Baseball field, Brooklyn – 1984

Bottom of the sixth inning, last chance for the Braves, down 7-6, 2 outs.

Playing shortstop for the Giants, the seven-year-old boy who would grow up to pretend his name is Brett Grayson, waits for the pitch. The pitcher delivers (okay, I’m lying, it was T-Ball, no one delivered any pitch). The batter crushes a ball over the outfielder’s head. The Giants outfielder, who was in the outfield for a reason (not coordinated), retrieves the ball. The batter is rounding the bases, heading for home to tie the game.

The outfielder throws the ball to me, and I relay it home. The throw is hard and high. The catcher jumps, but it goes over his head. The umpire, standing behind the catcher, gets in the way of the throw, and it hits him right in the neck below the faceguard.

And he’s out! No, not the runner. The umpire. Out. Unconscious. Coaches run to his side and attend to him.

Me: (to my father) What’s the call, Dad?  Is he out?

35 years later