Dan's Papers - August 24, 2007 - A Detailed Account of the Artists-Writers Game Last Saturday

Saturday, August 18 was the most perfect day to hold the annual Artist-Writers softball game in East Hampton. The temperature was in the low 70s. The day was sunny. All the foliage in town was in bloom. And not far away, the Yankees were charging hard at the Red Sox for first place in the American League and the Mets were in first place in the other league, holding off the Phillies. Baseball was in the air. And our guys were doing just great.

Just before three o'clock - the time when the game would begin there on the sandlot field in the park behind Waldbaums - the Artists and Writers held batting practice, slapping the softball this way and that, with the fielders making diving catches into the dust of the infield or heading back for fly balls to the snow fence defining the outer reaches of the ball field to bring down long drives. Many of the participants had not seen each other during the previous year. Others, such as Donny Deutch and Kaylie Peters, were new to the game and were welcomed with handshakes and slaps on the back. T-shirt and hotdog vendors were walking about.

The crowds of people were filing in and sitting in the bleachers or setting up chairs along the sidelines. And there was, along the third base line, a new addition to the game, which seemed to have been a result of a debate held earlier in the week by some of the village officials of the town. Two rows of yellow crime tape, stretched tight, defined the point in front of which, for their own safety, spectators should not go - in foul territory down the third base line and all the way to the left field wall. Meanwhile, in deference to the fact that there are usually fewer foul balls down the first base line side, there was on that side of the field no such corresponding yellow tape.

Photographers were everywhere. Behind the backstop, boxing commentator Bert Sugar held forth.

"I've been told that the number of photographers at the game this year has set a new Artist-Writers record," he said.

Three great beauties, model Christie Brinkley, actress Laurie Singer and TV personality B. Smith, were suited up for the game and posing for the herds of photographers. There were flashes and clicking noises and "thank yous" and autographs.

The game began with a thundering attack by the Artists, including wallops by Jeffrey Meizlik, Eddie McCarthy, and John Longmeyer. Before it ended, four runs had come in. But it didn't seem fair. Mort Zuckerman, the pitcher for the Writers, was pitching a good game it seemed to me, but the ball was just going where his fielders weren't. Tough luck. The runners ran around.

I was the umpire calling balls and strikes behind the mound on this gorgeous afternoon, and I commiserated with Zuckerman as once again an easy grounder went just wide of a fielder's outstretched glove. Well, it was just the beginning of the game.

In the bottom of the first, the Writers really belted around the new pitcher for the Artists, landscape architect Joe Sopiak, the replacement for actor Roy Scheider, who was off on a shoot in Europe and could not get home on time for the game.

But the balls, hard hit by the Writers as they were, landed squarely in the Artists' gloves. And there were two really spectacular diving stops of ground balls by Artist Eric Ernst at shortstop, both of which were converted into outs. The Writers went down without being able to score.

An interesting bit of commentary from Bert Sugar accompanied one blow by the Writers in the bottom of the first. It had been a high fly ball to center. Keep in mind that there was almost no wind on this most gorgeous day.

"There's a drive! The centerfielder is going back - way, way back. And he makes the catch."

The centerfielder, Eddie McCarthy, had taken a few steps back at the crack of the bat, then made a better judgment of the arc of the ball and jogged in to catch it, just behind second base. Sugar, apparently, did not have on his glasses.

I did my best to umpire this game from behind the mound, but it wasn't easy. It never is. At the slightest possibility of anything, the players, many of whom are competitive to the point of turning red in the face and screaming at the slightest close call that does not come their way, are all over us umpires, bursting out of the sidelines and running onto the field to confront us. Then Lief Hope, the organizer of the game, runs out shouting to support whatever decision we have made and sometimes, I just feel like saying, "look, I got the last ten things right. I don't get any compliments for those, do I?" But then, umpires are just supposed to stand their ground and take it. It's a tough job.

Without a doubt, the most controversial play of the day came with a terrific shot down the right field line and over the fence by adventurer Richard Weise in the bottom of the sixth.

Weise is one of the great power hitters of the game. He hit a home run in the fourth and on another occasion, sent a screaming line drive directly at my head behind the mound, which spun me around like a top trying to get out of its way.

(Later, I learned that this shot had not been from him, but had been a whack by Jeff Meizlik. But at the time, I had believed it was Weise. Honestly, when it happened, it knocked whoever had hit it right out of my head. So there I was, calling balls and strikes on Weise and hiding behind the landscape architect still pitching. Let him take the hit.)

In any case, there was one out and one man on and the Writers behind 6-3 when Weise came up, so this shot seemed very important at the time.

It was a tremendous drive, hit so far over the fence that it nearly struck a goal post that marked the end of the football field that defined the opposite end of the park. But it was right down the line. Fair? Or foul?

On this wonderful day, I had been all over the infield, looking for possible upcoming close calls. Someone would hit a single to left with a runner on second, I'd head for home to be ready for a play there. Someone would hit a bouncer to third with a man on first, I'd scoot toward second to watch both that base and first. I was doing my job.

On this particular occasion, I was, however, holding a turnip. Now how that had come about was because between innings, Leif Hope had handed it to me. It was heavy, painted white and slightly larger than a softball.

"You hold on to this," Leif whispered as he slipped it surreptitiously into my hand so the crowd couldn't see. "Umps carry softballs sometimes. Just watch for me. I'll give you the signal. You switch it with the pitcher's softball. He throws it. BAM."

