WILL UMPIRES BE REPLACED BY ROBOTS?

 

            During Spring Training of 1950, Brooklyn Dodgers President Branch Rickey introduced an electronic umpire to the team’s Vero Beach training camp. Rickey had no intention of replacing umpires with machines. He saw the innovation as more of a teaching tool. But the implication was clear.

            …That automatons could do an equivalent if not better job than the men in blue.

            Skipping straight to the epilogue, Rickey’s machine never caught on. Still, the argument has persisted to the present day. In 2016, an episode of the HBO series, Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel, helped bolster the popular belief that umpires—particularly those behind home plate—are incompetent. After analyzing roughly a million major league pitches over a three and a half year period, Yale Professor Toby Moskowitz told Real Sports reporter Jon Frankel that more than 30,000 erroneous ball/strike calls are made each season for an overall accuracy rate of eighty-eight percent.

            …Not an especially impressive number to say the least.

            Writing for the Kansas City Star in 2017, journalist Lee Judge groused about a blown call made by home plate umpire Marty Foster in a game between the Royals and Twins. In many televised games, networks superimpose computerized graphics on the screen so fans at home can see which pitches land within the strike zone. These graphics are generally considered to be extremely accurate. Analyzing the network data, Judge determined that Foster missed thirteen calls during the game, including a critical one that should have given the Royals their second out of the ninth inning.

            Commenting on computerized strike zones, Chicago TV producer Marc Brady said: “Humans have bad days. Computers don’t. Maybe the sun angle affects the umpire’s view of a pitch…or maybe he’s just freezing and wants to go home. A computer has nowhere to go.” Thinking along those lines, former major leaguer Eric Byrnes pondered: “Why do millions of people sitting at home get to know whether or not it’s a ball or strike, yet the poor dude behind home plate is the one who’s left in the dark?”

            Why indeed?

            Well, the answer is rather complex. Aside from the fact that baseball is a sport steeped in tradition, there are other obvious reasons. Not everyone supports the idea of an automated strike zone. Multimedia sports personality Joe Giglio cautioned that: “As with any technological advancement, it could come with issues. If the strike zone was ‘off’ or malfunctioned, baseball would either have to empower the umpire to make the correct call or deal with the missed pitches.” Former National League umpire Harry Wendelstedt went one step further, proposing humorously: “If they did get a machine to replace [umpires], you know what would happen to it? Why, the players would bust it to pieces every time it ruled against them. They’d clobber it with a bat.”

            With offense on the decline and strikeouts dramatically on the rise in the majors, MLB commissioner Rob Manfred made an arrangement with the independent Atlantic League to implement various experimental changes. In addition to moving the pitching rubber back from its standard sixty-feet, six-inch placement, Atlantic League president Rick White agreed to begin using “robot umpires” during the 2019 season.

             The so-called “robo-umps” don’t look anything like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character in the Terminator movies. The technology is actually known as TrackMan. It’s a 3D Doppler radar system that precisely measures the location, trajectory and spin rate of hit and pitched baseballs. The device can be precisely aligned to the strike zone to determine balls and strikes. Most major league parks already have the devices in place, though they have mostly been used for coaching and scouting purposes.

            After a series of questionable calls in the 2019 World Series, Commissioner Manfred announced that the electronic strike zone would be used on an experimental basis in selected minor league ballparks during the 2020 campaign. In particular, the Class-A Florida State League was mentioned as a possible setting. The MLB Umpires Association officially agreed to cooperate with the development and testing of the technology in conjunction with a new five-year labor contract. 

            No matter how the experiment turns out, the fact of the matter is that home plate umpires (in some capacity) are likely here to stay. And it’s difficult not to sympathize with them given the demanding nature of their jobs. According to retired American League arbiter Nestor Chylak, officials are expected to “be perfect on the first day of the season and then get better every day.” Adhering to an extremely convoluted rulebook, they make hair-trigger decisions knowing that their calls will affect the fortunes of the players and teams involved.

            Despite their imperfections, umpires have played a vital role in the game’s history. Former major league commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti described the public perception of umpires in figurative terms: “Baseball fits America well because it expresses our longing for the rule of law while licensing our resentment of law givers.” That resentment has flourished for a very long time.

            Whether we sympathize with them or not, it is an irrefutable fact that the decisions of umpires have dramatically altered the fabric of baseball history. In the heat of the moment, mistakes are often made. And the consequences of these mistakes have been monumental at times.     

 

UMPIRES OF THE OLD SCHOOL: TIM HURST

            At 5-foot-5, the diminutive Hurst was known to some as “Tiny Tim.” But true to the words of an iconic Star Wars character, he proved that “size matters not.” The pugnacious Hurst was known to keep players under control with both words and fists. Hailed by a writer from the The Sporting Life for “having the finest brand of keen-cutting, kill-at-a-thousand-yards sarcasm of any umpire in captivity,” his fiery temperament would eventually drive him out of baseball.

