Empathy for the umpire

DOVER-FOXCROFT — I stood there, looking at the orange mat behind home plate, wondering to myself, “Where did that pitch just land?”
I was looking right at the pitch the whole way through, but I didn’t quite see where it landed. With a 2-2 count, the pitcher and batter were both staring right at me waiting for me to call the pitch a ball or a strike.
There, on the orange mat, was the imprint. Strike 3. It was clear to see now that I looked closer, but that moment of indecision had daggers cast at me from the batter’s eyes. She was not a fan, and I don’t blame her.
As the next batter walked up to the plate, I began to ask myself, “Why did I volunteer to ump this game?”
Umpires are hated people, some more than others. It depends on just how bad the ump does his or her job that night, and even that’s a subjective thing considering one play can make the difference in a game.
It’s a thought that hit home the other night when I was playing league ball in Veazie. Standing in center field, I watched as the shortstop rifled a throw to first base, causing the first baseman to make a reaching stab at the ball, falling to the ground. She never took her foot off the bag and had full control of the ball the whole time. This was obvious to see, even from 80 yards away.
However, the ump called the base runner safe, causing all of us to suggest to the umpire in a kind way that we are looking out for his well-being and that maybe tomorrow would be a good day to call his eye care specialist and have his eyeglass prescription updated.
As I made the walk back to the dugout, I realized I probably would have made the same call during the Friday night softball league in Dover had I been the umpire.
The thing is, I’m not decisive enough on calls. When I am decisive, I usually end up botching something — like that time I called the guy out but swung my arms in a “he’s safe” motion. It leads to confusion, to tempers flaring and to me seeking that elusive Southwest Airlines plane from the TV commercials when they ask “Do you want to get away?”
While all the players in the Dover league are good sports and sportsmanship is something that seems to run high at the Fairgrounds, I hope I get my act together one of these weeks and call a clean game. Otherwise I’m fairly certain the proverbial daggers that were cast at me last Friday night could turn in to actual softball bats hurled at me in the near future.

The great debate: to shave or not to shave

DOVER-FOXCROFT — “If you want to play, you’ve got to shave.”
That’s the line running through my head as I looked in the mirror at a fellow firefighter’s apartment, shaving cream smeared over my goatee and razor in my hand. If I wanted to join the LP training session at the former Moosehead Manufacturing campus on Monday night, I had to be clean-shaven so my air mask would create a seal around my face.
I hadn’t shaved off my goatee on purpose since my wedding day in 2005 — there was that time in 2006 it came off, but that’s because the neighbor decided it would be a great idea to light off M-80 firecrackers in a sofa near my apartment just at the moment I was pulling a razor near my chin. I remember that morning all too well.
BOOM!
It was in that instant that half my chin became painfully exposed. Thankfully it was only hair that was removed and not half my face. I tell you, I was sure glad when the city finally disposed of that sofa. I could at least shave knowing that travesty would not happen again.
I’m not the type that has some kind of emotional connection to facial hair. I just started sporting a goatee back in college to make me look older so I could get into the bars easier. It was a necessity then that just stayed with me all these years.
Anyway, back to Monday. If I wanted to train, I had to shave.
I couldn’t believe that my arm started to move on its own, taking off the fuzz above my lip. Five minutes later, I cleaned up the last remnants of my goatee, washed the remaining shaving cream off my face and looked back in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the man in the mirror.
It would all be worth it, I kept telling myself. I stood in the back listening to the pre-drill instructions, rubbing my face as if that would help speed up the hair-growing process. After the instructions were done, we split up in four-person attack teams and I began to get ready for my first major firefighter training exercise.
Maybe shaving would be worth it after all.
That’s when our fire chief remembered I’m not air-pack certified, therefore making me ineligible to participate.
So while 38 other firefighters from Dover-Foxcroft, Milo, Charleston and Brownville took turns attacking a LP training exercise, I stood off to the side, wearing my turn-out gear, with my camera and notebook taking notes for a newspaper story.
All I could think of the whole time was, 1.) I need to get that air-pack training ASAP; and 2.) if all I was going to do was be a reporter, I would have left the goatee on.

MY BCS plan

The sun is shining outside, the temperatures are in the 80s .... and I'm stuck inside on the computer listening to ESPN radio. One of the items mentioned is Congress looking into possible antitrust issues with the BCS Championship system, due in large part to the University of Utah getting hosed and Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) having a little bit of clout.

Anyway, here's my plan to fix college football. Take it for what it's worth.

College football needs an 8-team playoff to determine a national champion. Selection for the field would be the conference champion from each of the Big Six Conference (Big Ten, Big XII, Big East, ACC, SEC, Pac-10) and then two at-large berths from outside conference champions only (such as Mountain West, MAC, WAC) based on the AP and coaches poll. No computer BS needed.

