other nights that went as smooth as silk. There were no hard calls, every ball was caught, and Dan Collins and I had some great conversations about baseball, music, food, and whatever else we could think of. I could walk into the coaches' office with no apprehension and shoot the breeze with them for a few minutes. On nights like that it was a fun job. But I shed not a tear when the season came to an end. Baseball had become a job for me (and a very hard one at that), and I wanted no more to do with it. I watched very few games in 2008 (I don't think i went to a single Warthogs game) and finally started warming back up to baseball in 2009. I missed it too much to stay away too long.
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