I entered a tiny office in St. Petersburg, Florida, signed the legal forms, and was escorted to a single-story cottage across the road that fronted the facility. Unlike all but a handful of the 105 students registered for Bill Kinnemon’s Umpire School Class of 1981, I would have my own room, since putting me in the dorm with the guys was obviously out of the question.

I plumped the thin pillow, leaned back on the cot, and scanned the schedule that would direct my life for the next five weeks. Baseball rules classes, on-field clinics, and scrimmages in which students would participate as both umpires and players. My stomach twisted at the thought of anyone seeing me in the field. I’d never played baseball or softball. I could already hear the “she throws like a girl” jeering and wondered if there was any way I could actually avoid having to throw a baseball.

The next morning, we campers lined up in rows. “He’s out!” I called, straightening to my full height, bringing my left arm horizontally across my chest and my right up and bent at the elbow. Both hands were clenched in tight fists. Out calls emanating from scores of wannabe umpires echoed across the dusty field.

“Jee…sus Christ! That was pathetic!” senior instructor Joe Brinkman screamed, grabbing the bill of his cap and slapping it on his leg. “Sound like you mean it!”

Furtively eyeing one-another, we bent over in unison again, hands splayed just above our knees, staring at an imaginary base, pretending the runner and throw were arriving almost simultaneously.

“He’s out!” I joined the others, glad I didn’t have a high voice. I might have been able to blend in, had it not been for the long, auburn ponytail. Cutting my hair short might have been prudent.

Major League Umpire John McSherry, 375 pounds, walked unsteadily through the lines of aspiring umpires, saying nothing, looking decidedly uncomfortable: the result of some especially painful dental work and a night of bubbly self-medication.

“He’s out! He’s out! He’s out!” We screamed over and over, working on our posture and intonation. McSherry wiped a hand across his face: the February Florida heat causing spots of perspiration on his red cheeks. As I bent down in preparation for another out call, he passed by, without even a glance.

It was not until later that night, when my name was announced during dinner, that McSherry sat up and stared. “Anne? Anne? There’s a girl here? You’re kidding,” he said, turning to the Minor League instructor who stood by his side. John Higgins pointed me out. McSherry looked over and waved his hand in the air as if the whole idea was simply too ridiculous to consider.

The days were grueling: long and hot, on the field and in the classroom. I worked hard to be just one of the boys.

One of the tenants of umpire school was that all campers should have an equal opportunity to be treated badly. The logic being that umpires will, by nature, be victims of disdain when working games, and if you can’t handle the abuse in school, you will never survive on the field.

My big moment came one afternoon. Campers were sometimes picked to perform certain special tasks, and, now, it was my turn.

“Butler!” McSherry called out, making sure my fellow fledgling umpires heard. “Bring the balls up to field two for this afternoon’s drills.”

“Yes, sir!” I said, chin up in my best imitation of an Army recruit.

I’d watched him berate campers, throwing his hat, and tramping around the dusty diamond like a bull with hemorrhoids. He’d go nose to nose with these grown men and they would shrivel. In fact, 12 campers would simply grab their gear and quit, walking away rather than endure the punishment.

Fifteen minutes prior to the afternoon drill session, I stood at the door of the equipment shed. Higgins, who everyone called Higgs and who seemed to be McSherry’s Sancho Panza, smiled as he leaned up against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

“I’m here to get the balls for field two,” I said. Higgs was cute with bright blue eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled. “They’re already up on the field.”

“Really? But John insisted that I bring them up.”

“Nope. You’re good.”

I was one of the first people at the field, so I waited and watched as the group assembled, the last few stragglers running full speed up the dirt road, because being late was never, ever acceptable.

“OK, we’ll be doing first base drills,” McSherry said. “It’s about listening to the ball hit the glove and seeing the foot on the bag. Listen and look. That’s what you’re going to do. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!” the group called out as one.

