Be kind to the umpire who bosses the game, whose doom is too frequently
sealed; it serves no good purpose to camp on his frame, and strew him
all over the field.
The umpire is human--which fact you may doubt--a creature of tissues
and blood; he pales at the sound of your bloodthirsty shout, and
shrinks from the sickening thud. He may have a vine covered cottage
like yours, a home where a loving wife dwells; and when he's on duty
the fear she endures is something no chronicler tells. She hears from
the bleachers a thunderous roar, and thinks it announces his fate. "I
reckon," she sighs, "he'll come home on a door, or perhaps in a basket
or crate."
Be kind to the umpire; his hopes are your own; he's doing the best that
he can; his head isn't elm and his heart isn't stone; he's just like
the neighboring man. Don't call him a bonehead or say his work's punk,
or that he's a robber insist; don't pelt him with castings or vitrified
junk, or smite him with bludgeon or fist.
Suppose you are doing the best you know how, and striving your
blamedest to please, and bystanders throw at your head a dead cow, or
break your legs off at the knees. Suppose you are trying your best to
be fair, and critics come up in a crowd, set fire to your whiskers, and
pull out your hair, and put you in shape for a shroud. If people
refused to believe that you try to give them their fifty cents' worth,
you'd be so discouraged you'd sit down and cry, and say there's no
justice on earth.
Be kind to the umpire and give him a chance to live to a happy old age;
reward him with praise and encouraging glance when he does his devoir
on his stage. Save up your dead cats for the scavenger man, your
cabbage for cigarette smoke; the umpire is doing the best that he
can--he shouldn't be killed as a joke.