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Kali

I’m sweating buckets under this August sun, and it’s not just because of the heat. The stadium lights haven’t fully flickered on yet, but the early evening glow does nothing to ease the suffocating warmth. The faint smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and sunscreen filters in from the stands—standard minor league ambiance. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I stand behind home plate, tugging my facemask down as the crowd roars and the scoreboard flickers: 3–2, home team trailing by one, top of the seventh inning. It’s close, and everyone can feel it.

I glance at the runner leading off first base. He takes a cautious step, testing the pitcher’s attention. The runner on third looks just as antsy, primed to sprint home at the smallest opportunity. My eyes shift to the pitcher on the mound—Ripley “Riptide” Johnson. He’s tall, lean, and brimming with a cocky confidence that practically radiates off him. If half the stories about him are true, he’s a natural talent on the verge of a big league call-up. But if the other half are true, his ego could fill this entire ballpark.

He sets his stance, glove tucked under his chin, staring down the batter. The batter, a lefty with an open stance, taps the plate twice. The crowd’s hum dies down for a moment, like everyone’s collectively holding their breath. My knees are slightly bent, and I reposition my feet to make sure I have the best angle possible. Umpiring at this level means I can’t afford even the smallest hesitation.

Riptide inhales and begins his motion. I can see the runner on first tense his legs, ready to break if he spots an opening. Riptide lifts his left foot, and I catch a flicker of movement in his shoulders. Something seems off—the angle of his pivot doesn’t match the direction of his stride. At first, I assume he’s going for a snap throw to first, but he hesitates mid-turn. His hips rotate back toward home plate, but he’s no longer in a continuous pitching motion. It’s jarring, like he’s trying to do two separate moves at once.

I know the rulebook inside and out. A pitcher can’t start a move to one base and then suddenly shift toward the plate without completing the initial motion. This is the definition of a balk. My right hand shoots up almost before I consciously decide it’s time.

“Balk!” I call, my voice slicing through the tense silence.

The reaction is instantaneous. The crowd bursts into half cheers and half boos, the stadium’s ambiance plunging into chaos. The runner on third dashes home, practically grinning from ear to ear. He stomps on the plate with a victorious flourish, and the scoreboard flashes a new tie: 3–3. The away team’s dugout erupts in celebration—this run could shift the entire momentum of the game.

Riptide’s glove smacks the dirt as he whips around to face me, fury etched across every line of his face. “Are you kidding me?” he practically roars. Sweat drips down his forehead, and I can see how tense his jaw is. “That wasn’t a balk, and you know it!”

I suppress the flutter of nerves in my stomach. I’ve seen pitchers lose their cool before, but he radiates a particular intensity that’s hard to ignore. “You broke your motion,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “You can’t start to throw to first and then change your mind to pitch home. Textbook balk.”

His eyes flash like he wants to argue the fine print. “I didn’t break anything! I was in my set motion, and I stepped off the rubber legally.”

“Johnson,” the catcher interjects, stepping out of his crouch and placing a cautious hand on Riptide’s shoulder, “relax, man. We’re still in this game.”

Riptide shrugs him off, taking a few steps toward me. Now he’s dangerously close. “No, this is garbage. You just gave them a free run.”

I’ve learned over the years that you never back down as an umpire—never flinch or show a shred of uncertainty. The moment you do, the entire field smells blood. So I square my shoulders, meeting his glare head-on. “I didn’t give anyone anything,” I reply, my tone clipped. “You made the illegal move. We enforce the rules here.”

“You call that enforcing the rules? Looks more like a power trip to me,” he snarls, pointing a finger in my direction.

“Hey!” The home team’s manager, a burly man with a sunburnt neck, bursts out of the dugout. He charges toward us, presumably to hold Riptide back or maybe to direct his own brand of anger at me. The crowd noise intensifies, a rumble of discontent and curiosity. Everyone loves a good argument, apparently.

“Manager’s on the field,” I warn, flipping off my facemask as I turn. “Stay in your dugout,” I tell him, but he ignores me, stomping over with heavy footsteps.

