Larry Miller, contributing humorist

THE UMPIRE struck back. He ripped off his mask, turned to the stands where sat his tormentor, stalked over, breathed heavily several times to collect himself, looked up through the fence and fixed her with a hard countenance that would have made Captain Ahab say, "Boy, that guy is really angry." Then he spoke, each word as heavy as the aluminum bats splayed out on the ground. "That's it, lady. That . . . is . . . it. One more word from you, you open your mouth one more time, and I'm throwing you out."

The woman, no shrinking violet, mockingly met his flashing eye with both of her own, bit back the piquant rejoinder she was no doubt playing pepper with and nodded her sarcastic assent to Inspector Javert, who replaced his mask, hulk-walked his way back to home plate and resumed play.

The good news is, that woman is my wife. The other good news is, she's the diplomat of the family. The umpire, I don't know so well. But I expect to see him at another epic contest before the end of the season, that contest, by the way, not being the one on the field between the two crack squads of six-year-olds in their too-big hats, but between himself and The Divine Mrs. M. I don't envy him. This is a woman who out-drank me on our first date and appeared, at the close of it, perfectly fit to perform an involved surgery. (Which, in a sense, several

Now, why do I call that good news? Why does my heart swell with pride at my wife's making a volunteer official angry enough to spit? After all, look at the poor guy: a gangly adolescent who, even in the open air, made the diamond smell like Clearasil; an otherwise good kid who chose this noble, unpaid work over spending time driving next to me with his radio blasting. Of course, I'm thrilled that he and others like him are giving their time in something wholesome. Truth to tell, he wasn't even the bad guy. He was between my wife and the bad guy. The bad guy was using him as a shield (Sound familiar?). That makes him innocent, you say? Tough noogies for both of them, I say. Let me tell you the story.

At the risk of overstating the obvious, the whole point of six-year-olds playing organized T-ball is to learn how to: hit the ball; field the ball; throw the ball; pump their arms while running; stop crying; etc. They don't keep score, because there's no reason to keep score, because who cares? Any parent who does care should be slapped for a half hour and ordered to see a stadium full of therapists. The coaches who give their time to these leagues are, without compare, the finest American men I have ever met. They smile warmly, they guide, they teach, they have endless patience, they treat all the kids equally (even when their own kids are playing), and, from my first moment of contact with these fine men, it disturbed me greatly to realize that I am not one of them.