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 dates later, she did. Hmm. I either have to take that sentence out or tell my wife I didn't write a column this week. "Writer's block, Honey. You know. Heh-heh." Yes, I think that's the way to go.)

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.

To explain, let me go back to last year, our first season, our first experience. Yes, even at that very first practice, I saw that I had no affection for anyone's kid but my own. And if one of the other puppy-legged outfielders wandered in front of my son's position, I was prone to imagine the infringer's head exploding like a melon. At one point my wife approached me at the fence in the middle of this reverie. The way she blanched when I turned told me my kisser had a fierceness that would have made Mohamed Atta look like Charles Nelson Reilly, and my fingers were laced through the metal tines so tightly one might have imagined eighteenth century Redcoats approaching to peel me away for the gibbet. "You're not having fun, are you?" I didn't answer. What was there to say? "If you're not having fun, why do you come?" Again, there was no good answer. "Why don't you just take the baby home and pick us up later at Burger King? The coach and the rest of the sane parents are all going out afterwards." I finally spoke. "Do they have bars these days in Burger Kings?" Now it was her turn not to speak. She sighed and turned, but I stopped her with triumphant clarity. "It's that Tyler, you know, that little son-of-a-" "Taylor," she said. "Whatever. He doesn't concentrate. And he keeps leaving his position. You're not supposed to leave your position." She briefly considered the penalty in California for justifiable homicide and then bade me adieu. It is enough to report that I was home shortly thereafter, and without the baby: She didn't think it was prudent for him to drive with me.