The manager, Reyes, if I recall correctly, plants himself between me and his pitcher, though it’s unclear who he’s really trying to protect. “What’s the call here?” he demands, resting his hands on his hips. “We had a good game going, and now you’re throwing balk calls around like confetti.”

“Your pitcher made an illegal motion,” I explain, gesturing at the rubber. “He engaged for a throw to first, then attempted to revert to pitching home. That’s a balk.”

“You telling me that was a real balk?” Reyes’s voice rises with each word, and I can see the veins popping in his neck. “Or did you just see an opportunity to flex those stripes?”

Outrage flares in my chest, but I force it down. “I’m not here to ‘flex’ anything. Balk is a balk. The rule is clear. Check your replay if you don’t trust me.” I flick my gaze to the scoreboard, which shows the newly tied score. “One run came in because of a mistake. That’s the game. Let’s move on.”

Reyes splutters, but I think he realizes pushing the issue could get him tossed out. The crowd is chanting something now—hard to make out over the general din, but it sounds like a mix of “Ump, you suck!” and “Let him pitch!” Typical fan meltdown. Tuning them out, I gesture for the game to continue. Riptide’s still standing there, eyes locked on me, as though he’s daring me to do something else that’ll set him off.

The catcher tries once more to calm him down. “Come on, Ripley. Let’s just get back in the zone. We still have a couple innings left.”

Riptide finally picks up his glove from the dirt. He points at me again, but his voice is lower, more controlled, as he mutters, “This isn’t over. You owe me.”

I nearly roll my eyes. “I owe you nothing,” I say firmly. “Pitch the game or leave the field. That’s your choice.”

For a second, I think he’s about to launch another tirade, but then he bites down on his lip and storms back to the mound, firing a resentful look my way. Meanwhile, the manager lingers in front of me for a moment longer, his gaze boring into me as though he’s memorizing my face for future vendettas. Then he turns on his heel and stomps back to the dugout.

I replace my facemask, ignoring the sheen of sweat on my forehead. My pulse is pounding, but outwardly I keep it together. I glance toward the stands, noticing a few fans leaning forward in their seats, cameras and phones raised to capture the drama. Great—this’ll probably end up on social media, with endless debates about the call. But if it’s the right call, it’s the right call. That’s why I’m here… to keep the game fair.

The next pitch from Riptide is a fastball, low and inside. “Strike!” I call, my voice echoing across the field. The batter barely flinches. There’s a certain heat behind that throw, a barely contained rage that might cost Riptide if he can’t control it.

He sets up for the second pitch, shoulders taut, tension visible in every muscle. The ball rockets toward home plate, this time going wide. “Ball!” I bark.

The catcher shakes his head slightly as he throws the ball back, probably telling Riptide to breathe, to steady his arm. But the pitcher’s expression is stormy, and his gaze darts back to me more often than it does to the catcher’s signals.

As the at-bat continues, I notice the runner on first creeping off the bag again. The tension is back. If Riptide tries another pick-off move, he’ll have to be flawless. The crowd knows it too. Every time he lifts his foot, the entire stadium seems to hold its breath, waiting for a repeat of that balk call or some other meltdown.

He hurls another fastball. “Foul!” I announce as the batter clips it, sending it dribbling up the first-base line. The runner retreats, and the tension ratchets up another notch. We go through a few more pitches—two more balls, another foul, then finally a sharp grounder to short. The shortstop scoops it neatly and fires to second. They catch the runner in a force play, and the second baseman whips it to first, but the batter beats the throw by a step.

“That’s two outs!” I yell. The scoreboard updates, showing the home team’s fleeting chance to salvage the inning. Riptide stands on the mound, hands on his hips, glaring at the dirt as if it’s personally offended him.

Between batters, I step back to give the catcher some space. He glances up at me. “You all right, Kali?” he asks softly, sounding almost sympathetic.

“I’m fine,” I reply, shifting my mask up to my forehead. “Just hot as hell out here.” My throat is parched, and I’d love a big swig of water, but I can’t leave my post now. The game is still on, the next batter stepping up to the plate. The scoreboard clock says we’re two hours into the contest, and it feels like it’s just heating up in more ways than one.

