Umpiring is best described as the profession of standing between two seven-year olds with one ice cream cone.
Like some cult religion that barely survives, there has always been at least one but rarely more than five or six devotees throwing the knuckleball in the big leagues . . . Not only can't pitchers control it, hitters can't hit it, catchers can't catch it, coaches can't coach it and most pitchers can't learn it. The perfect pitch.
One reason I never called balks is that I never understood the rule.
Throwing people out of a game is like learning to ride a bicycle--once you get the hang of it, it can be a lot of fun.
No one ever grew up intending to be an umpire, except perhaps my friend Bill Haller. His brother Tom wanted to be a catcher, so an affinity for masks must run in that family.
Any umpire who claims he has never missed a play is . . . well, an umpire.
Umpire's heaven is a place where he works third base every game. Home is where the heartache is.
Lou Piniella only argues on days ending with the letter 'y'.
The practical joke is the psychiatry of baseball.
Being an umpire is like being a king. It prepares you for nothing.
If it's true you learn from your mistakes, Jim Frey will be the best manager ever
I never called a balk in my life. I didn't understand the rule.
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