I stayed. A lot of the kids I trained after me didn't — not because they couldn't do the job, but because nothing happened after the game.
It started with an odd conversation. I told my parents that while I was enjoying playing baseball, I was more interested in what the umpires were doing. My dad bought me a book — Joe Brinkman's The Umpire's Handbook, which I still have on a shelf in my office. I devoured it from cover to cover, then doubled down: I wanted to try umpiring.
When we went to sign up for baseball the next season — back when it was done in person, at a temporary table set up at the mall (it's a big building where lots of stores set up, but that's not important right now) — we asked if I could sign up to umpire. The volunteers working the table weren't sure what to do with that question, but they grabbed a blank piece of paper, wrote down my name and phone number, and said they'd pass it on.
I got a phone call inviting me to a training night for new umpires. I'd be working tee-ball games to start, and as I got older, I'd make my way up. Five dollars a game sounded pretty good to a nine-year-old, so I showed up.
The man running the training night covered the absolute core basics of umpiring tee-ball. You set the ball on the stand, make sure everyone is paying attention, and call "play ball." If the batter doesn't hit the ball past the five-foot circle at home plate, you call it foul, reset, and try again. If the ball is hit, once it's thrown back in from the outfield and crosses the infield circle, you call time and award each runner the base they're closest to.
That was over thirty years ago. He didn't cover what to do when you're approaching a soft time limit in a close game and have to decide when to declare an open inning. He didn't cover what to do when my partner and I were sure a runner had left a base early on a tag-up appeal, but the third base coach disagreed and wasn't willing to let it go. He didn't cover what to do when we miscommunicated — I thought my partner was signalling that the ball left the field in the air, when he was trying to tell me it bounced before the fence — and I issued my first ejection for arguing a judgement call.
He didn't cover what to do when I heard a parent yell from the stands, "That's a terrible call."
He didn't cover what to do in the parking lot when a parent thanked me for ruining the game for them.
He didn't cover what to do when an ESPN announcer said they weren't sure why I'd called one pitch a ball and the next one a strike.
Nobody talks about what to do when you know you blew a call, but you have to carry on with the rest of the game.
Nobody talks about how hard it is to be an official who wants to get it right, when sometimes the play just doesn't co-operate.
It's not a lack of training, and it's not about being out of position. Sometimes sports just happens, and there's nothing you can do about it.
But it's also about the partner who gives you a fist-bump after the game: "Nice work, you did a great job today."
The supervisor who was watching, and gives you constructive feedback on how you could handle a tricky situation differently next time.
The coach who says, "Hey, I saw you working out there, and I appreciate it."
None of that is luck. Every one of those is something somebody decided to do, so start there. Somebody steps up to your table and says, "I'd like to become an official." What happens next?