The next batter is a switch-hitter who opts for the left side. He digs in, adjusting his gloves, and peers at Riptide. I take a moment to look at the man on the mound. His posture is rigid, but there’s no denying his skill. When he’s not fuming at me, his form is something to admire—fluid, powerful, and precise. It’s ironic how someone so talented can let pride sabotage his own performance. So good-looking too.

He delivers another blistering pitch—right down the middle. “Strike!” I call. The batter steps back, presumably to gather himself. The crowd, still a bit rowdy from the earlier drama, begins chanting for a hit.

A group of children leans against the chain-link fence near the dugout, craning their necks to see the action. They’re the purest fans out here, just wanting a good game. They don’t know or care about the drama swirling around Riptide and me. Their innocence is refreshing.

The next pitch is high and outside. “Ball!” I announce, and I notice Riptide flinch. He might be second-guessing every move now, afraid another balk call is coming. The scoreboard still shows a tie, which means this game is on a razor’s edge. A single swing could change everything.

The at-bat stretches longer than usual—fouled-off pitches, more balls, a lot of head shakes from Riptide, and anxious stares from the batter. Finally, on a full count, Riptide unleashes a wicked curveball that breaks late and sends the batter flailing. “Strike three, batter’s out!” I yell, motioning the end of the inning.

That should be the last out for the top of the seventh. Relieved, I peel off my mask and walk toward the umpire’s station for a quick breather and to switch out a couple of scuffed balls. The home team jogs off the field, Riptide heading straight for the dugout without looking at me. I can practically feel the waves of anger emanating from him, but he keeps it tamped down.

As I reach for a fresh set of baseballs, the second base umpire, a veteran named Tully, ambles up behind me. “He giving you trouble?” Tully asks quietly, jerking his chin in Riptide’s direction.

“He’s not thrilled with my call,” I reply, shrugging. “But it was a balk. No question in my mind.”

Tully nods. “I saw it too. Had to happen at some point. Kid’s got good stuff, but that pick-off move’s always been on the edge of legality. Sooner or later, someone was gonna call him for it. Good on you for sticking to your guns.”

I give Tully a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to keep the game fair.” And that’s the truth I remind myself of every time I step on the field.

When we return to our positions, the scoreboard transitions to the bottom of the seventh. The stadium announcer’s voice booms over the speaker system, reminding fans of the post-game fireworks if the home team manages to pull off a victory. The crowd cheers, eager for any sign of a home-team comeback. I check my watch—time is marching on, but the tension remains thick as ever.

Riptide’s team takes the field for defense. I notice he’s still out there, stretching his shoulder and rolling his neck to shake off the previous inning. Despite the drama, he’s staying in the game. I almost respect his determination… almost. But I remember the way he got in my face, accusing me of everything under the sun. That, I don’t appreciate. There’s a line between frustration and hostility, and he tiptoed right over it.

The bottom of the seventh begins with a base hit to left field, and the crowd roars its approval. The next batter bunts, advancing the runner. Then a ground ball to second results in an out, but it moves the runner to third. Just like that, there’s a scoring threat. Riptide’s team scrambles, trying to keep it together. A base hit here would mean the home team takes the lead.

The crowd rises to its feet for the two-out pitch. The batter connects with a solid crack , and the ball screams toward the right-center gap. The runner on third sprints home, crossing the plate before the outfield can scoop and relay. A fresh wave of cheers explodes, making the bleachers quake. The scoreboard updates: 4–3, home team in the lead.

My chest tightens with the excitement of the moment—I love a good nail-biter, even if I’m the neutral official. The intensity, the roar of the crowd, and the tension among the players is what keeps me coming back game after game.

I jog off the field, my throat yearning for water. I can see Riptide reemerging from the dugout, snapping at a teammate who probably offered some unwanted advice. He picks up a bat, likely taking some practice swings for his own turn in the lineup.

I can’t help but shake my head. He’s clearly still fuming, and I brace myself for another confrontation if he crosses my path. However, I remind myself that I’ve dealt with worse. Arrogant players come with the territory. Some nights they calm down; other nights they hold grudges. Either way, I have a job to do, and I intend to do it.