            Born to Irish parents in Ashland, Pennsylvania, Hurst learned to fight at an early age. His father worked in the wholesale liquor business then purchased a horse and wagon to deliver coal. Young Tim was expected to help support the family and, as a youth, he picked slate for a local mining establishment. Rounds of fisticuffs were common among workers during lunch hours and Hurst was sometimes in the mix. His love of boxing led to multiple stints as a fight referee in the years that followed.

            At twenty-two years of age, Hurst became a professional umpire in the Central Pennsylvania League. He called plays in the Southern League and Western Association before taking a job as manager of the Minneapolis Millers. The Millers came close to winning a championship on his watch, but Hurst failed to endear himself to club executives and ended up being replaced. In 1891, he joined the umpiring crew of the National League.

            Hurst was well-suited to the rowdy days of early baseball. Hall of Fame arbiter Bill Klem recalled: “[Hurst] was so tough that if a ballplayer did not like one of his decisions and challenged him on the field, Tim would say ‘OK, we’ll stop the game and go right under the stands and settle it now.’”

            With a reputation for making highly accurate decisions, Hurst had an interesting way of maintaining order behind the plate. “Never put a catcher out of a game,” he told a New York Herald reporter. “If the man in back of the bat is sassy and objects to your calling of balls and strikes, keep close behind him while doing your work and kick him every time he reaches out to catch a ball. After about the third kick, he’ll shut up.”

            Sometimes Hurst’s feisty temperament led to amusing results. According to historian Fred Lieb, Hurst made a call that went against Cincinnati’s third baseman, Arlie Latham, one day. Latham tore off his glove and kicked it in protest. It landed at the feet of Hurst, who promptly kicked it right back to Latham. The festivities didn’t end there.  According to Lieb: “taking turns, Arlie and Tim booted the glove all the way to the outfield fence.”

            On a number of occasions, Hurst’s outbursts were less than entertaining. In 1897, he was arrested in Cincinnati after he picked up a beer stein that had been tossed onto the field by an angry fan and whipped it back into the stands. The projectile hit a local fireman named James Cartuyvelles, opening a deep gash over his eye. Several years later, Hurst got into a physical altercation with New York Highlanders manager Clark Griffith during an on-field dispute. Though Griffith denied being punched when questioned afterward, his swollen lip lent little credence to that claim. Both men were suspended for five games.

            In addition to his violent outbursts, Hurst was known to generate prolific streams of profanity. In 1900, multiple NL owners requested that he be banned from their ballparks due to his “ungentlemanly language.” The final straw for Hurst came on August 3, 1909. During the second game of a doubleheader between the A’s and White Sox in Philadelphia, Hurst made an uncharacteristically erroneous call on Eddie Collins. Collins was evidently safe at second base, but Hurst ruled him out, believing there had been some sort of interference on the play. When Collins protested, Hurst resorted to reprehensible behavior. In the colorful language of Philadelphia North American sportswriter, Jimmy Isaminger: “…the umpire distributed a mouthful of moistened union-made tobacco in the direction of youthful Eddie, who immediately called Tim’s attention to the Board of Health ordinance which prohibits expectorating in public places.” Fans went ballistic, throwing cushions and bottles in Hurst’s direction after the game. It took police nearly half an hour to safely escort the embattled arbiter out of the stadium.

             After a full investigation of the spitting incident, Hurst was fired by AL President Ban Johnson. He had already tested Johnson’s patience earlier in the season when he traded punches with infielder Kid Elberfeld. Few sportswriters were terribly surprised by the outcome. A correspondent from The Sporting Life remarked: “Umpire Tim Hurst’s excessive pugnacity has at last landed him outside the major league breastworks—as had long been expected.”

                Cast out of baseball, Hurst turned to other sports as a promoter. He later made a living selling real estate. In 1915, he died suddenly after a bout with food poisoning. He had been ill for some time before then though his condition was not considered terribly serious.

UMPIRES OF THE OLD SCHOOL: DICK HIGHAM

            If there were a Hall of Fame for dishonest umpires, Dick Higham would be a founding member. To date, he remains the only arbiter ever to be permanently banished from the sport.

            Born in County Suffolk, England, Higham was two years-old when he moved with his family to America. He began playing baseball as a teenager. After spending time with the New York Empire and Morrisania Union clubs, he ascended to the majors with the New York Mutuals. The promotion was bittersweet as his mother passed away within weeks of his big league arrival.  

            Higham was a talented hitter, compiling a lifetime .307 batting average for six different teams. Most often appearing at the top of the order, he led the National League in doubles twice and runs score once. A versatile fielder, he played every position on the diamond except for pitcher. He served in the outfield more often than not, but also spent a significant amount of time behind the plate. Catching was a hazardous profession in the 1800s due to the lack of protective equipment. Gloves were sparsely padded. There were no shin-guards and the use of masks and chest protectors was uncommon.

