Dear God, It’s me Scott Barry.
Please don’t let Ryan Howard hurt me. Please. I’m scared God.
Very scared. And I didn’t even do anything wrong! Did you see him put his hands on his
hips to mock me? Me, God. Me. I’m Scott Barry.
Who is he? Ryan
Howard? Yeah, right. Like people are gonna remember him in
ten years. Whereas the name Howard will be washed away by the sands of time, the name
Barry will ring out through the ages, like a beacon of white light signaling all
that is true and good in this cruel world. Please don’t let him find me. I know he checked his second swing, I know it. But he mocked me, so I had to toss him
out. The players need to know
their roles. The fans come to see
us umpires make good calls like that, not to see oafs like Howard work a count
full with two men on in the bottom of extra innings. That’s what fans really want to see: great calls. Not great
plays. And what can they do about it? Baseball needs us umpires, God.
They do. It’s not like there are technologies in place to replace
us. It’s not like they can just
have a computer automate what’s a ball and what’s a strike, or what’s a check
swing or what’s not. Heck, they
don’t even have computers that can tell whether a player is in the base-path or
not. Nope, best to leave that up to us professionals. Replay? Who needs it? Not when they have umpires like us, God. Umpires with egos
who will let personal agendas get in the way of making correct calls. Anyway, I
just wanted to check in and say thanks for protecting me last night. I love you, God.
This post was written by Adam Thomas