I slip into the small umpire area behind the backstop, grabbing a quick sip of water from a cooler we keep there. My shoulders ache from the constant crouching, my gear feels heavier than ever, and my face is flushed, but the thrill of being on the field overrides every complaint.

As I head back out, a few fans shout at me. “Hey, ump! Call it down the middle, will ya?” one hollers. Another, wearing the visiting team’s hat, yells, “Don’t bail them out again!” I ignore them both. The crowd will always be divided. One side thinks you’re great; the other side thinks you’re blind. That’s the nature of officiating.

When I take my position for the bottom of the seventh, I notice Riptide is next in the batting order. I wonder to myself why he’s even batting. It’s probably his God complex kicking in. Now I’ll get to see if his frustration carries over to the batter’s box. Part of me braces for more fireworks. Will he try to show me up? Maybe get ejected by yelling about something else?

“Why not use a designated hitter?” I mutter as he passes by.

He strides up to the plate, bat propped on his shoulder, eyes locked on me rather than the pitcher. “And let you miss the opportunity of watching me knock it out of the park?” The tension between us is almost tangible. But I focus on the new pitcher, who’s shaking off two signals from his catcher. Finally, the pitcher sets, winds up, and fires a high fastball. Riptide doesn’t even move. “Ball!” I call.

He taps the dirt with his bat. “Well, at least you can see that was high,” he mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

I ignore his dig. The next pitch comes in low and away. “Ball two.” Riptide squares up, but he still sneaks a glance my way, as if challenging me to say something. The crowd’s volume seems to taper, everyone waiting to see if we’ll have another altercation.

Pitch three is right down the heart of the plate. “Strike!” I announce clearly. Riptide scowls, but he doesn’t argue. He steps out of the box, takes a practice swing, and steps back in. The next pitch is borderline, painting the black on the outside corner. It could go either way, but from my angle, it nicks the strike zone. “Strike two!”

He exhales, jaw clenched. I watch him tighten his grip, probably wishing he could do something to retaliate. Then the fifth pitch is a nasty slider in the dirt, and he holds off. “Ball three.”

Now it’s a full count. The stadium is electric again. The fans who love him cheer wildly; those who hate him boo just as loudly. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. The pitcher sets, eyes locked on the catcher’s mitt, and unleashes a rocket of a fastball. Riptide swings, making contact with a deafening crack. The ball slices foul down the left field line, landing among a scramble of fans leaping for a souvenir.

We reset, still locked at three balls and two strikes. The tension is thick as smog. The next pitch is another fastball, but it sails high. “Ball four, batter takes first,” I announce. I give him a little wink. “Maybe you’ll hit it out of the park next time, Rip.” I step aside as Riptide tosses his bat and jogs down the line.

As he passes me, he mutters under his breath, “Don’t think this means we’re cool,” and continues on. I don’t respond. Let him stew. I’m not here to make friends.

Eventually, the inning ends without him scoring. There’s two innings left, and anything can happen in baseball. But for me, the real story of the night has already played out. I called a balk on the local golden boy, and now he’s got a personal vendetta. Fine. I’ve dealt with bigger tempers and stronger personalities.

I take a breath, letting the humidity fill my lungs. The lights overhead are at full brightness now, illuminating every blade of grass and every speck of infield dirt. The scoreboard glows with the 4–3 tally, reminding me we’re not done. I brush dirt off my pants and settle my mask back on my face, preparing for the top of the eighth.

No matter what else happens tonight, I know I made the right call. Riptide can seethe all he wants; I’m not backing down. If he balks again, I’ll call it again. That’s how this game works.

And as I crouch behind the plate, scanning the field for the next pitch, I feel the usual rush of satisfaction. There’s nothing like being in the thick of a high-stakes game—rules, tempers, and all. This is baseball, and I’m here to make sure it’s played fair.

If that means facing off against Ripley “Riptide” Johnson, so be it. Because I might sweat in this summer heat, and I might get screamed at by managers and players alike, but there’s one thing I never do: I never compromise the integrity of the game. And if Riptide wants a fight, he’ll learn soon enough that I’m not the type to back down from a challenge.