Then McSherry paused rather dramatically. “Who’s got the balls?” Silence.
“Who’s got the balls?” he yelled louder. “Who was supposed to … Butler! Where are the balls?”


“I … I went to get them and Higgs …”

“Where are the fucking balls?”

I stared at Higgs. He avoided my gaze. “I don’t know,” he said. “I saw them in the shed.”

McSherry squinted at me. “Get ‘em, Butler! And while you’re gone, your friends here will run laps around the field.”

My eyes grew wide.

“Start now, gentlemen! Run! Run!”

I bolted across the field and down the hill faster than I’d ever moved in my life. But I did not get away quickly enough to avoid hearing the curses that were being hurled my way.

When umpire school finally came to an end after five long weeks, it was, strangely, hard to leave. It was as if we all suffered from Stockholm Syndrome, where we had learned to love our captors and wished to emulate them.

Like most of the other campers, I flirted with those professional baseball dreams, even though a job would have meant life in the low minors, shuffling from tiny town to tiny town, little pay, low budget motels, and the built-in cruelties umpires endure daily.

When it came to picking the campers who would be recommended for that life, most of the school staff members decided it would not be a good idea to send a woman up the line. It was 1981, after all. It’s interesting, and came as a bit of a surprise, that I had a friend in John McSherry. I would find out years later that he was the only one who rated me in the top 15. But with most of the other staffers positioning me much lower on the list, my eventual ranking was 32. The top 30 candidates were certified for duty in Minor League instructional camps. I was told that McSherry thought I had good officiating instincts.

Did I deserve a job? Probably not. About ten days into camp, I injured a hamstring, which limited my mobility. And, in all honesty, I have always been a horrible runner, which just about anyone who’s ever officiated with me can attest. Apparently, one day my awkward stride caused McSherry to growl. “Jesus Christ, Higgs! She runs worse than I do!”

How do I know this? Five years after I attended umpire school, I ran into John Higgins. Then, I married him and John McSherry was there with us to celebrate.

Anne Butler Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

The recent passing of theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking, who famously wrote A Brief History of Time, had me thinking about, well … time.

My students often complain when, upon being late to class, I am undeterred from marking them tardy.

“But I’m only a few minutes late,” they plead.

Which is all I need to hoist myself onto my soapbox. “When I was in television, I had to be in my seat when the red camera light blinked on. I couldn’t be one second late. And when I referee a football game, what if I’m late while the players, coaches, and fans are all waiting for kickoff? What if my students arrive at my classroom and I’m not there to let them in?

My young charges roll their eyes.

“You have to be on time,” I say. “If you’re the worker who’s always punctual, no one wants to fire you. It shows you care about being professional and not imposing on your co-workers.”

Here is where I admit that my nightmares consist mainly of me unsuccessfully trying to get somewhere on time. Whether it be a TV set, a classroom, a ballgame, or an airport, the scenario is always the same. I am late, horrified at the prospect, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t get where I need to be on time.

Just a few days ago, I was revisited by the terrors of being tardy. My student reporters were in a contest with a deadline. We were six minutes out. I found myself repeatedly checking the second hand on the classroom clock … tick, tick, tick … as we tried to rectify the software glitch that was holding up delivery of our final product. I flashed back to those days when I had to run onto the news set, heart racing, and slide into my chair while pasting on a smile.

My students made their deadline, and the flashback gave me pause.

I will retire from teaching in two years, and I’d like to think those deadline dreams will diminish. But, it seems, I might have another time-related problem.

“I worry about you when you retire,” my long-time beau has said more than once.

“Why, my sweetie pie?”

“I’m afraid you will not have enough to do.”

I consider his concern.

“You don’t know how to relax,” he says. “You always have to be busy.”

“I will have plenty to do in retirement,” I say. “No worries.”

But he doesn’t look convinced.

While I do plan, upon retirement, to hammer to death the obnoxious alarm clock that has pestered me for decades, I’m not really sure just how I’ll respond to a world with far fewer deadlines.

