An umpire’s life is not that fun,
Spending four hours in the dry hot sun,
Making calls that half dislike,
Telling rowdy managers to take a hike.
He spends his afternoons or nights
Calling balls and strikes and breaking up fights,
He calls him "out" and the crowd goes wild,
Then the manager tells him he’s nobody’s child.
He makes calls on plays that are lightning quick,
The player’s upset; he has a bone to pick.
"What kind of life is this?" the umpire thinks,
Nose to nose, this whole deal stinks.
The team at bat is a run behind,
Bottom of the ninth, he is in a bind.
Two outs, three on, three balls strike two,
The catcher calls time to tie his shoe.
The umpire hopes the batter swings,
So he doesn’t decide the team that wins.
The pitcher looks in to get his sign,
While the umpire tries to clear his mind.
The pitch comes in and time seems to freeze,
It’s headed for the corner right at the knees.
The batter just looks as the ball goes by,
"Strike three, you’re out!" was the umpire’s cry.
The game was lost by the home team then,
The umpire tried to remember when
He made the choice of this career,
And the clubhouse tunnel was nowhere near.
He ran like the wind to escape the mob,
He knew he should find a different job,
You can’t please them all, he knew that well,
But when the home team loses, it’s just pure hell.
© Clifton Eastham 2009. All Rights Reserved