35. Explain an unusual ruling to one coach only.

This blunder is a brother to Blunder #34[, which we ran yesterday]. The difference is: The bus on this road toward certain ruin is driven by the sometimes understandable paranoia of coaches.

You've heard the old cliché: You're not paranoid if they really are chasing you. Working with coaches as I do everyday during the season (10 months of 12 in my part of the state), I'm reminded of the quip: "Welcome to the Paranoia hot line. Please hold while we trace your call."

If you stop to chat at the home team dugout (perhaps that's where you sign in for pay), don't forget to spend an equal amount of time chatting in the visitor's dugout.

On a very, very hot day when you need to hydrate after every half inning, alternate your trips: home team water bucket, visiting team water bucket, home team....

You can live without chatting with the visitors and drinking their Gatorade. You cannot keep from ruining the game if you talk to one coach only at a critical moment in the game.

I was involved in two strikingly similar plays (in different games) that tested the mettle of everyone involved. I believe we all rose to the occasion.

Play 44:

It looks like interference. Everyone, even the offense, will think it's interference. If Smitty is your partner, he will think it's interference.

It isn't. (FED 8-4-1a)

What made it tougher was the visiting team came from out of the Valley, and the coach did not know me.

Such a play is tailor made for this mechanic, where you will explain your unusual ruling — to both coaches. If it happens in your game, you'd best be sure the suit fits when you finish your little chat.

I suppose the coaches noted I did not kill the ball when B1 kicked it. That has to be a clue. So here comes the defensive coach. Before he can say anything, I beckon the home coach down from the third-base coaching box.

"Guys, what we got is nothing because...."

"Whoa, Blue." (That was an expected comment from the visiting coach.) "That's interference."

"Let me ask you: Did you think he did it deliberately?"

"It doesn't matter."

"But did he do it on purpose? What did it look like to you?"

Grudgingly, he admitted the batter had not looked down and had run straight toward the running lane.

"That's what I saw," I agreed. "In FED rules, then, it's nothing. Coach, you can look it up. It's FED rule eight four two-a."

"You know the rule number?" he asked in an astonished voice.

Home coach, who at the time had known me 20 years, piped up: "I wouldn't bet against him. He probably wrote the damn thing. He's old enough."

So B1 stayed at first, where he promptly tried to steal second, and the catcher gunned him down.

As the out-of-town coach passed me at the plate heading for the coaching box, he stopped and said softly: "You know, Blue, you were wrong. It's eight four ONE-a." Then he gave me a slap on the shoulder and trotted on down toward third.

The game was stopped after five innings because of the mercy rule. The visitors won. Like Moody, they were a perennial power.

I want to admit right now I had no idea what the rule citation was. But I have discovered there's magic in numbers.

We can't say Johnny's grade is an "A minus." We have to say it's 92.4. I can't give letter grades to essays. When I taught English at Texas A&M, I always knew what an "A" paper looked like. When I came to Edinburg, I had to give that paper a 90 something. How can you measure the difference between 98 and 97 on an essay?

So, I used magic. In my citation I gave the coach the baserunning number (8).

Then I made up the rest!

I hope he doesn't read this book. I want him to go through life remembering the Valley ump who had memorized the rulebook.

Play 45:

At the moment B1 kicked the ball, I yelled "Time!" and signaled a "touchdown." Then I thought, "Oh, shucks." Well, perhaps the word wasn't "shucks," but it sure started with s-h.

I began walking toward the third-base coaches' box, meanwhile beckoning toward the visitor's dugout. My partner came jogging over, just to be a witness if I needed one.

"Now, I want a promise from both of you that you will not yell and scream and holler. This is a tough play, but we can survive if we act like gentlemen, if we pretend high school athletics is an academic pursuit."

"I knew it," the defensive coach said, "you're going to leave the runner at second because the batter was already out so it wasn't interference. I never get a break."

The offensive coach was equally distressed. "It was an accident. It's nothing. I don't think you should return my runner to first."

"I haven't heard a promise yet," I gently reminded them.

"Oh, to hell with it, Carl. We both know you know the rules. Quit fartin' around." (That came from the offensive coach, who was a PONY league umpire in the summer.)

"Ok. The batter could not run to first on the dropped third strike because first is occupied with fewer than two outs. But he interfered with the ball. Even if it was accidental, since it's not legal for him to run, it's interference. He's already out, though, so...."

I could see the light go on behind the offensive coach's eyes. "You're gonna call out my runner, ain't you?"

"That's the call, Bay. The half inning is over."

I've always thought that the situation would have been much more perilous if Coach Bazan had not himself been a dabbler in umpiring.

But the moral of the stories is the same: The unusual call in what looks like a routine situation requires a calm explanation for both coaches. One gets, one gives. They both need to know why.

There's an unintended consequence, as is so often the case. I've discovered through years of toil and travail that the presence of the "other coach" often has a settling effect on the one who's getting it in the neck. Simply put: Cricket doesn't want Lupe to see him out of control, up close and personal.

Carl Childress is the Editor-in-Chief of Officiating.com. He's been writing professionally about amateur "hardball" umpiring for thirty years. RightSports, Inc., publishes each year his unique Baseball Rule Differences, known as the BRD. He's also the Umpire-in-Chief for the American Legion in his area as well as being the TASO secretary and rules interpreter. Click here to read a short biography. You may reach Carl at carlchildress@officiating.com.