            Over the course of his career, rumors began to circulate that Higham was fixing games for a price. Though nothing was ever proven, his playing days ended when he was still very much in his prime. Upon retiring in 1880, he settled in Troy, New York. Despite his questionable past, the National League hired him as an umpire in 1881. At the time, NL umpires had to be approved by team owners. Of the two dozen candidates selected that year, Higham placed third in voting.

            Umpires were assigned to specific teams and Higham ended up with the Providence Grays to start the season. Later that year, he called games for the Detroit Wolverines and Troy Trojans. In all, he drew fifty-eight assignments, performing well enough to be honored with a testimonial game at season’s end.

            In 1882, Higham placed eighth in voting during the selection process. He started the season with Detroit and drew the suspicions of Wolverines owner William G. Thompson, who believed that Higham was making calls against his team. A private detective hired by Thompson confirmed those misgivings. A letter written by Higham to a notorious gambler was discovered. In it, a simple telegram code for placing bets was established. “Buy all the lumber you can” was a cue to bet on the Wolverines while no telegram was an advisement to bet against them.

            Confronted by a group of disgruntled owners, Higham was fired from his position and banned from the sport. He never admitted to any of the charges made against him. Upon being dismissed from his duties, he settled into a career as a bookkeeper. He was married with two sons at the time of his death in 1905 from complications of Bright’s disease (an ailment characterized by chronic inflammation of the kidneys).

            Higham’s case helped raise awareness of the dishonesty within baseball and the need to hold umpires accountable for their actions. 1882 was the first year in which umpires, players and managers were all prohibited from betting on games. Though shady dealings would continue to pervade the sport over the next few decades, the situation was more closely monitored following Higham’s expulsion.  

 

UMPIRING IN THE DIM AND DISTANT PAST

 

            Baseball in the nineteenth century had little in common with the game of today. For starters, stadiums were much smaller and constructed of wood, making them vulnerable to fire. During the latter half of the 1800s, at least four big league ballparks were consumed by flames. In the earliest days of baseball, stadiums were lacking the most basic amenities, such as dugouts and clubhouses. Players and umpires alike were left unguarded against insults and projectiles hurled by disgruntled fans.

            Strategies were far different in the days of old. Baseball guru Bill James once described nineteenth century tactics as “violent” and “criminal.” Umpires often worked alone and were charged with the daunting task of covering the entire field by themselves. As can only be expected, players got away with murder. Before rules were developed to prohibit specific forms of negligent behavior, infielders were known to trip base runners or grab their belts to restrain them from advancing. If an umpire’s attention was drawn to a play in the outfield, runners were known to cut directly across the diamond toward home instead of rounding third base. 

            Umpiring could be extremely hazardous during the first century of major league play. In addition to frequent streams of verbal abuse, the men in blue were routinely assaulted by players and fans alike. At the end of his career, umpire Joe Rue asserted: “I’ve been hit by mud-balls and whiskey bottles and had everything from fruits and vegetables thrown at me. I’ve probably experienced more violence than any other umpire who ever lived.” Baseball historian John Thorn remarked of the early days: “In the late-1800s, a player who had a pugilistic background might be better equipped to handle a rowdy player than a banker or a doctor or a dentist.” It should come as no surprise then that Billy Mclean, the game’s first professional umpire, was a skilled boxer.

            Player protests often led to assorted unpleasantries. According to Thorn, the familiar cry of ‘Kill the Umpire!’ was a very tangible threat. “Home team fans typically claimed that the umpire was in the fix. Kicking dirt on an umpire’s suit took on a kind of symbolism. The idea is, by kicking dirt, you attack the institution, you attack the partiality of the umpire.”

            In a compelling anecdote from baseball’s Deadball Era, umpires Bob Emslie and Frank Dwyer had their hands full in a game between the Boston Beaneaters and Brooklyn Superbas at Washington Park in New York. When the game ended in favor of the visitors on a controversial call at home plate, nearly half of the spectators (numbering around 6,000) rushed onto the field. Surrounded by hostile fans, Dwyer was jostled roughly while Emslie was punched repeatedly. Both were peppered with dirt and stones before Boston players—some armed with bats—came to their aid. Police eventually escorted the arbiters to their train platform, where more fans had assembled to greet the officials with assorted insults and epithets. Dwyer lasted just two more seasons before retiring. Emslie—ever the warrior—continued as an umpire into the 1920s.

            Over time, fans learned how to behave and umpiring became a more civilized profession. Recognizing the need to properly instruct suitable candidates, NL arbiter George Barr opened the first training school in 1935. Barr’s American League counterpart, Bill McGowan, opened a second academy for umpires a few years later. The schools dramatically improved the quality of the game. Not only were graduates more cognizant of the rules, but they were taught to be impartial and professional as well. Umpires with fiery temperaments were gradually rooted out of baseball.