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Bee swarm forces game delay in San Diego |
The game between the Astros and Padres was delayed for 52 minutes in the top of the ninth inning when a swarm of bees took over part of left field at Petco Park.
After Joe Thatcher's first pitch to Miguel Tejada with two out in the ninth, Padres left fielder Kyle Blanks began walking in toward the infield. Second base umpire Mike Reilly went out to check what was going on. Within minutes, the rest of the players left the field.
The swarm first appeared along the warning track. Later, fans were cleared out of several sections down the left-field line. Houston led 6-1 at the time. A beekeeper was called to the downtown ballpark and sprayed a chair and a ball girl's jacket that had attracted the bees.
Padres president Tom Garfinkel said head groundskeeper Luke Yoder had the beekeeper on his speed dial.
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By DOUG GLANVILLE
When I first started playing professional baseball, I was told by my head coach in single-A, Bill Hayes, that I was being too formal in how I addressed the officials of the game. I called him (and others) “Coach,” and on the field I referred to all umpires as “Blue.”
No one seemed to like those names, so eventually I accepted that I would have to use their first names. I treaded lightly because I knew my southern-raised mom would cringe at the idea. But with my 1992 season in Winston-Salem, I began my journey in dropping “Mr.” and “Mrs.” from my conversation — ironically, in my mom’s home state of North Carolina.
The formality came from a place of respect. Umpires were the judges on the field, their job was to uphold the law. Sure, it was more like “uphold the rules,” but during a game, in the midst of the exploding sliders, 34-inch bats and high-octane fastballs, it was law to me. Every pitch was in the hands of these arbiters, so I hardly saw it as any different from addressing a police officer, or an elder in church.
Unfortunately, I learned very quickly that umpires and cafeteria food share a common problem. No matter how good they are, we will always find something to complain about.
It must be tough to be measured constantly against perfection. If you get every call right, you are just part of the landscape, but if you miss a call, you have littered on the grounds of that beautiful sierra with the sunset. There is no in-between. It is either/or in its rawest form. You are doing what you are supposed to be doing, or you are flat-out wrong and ruining everyone’s dream.
My one attempt at umpiring happened when I was in high school. I somehow got roped into officiating a game and, thankfully, I had the bases, not balls and strikes. Still, I had no idea where to stand. My instincts kept telling me that I should be in a good place to catch the ball, not where I would be invisible. I worried about blocking the second baseman’s view, and getting hit by a line drive the pitcher had stabbed at, never mind making the right call on a close play. |
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