As the infield warmed up - this was two batters before Weise was to come up - I gave the landscape architect a peek at the turnip.

"They want me to do WHAT?" he asked. As I said, Roy Scheider was away. The man was new.

"This game has been played for 59 consecutive years," I whispered. "It's a tradition. In the first game on Wilfrid Zogbaum's front lawn in 1948, Barney Rosset threw a turnip to Willem de Kooning. And, to his great surprise, since he thought it was a softball, he smashed it to smithereens."

"Oh," the landscaper said. He reached for my turnip.

"Not yet," I said. "I'll tell you when."

The first batter up, Hugo Lindgren, took two strikes and a ball. I was busy. How the hell do you hold a turnip in plain sight so nobody can see it, raise your right hand into the air to show the strikes, and your left hand into the air to show the balls? I kept thinking I ought to put something in my pocket, or clench something in my teeth, but I couldn't figure out what. Also, what if I dropped the turnip and it just exploded right there in back of the mound? Meanwhile, I could not locate Hope to get the sign. He was nowhere to be seen.

With the count one and two, Lindgren singled, bringing up Weise. And so this is what I wanted you to know about the condition I was in there in back of the mound when Weise hit a long drive down the right field line.

The point is, I didn't take off on the run to get to the first base foul line to see if it was fair or foul. I had the damned turnip. I also did not react right away for another reason. The thought had flashed through my mind about how grateful I was that Weise had not hit a line drive at my head.

And so, I was only halfway over to the first base line when the ball came down alongside the goal posts. I thought - I have no idea. And I thought - thank goodness we have a first base umpire who could make the call. And then I thought, where is he?

The first base umpire (who shall remain nameless), for some reason, had decided before this ball was hit to lope over into shallow right field between first and second base. I do not know why he did this. He was out of position. So he couldn't make the call, either.

But he did. He was very forceful about it. He stuck out his left arm and pointed. And he shouted "foul ball."

And I thought, "Yes? No?" And then everybody was swarming all over the field.

The most competitive ball player on the field is, without a doubt, Mike Lupica, a 5' 6" sparkplug of a fellow who, in real life, is the star sportswriter for the New York Daily News. In prior years, he has been all over me about things. "You call that UMPIRING? This is CRAP!" Things like that.

And so he ran out and this is what he said to me.

"That ball was dead fair. Two runs brings us back into the ballgame. You should overrule your right field umpire when you see a bad call like that. Ask the catcher. Even HE says it was fair."

And I thought, holding the turnip there, that's a whole lot of words for this particular occasion coming from Mike Lupica. What has come over him?

And so, Weise trotted back to the plate and on the next pitch, hit a drive deep to right, but before the fence, which was caught. And so the Writers, after the next hitter grounded out, left the field, still behind 6-3, rather than 6-5.

And in the next inning, on the first pitch, Jeff Hilford smacked the turnip into a thousand pieces. And out on the mound, the landscaper and I hit each other a gleeful high-five.

In the top of the eighth inning, with the Artists still ahead by 6 to 3, the wheels came off the game for the Writers. Zuckerman had returned to pitching for the Writers, after a break, where Benito Vila pitched three successful innings and now, the Artists were banging the ball all over the lot.

It wasn't just luck now, as it had been in the top of the first. These were catchable balls missed, bad throws, fielders letting balls drop. It was awful. At one point, after a double scored two more runs, Zuckerman, holding the ball on the pitcher's mound, looked at his outfielders as the smoke cleared with a wan smile, and then turned to me and said one word. Zuckerman can be tough with people. But I have never heard him curse. Then he did.

The inning ended with the posting of seven more Artists' runs, stretching their total to l3.

In the bottom of the ninth, my son David came up to hit for the Writers. This is the second year he has played in the game. And I have always looked forward to calling balls and strikes against him. But last year, he had popped out on the first pitch. And this year, again, he swung at the first pitch and popped out once again. Next year, before the game, I have to talk to him about waiting the first few pitches out.

Then Richard Weise came up again and belted a THIRD - no make it a SECOND - homerun over the right field fence. But it was too little, too late.

Final score: Artists 13, Writers 5.

After the game, up in the courtyard of the Lodge Restaurant, many of the players, all covered with dust and sweat, milled around at this traditional post-game get-together, drinking beer and taking about who did what and what might have been and so forth and so on.

And I walked up to the catcher for the Artists, Tom Clohessy, and asked him about the homerun ball down the right field line that Weise had hit in the bottom of the sixth.

"I saw it very clearly," he said. "It cleared the fence right over the metal post that secures the fence and is stuck in the foul line there. It is only three feet high. It would have been better if it were ten feet high, like a real foul pole, but it wasn't. And then the ball curved foul and it landed foul. So it was foul as far as I was concerned. Look - if it was a fair ball, I would have said so at the time."

I thanked him for his opinion. Then I thought, so he would sell out the Artists, a team he has played for during each of the past ten years straight, for the truth? I wasn't so sure about that. I was back to square one.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Let me buy you another beer."

Leif Hope stood up and announced the results of the game, He announced that the Most Valuable Player of the game was Joe Sopiak.

And he also talked about the money raised for charity. Sponsors for the event had contributed nearly $80,000 for East End Hospice, East Hampton Day Care Center and the Phoenix House, the most money ever raised at this annual event. And everybody, red shirts and blue shirts, all together, let out a cheer.