At every stop on this trip I found myself thinking about what I would write. This heightened my blogging experience, because I found that it caused me to be more mindful of every experience. How would I capture this moment? How could I frame this in a way that might be memorable, humorous, or at the very least engaging.
Nothing prepared me for that call as I made my final miles toward home from the east side of the state. I didn’t even know how I was going to share this in an appropriate way as part of the overall experience.
I joined the Seattle association (NBUA) in 1984, just after the end of the high school season. The following season was my first full season with NBUA – and that was when I met this newcomer named Tom. For four decades we worked countless games, had numerous debates about rules, mechanics, and situations, and grew in maturity as umpires.
I could always count on Tom for three things – brutally honest input, an unquenchable desire to learn more, and an unrivaled passion for the game. Every time we worked together I knew the first thing that would come out of his bag would be a little ceramic statue, on which the letter “I” was positioned atop a heart which, itself, was positioned atop a baseball. This little “I love baseball” rebus became something that, while unceremoniously produced every game, became Tom’s talisman.
The stories I could write of Tom would take days to complete and would become monotonous after a while, and it’s hard to exercise brevity in a moment such as this. But one particular episode comes to mind, and it’s one I know I will share at his memorial service.
One fine spring afternoon Tom and I were assigned as part of a three-man crew to work a game at an inner city park between a local junior college and what was allegedly a college from Canada. As it turned out, this was not a college team at all but some sort of college-aged club team that was not very good. Tom was no stranger to wearing his feelings on his sleeve, so when he found out that we had not one but TWO games between these teams he was livid – especially when he found out about the second game only just after having worked the first.
Tom was assigned to work as the first base umpire for game one, which meant that he would have to put on the gear to call balls and strikes for game two. He seethed in silence between games, only breaking the silence with an occasional griping about the fates that had conspired to ruin his afternoon. I did my best to placate him, but to no avail.
Tom had a number of quirks on the field, one of which was his method for keeping track of what inning it was. This game was far enough back that Lower Woodland (the field we were working) had not yet been completely turfed, so there were numerous dandelions poking up through the outfield grass. For this game Tom decided to pluck a dandelion for each inning and lay it meticulously next to the others near the first base foul line. As I had rotated from the third base umpire position to first base, I got into position to start the game and immediately saw Tom’s inning counters neatly arrayed. I knew that I had one opportunity to try to get Tom to crack.
As we neared the end of bottom of the second I knew tom would position himself on the first base line between half innings, so I flashed him the signal to meet between innings. He dutifully echoed the signal back to me. The trap was set. Sure enough, once the third out was recorded he headed up the line to meet up with me.
Steam was still coming from Tom’s ears. I knew for this to work, I had to keep a poker face. “Yeah, what is it?” Tom inquired curtly. Now, normally we have these conversations side by side, facing the same direction, as if we are looking at the same thing. I began that way, but then circled around so I was facing straight up to him. I had managed to hide, in my right hand, the nine dandelions he had plucked from the previous game, bunched into a short but neat bouquet. “These are few you,” I whispered in a manner that a man would present to his woman while sheepishly trying to work his way out of the doghouse.
Tom looked dumbfoundedly at the scraggly bouquet. He started to shake his head in disbelief, then the corners of his mouth began to curl up, almost defiantly. He looked me in the eyes with a mixture or amusement and disappointment – he was dead set on holding on to his tantrum, and I had broken him of it.
“Darn you. You know what you did, don’t know? Now I can’t hold on to my nasty temper because you’ve taken all the fun out of it.” He chuckled. The spell was broken.
I smiled victoriously. “Mission accomplished!” I cackled back at him.
It was a silly little thing, and of all the stories why that one sticks with me the most, I’m not sure. Other than this –
Tom shared a lot with me over the years about his life and his upbringing. He was almost fifteen years older than I, but always treated me as an equal in life (and deferred to me on the field). Tom had to go through a lot of work to learn that there are more effective ways of dealing with life than rage – which was the only thing he had been taught by his abusive father. Tom so badly wanted to excel as an official that he sought help to become a better person at tackling adversity and controversy, so much so that he eventually (and proudly) developed the self-moniker of the “Kinder, Gentler Tom” after his reform. To see Tom briefly slip into the rageful guy that he once was and be able to pull him back into his “kinder, gentler” phase was a victory on multiple levels.
I got the joy of being Tom’s assignor for the final two years of his life. We shared many conversations, including when he wrestled with the desire to see if he could give umpiring college ball one more try at the age of 79. I encouraged him to go for it and he tried out. I will never forget the elated call from him when he was informed that he was accepted and would receive assignments for the 2026 season.
Toward the end of the season, things began to unravel. He began to turn back assignments, and ended up not showing for a game altogether. I tried to stay in touch with him, but he was only sending cryptic apologies and requests to “give him some time.” All that I knew was that after so many decades of keeping whatever demons his father had instilled in him at bay, he was losing the battle. He was no longer living at home, so I had no way of finding him. All I could do is leave messages of encouragement, hoping he would get through.
He didn’t.
As his wife went through his things, she found a very short note. All it said was this, “Please make sure that Tim Stevens gets my ‘I love baseball’ statue.”
In his final moments of despair, knowing that he thought of me, and to make that his final gesture, is moving beyond words.
I will always remember him as the kinder, gentler Tom. The statue accompanies me to my final assignments, and will be a constant companion when I make my national tour.
When the time comes for Tom’s memorial, I know there will be numerous flowers, as is the standard gesture to mourn one’s passing. For my part, I’m not a cheapskate, but I will keep it both simple and meaningful.
Nine little dandelions.
I know Tom would want it that way.