That's right; Conference champions only -- no Big XII North Champ Nebraska if they lose the Big XII title game to Texas. Just Texas and that's it. That takes care of the possibility of two or three teams from one conference in the playoff. Just give us the best from your area and we'll go from there.

The four games of the first round would begin on New Year's Day with sites in Florida (preferred bowl game - Orange Bowl), Texas (Cotton), California (site like the LA Coliseum) and then a fourth site like Nashville. No team from that region (i.e. Florida) cannot play in that game -- travel for everyone to make it fairer. No reason USC plays at the Coliseum in the playoffs, or the Gators play in Orlando.

The remaining Big Three bowl games, Rose, Sugar and Fiesta, are revolving semi-final and championship sites. Second-round games are on the next Saturday, with the title game likely nine days later on that Monday night (the NCAA likes to put title games on Mondays. Bastards.)

Teams not eligible for the NCAA playoff gets to compete in the traditional bowl games that all conclude on New Years Eve.

This plan takes care of two things: 1.) true declaration of a national champion; 2.) need for the piece of crap BCS system to select teams. There's still plenty of money thrown around and everyone still gets a chance to play ball.

The only loser in all this I think would be the Rose Bowl, losing the tradition that is the New Years Day game. But you know what, deal with it - and that's coming from a Big Ten guy. If the only sacrifice made in all this is having the Granddaddy of Them All lose a little bit of its luster, then so be it. You don't think the bowl's history remained pristine with the introduction of the BCS, did you?

There's my plan. Whatcha think?

Staving off the late June summer doldrums

The past three weeks seems like a take from the Bill Murray movie, “Groundhog Day.” Each day it seems the skies have been overcast, the temperature fairly mild and rain threatened to fall from the clouds. It all seemed like a never-ending pattern of gloominess.
Independence Day was no exception. That being said, the five of us at camp had enough waiting for Mother Nature to relent and allow the warm weather and sunshine break through. We all decided on the Fourth of July to make a go of it on the lake and have fun in spite of the weather.
I thought that meant we were going fishing. The other four took that as time to go tubing on the lake.
“They’re insane,” is all I muttered to myself as we piled into the boat and pulled away from the dock. Standing tall on the dock feeding rope out was Darren, anxiously awaiting to hop on to the Big Bertha inner tube and get towed around the lake. The other three in the boat had their swimsuits on. I was fully decked out in a sweatshirt, jeans and bad attitude.
Why waste our time freezing our butt off in the middle of this extended Maine spring when we could do some fishing? Granted the fishing the day before led to me catching a small white perch and everyone else casting for nothing, but still, it had to be better than tubing around on a cold summer day.
As Eric threw the throttle forward and doing his best to throw his own brother Darren off the tube, I began to realize maybe this wasn’t so bad. Darren was laughing hysterically — when he had a chance to breathe at least — and the two women in the back of the boat were both screaming for Eric to head to the big waves and wondered what their own turn had to offer.
For weeks I’ve heard TV and radio reports about seasonal depressions and disorders, when people get anything from a bad case of the blues to legitimate depression. It’s something I end up going through every year by February and March, where I just end up becoming irritable and down in the dumps about everyday life. I question why I do things, if it’s worth it and even why I get up some days. This spring was especially rough, but like every other year the blues went away when the sun came out.
I noticed Saturday those low feelings were coming back. I sat in the forward chair of the ski boat while my other friends were having fun and couldn’t bring myself to have a good time. I do my best to put on a smile and make it look like I’m alright, but it takes a lot out of me to do that. On top of it all, tubing was never my thing — seeing that I swim as well as a rock — so the idea of hoping on Big Bertha on a cold, overcast summer day was about the worst thing I could think of.
Something must have clicked on that last tour of the lake, because out of nowhere I told Eric to head for the dock so I could change and give it a go on the tube. The look on my face must have been something strange to see because even I couldn’t believe I said that.
It was the perfect medicine to the awful weather we’ve been having. It was sprinkling by the time I jumped on the raft, the air temperature was cold enough to give you a chill and the water spray made things worse. That being said, it was a blast. I couldn’t stop laughing the entire time.
Of course, my whole upper body was sore for two days after I held on to that raft with everything I had, but in the end it was worth it because for once I could laugh — and do so without forcing myself to have a good time.
I wasn’t the only one to shake the late June doldrums. Cities decided to host fireworks, people took to Fourth of July celebrations and others hosted barbecues in spite of the heavy rains and overcast skies, and it turned out great.
Maybe Mother Nature got the hint we’re all sick of what she’s been brewing for the past few weeks, because Sunday was a beautiful day outside. Granted the gray skies and rain returned, but there’s finally sunshine in the forecast for later in the week.
That’s good, because our summer is long overdue to begin.