Page 1 of The Umpire Strikes Back

1

Kali

I’m sweating buckets under this August sun, and it’s not just because of the heat. The stadium lights haven’t fully flickered on yet, but the early evening glow does nothing to ease the suffocating warmth. The faint smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and sunscreen filters in from the stands—standard minor league ambiance. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I stand behind home plate, tugging my facemask down as the crowd roars and the scoreboard flickers: 3–2, home team trailing by one, top of the seventh inning. It’s close, and everyone can feel it.

I glance at the runner leading off first base. He takes a cautious step, testing the pitcher’s attention. The runner on third looks just as antsy, primed to sprint home at the smallest opportunity. My eyes shift to the pitcher on the mound—Ripley “Riptide” Johnson. He’s tall, lean, and brimming with a cocky confidence that practically radiates off him. If half the stories about him are true, he’s a natural talent on the verge of a big league call-up. But if the other half are true, his ego could fill this entire ballpark.

He sets his stance, glove tucked under his chin, staring down the batter. The batter, a lefty with an open stance, taps the plate twice. The crowd’s hum dies down for a moment, like everyone’s collectively holding their breath. My knees are slightly bent, and I reposition my feet to make sure I have the best angle possible. Umpiring at this level means I can’t afford even the smallest hesitation.

Riptide inhales and begins his motion. I can see the runner on first tense his legs, ready to break if he spots an opening. Riptide lifts his left foot, and I catch a flicker of movement in his shoulders. Something seems off—the angle of his pivot doesn’t match the direction of his stride. At first, I assume he’s going for a snap throw to first, but he hesitates mid-turn. His hips rotate back toward home plate, but he’s no longer in a continuous pitching motion. It’s jarring, like he’s trying to do two separate moves at once.

I know the rulebook inside and out. A pitcher can’t start a move to one base and then suddenly shift toward the plate without completing the initial motion. This is the definition of a balk. My right hand shoots up almost before I consciously decide it’s time.

“Balk!” I call, my voice slicing through the tense silence.

The reaction is instantaneous. The crowd bursts into half cheers and half boos, the stadium’s ambiance plunging into chaos. The runner on third dashes home, practically grinning from ear to ear. He stomps on the plate with a victorious flourish, and the scoreboard flashes a new tie: 3–3. The away team’s dugout erupts in celebration—this run could shift the entire momentum of the game.

Riptide’s glove smacks the dirt as he whips around to face me, fury etched across every line of his face. “Are you kidding me?” he practically roars. Sweat drips down his forehead, and I can see how tense his jaw is. “That wasn’t a balk, and you know it!”

I suppress the flutter of nerves in my stomach. I’ve seen pitchers lose their cool before, but he radiates a particular intensity that’s hard to ignore. “You broke your motion,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “You can’t start to throw to first and then change your mind to pitch home. Textbook balk.”

His eyes flash like he wants to argue the fine print. “I didn’t break anything! I was in my set motion, and I stepped off the rubber legally.”

“Johnson,” the catcher interjects, stepping out of his crouch and placing a cautious hand on Riptide’s shoulder, “relax, man. We’re still in this game.”

Riptide shrugs him off, taking a few steps toward me. Now he’s dangerously close. “No, this is garbage. You just gave them a free run.”

I’ve learned over the years that you never back down as an umpire—never flinch or show a shred of uncertainty. The moment you do, the entire field smells blood. So I square my shoulders, meeting his glare head-on. “I didn’t give anyone anything,” I reply, my tone clipped. “You made the illegal move. We enforce the rules here.”

“You call that enforcing the rules? Looks more like a power trip to me,” he snarls, pointing a finger in my direction.

“Hey!” The home team’s manager, a burly man with a sunburnt neck, bursts out of the dugout. He charges toward us, presumably to hold Riptide back or maybe to direct his own brand of anger at me. The crowd noise intensifies, a rumble of discontent and curiosity. Everyone loves a good argument, apparently.

“Manager’s on the field,” I warn, flipping off my facemask as I turn. “Stay in your dugout,” I tell him, but he ignores me, stomping over with heavy footsteps.

The manager, Reyes, if I recall correctly, plants himself between me and his pitcher, though it’s unclear who he’s really trying to protect. “What’s the call here?” he demands, resting his hands on his hips. “We had a good game going, and now you’re throwing balk calls around like confetti.”

“Your pitcher made an illegal motion,” I explain, gesturing at the rubber. “He engaged for a throw to first, then attempted to revert to pitching home. That’s a balk.”

“You telling me that was a real balk?” Reyes’s voice rises with each word, and I can see the veins popping in his neck. “Or did you just see an opportunity to flex those stripes?”

Outrage flares in my chest, but I force it down. “I’m not here to ‘flex’ anything. Balk is a balk. The rule is clear. Check your replay if you don’t trust me.” I flick my gaze to the scoreboard, which shows the newly tied score. “One run came in because of a mistake. That’s the game. Let’s move on.”

Reyes splutters, but I think he realizes pushing the issue could get him tossed out. The crowd is chanting something now—hard to make out over the general din, but it sounds like a mix of “Ump, you suck!” and “Let him pitch!” Typical fan meltdown. Tuning them out, I gesture for the game to continue. Riptide’s still standing there, eyes locked on me, as though he’s daring me to do something else that’ll set him off.

The catcher tries once more to calm him down. “Come on, Ripley. Let’s just get back in the zone. We still have a couple innings left.”

Riptide finally picks up his glove from the dirt. He points at me again, but his voice is lower, more controlled, as he mutters, “This isn’t over. You owe me.”

I nearly roll my eyes. “I owe you nothing,” I say firmly. “Pitch the game or leave the field. That’s your choice.”

For a second, I think he’s about to launch another tirade, but then he bites down on his lip and storms back to the mound, firing a resentful look my way. Meanwhile, the manager lingers in front of me for a moment longer, his gaze boring into me as though he’s memorizing my face for future vendettas. Then he turns on his heel and stomps back to the dugout.

I replace my facemask, ignoring the sheen of sweat on my forehead. My pulse is pounding, but outwardly I keep it together. I glance toward the stands, noticing a few fans leaning forward in their seats, cameras and phones raised to capture the drama. Great—this’ll probably end up on social media, with endless debates about the call. But if it’s the right call, it’s the right call. That’s why I’m here… to keep the game fair.

The next pitch from Riptide is a fastball, low and inside. “Strike!” I call, my voice echoing across the field. The batter barely flinches. There’s a certain heat behind that throw, a barely contained rage that might cost Riptide if he can’t control it.

He sets up for the second pitch, shoulders taut, tension visible in every muscle. The ball rockets toward home plate, this time going wide. “Ball!” I bark.

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