As Hawking famously said, “Only time (whatever that may be) will tell.”

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

 

 

Over the course of my life, myriad animals, too numerous to count, have almost magically appeared at my doorstep. My favorite example is Sir Winston, a wee creature with wobbly back legs and a misshapen jaw that my vet referred to as “the poster dog for inbreeding.” Whinny materialized, dirty and tick-ridden, one afternoon in my living room, as we were watching an NFL game. I stared at the tiny beast, shocked at his sudden appearance. Later, the neighborhood kids admitted they found the dog and had quietly slipped him through the front door, figuring, I guess, that I’d keep him.

For the past 30 years, I have invited all the creatures that have deemed me worthy of their care into my home.

Until now.

Last week, on the ride home from school, Makayla – my young house guest – and I watched in horror as a small puppy darted toward six lanes of traffic. We were stopped on the other side of a busy intersection at rush hour. The puppy slammed to a halt at the top of the curb, then darted back to the cover of some parked cars. When the light turned green, I maneuvered across three lanes and pulled to a stop. Makayla leaped from the car. I waited, but didn’t watch, not wanting the vision of a dead dog burned into my brain.

After a few minutes, Makayla returned with a dirty, tired-looking, Queensland Heeler pup, that sprawled exhausted in her lap.

Of course, there isn’t a puppy on the planet that isn’t irresistible. But those tailless, spotted Heelers, bouncing about on thick, stumpy legs, are especially enchanting. In short course, we fell in love.

On the chance that the pup, which appeared to be well fed, might just be lost, we rushed to the vet to check for a chip. None was found. We’d picked him up in a location that was mostly industrial. No homes nearby, so we figured he’d been dumped, which I would learn is too often the fate for rambunctious heelers.

I will admit that I was apprehensive about bringing a puppy into the home mix. Initially, those concerns centered on something I had not ever considered in the past. In a few weeks, I will be 63. I looked at the puppy and did the math. Heelers can live up to 15 years, by which time I’d be pushing 80.

Then, age reared its ugly head again. When the puppy saw our 16-year-old blind doodle – dachshund/poodle – he pounced on her, nipping and barking in his high squeaky voice. Frantic, Baby searched for cover. Our other dog, little Mousy – a fluffy, white, puff ball – similarly cringed. Only my blue-eyed cattle-dog mix, Bella, immediately stepped in and played momma dog.

Over the course of three days Bella and the puppy played raucously. While the two indoor cats didn’t seem to mind the little one, Baby and Mousy simply could not accept their new young friend. The realization dawned that it would simply be unfair to keep the puppy.

I had never given an animal to a shelter. The thought made me queasy. Still, on a whim, I typed Arizona Queensland Healer Rescue into my search engine and two popped up. After a phone call and an e-mailed picture of the dog, I drove out to the Healing Heelers Hearts Dog Rescue, still not entirely comfortable turning the pup over to strangers. But my fears were allayed by the compassion I witnessed, and any concerns I had about him getting a home vanished when a woman leaving the shelter grinned and pointed at the puppy. “I want that one!”

The woman was told it would be about two months before he would be ready for adoption, as he needed shots and neutering and some basic training.

The shelter lady, Tonya, looked at me. “He’ll be fine. We have another puppy here he can play with.”

After making a donation, I walked away, taking one last glance at the little dog, whose head rested serenely on Tonya’s shoulder. I wondered how long it would take him to find a forever home.

I would not worry for long. The next day, I looked at the shelter’s Facebook page. And there was the pup, newly dubbed Cruiser.

“What a cutie!” wrote one person in response to his picture.

“I can’t believe how precious and handsome he is,” gushed another. “I’m so interested in him, can’t wait for him to be available for a furever home.”

“I want him!!!” said a third.

And so it went, a long list of folks eager to make the little guy part of their family.

Later, Makayla was not her usual bubbly self.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The puppy. Maybe we could have kept him.” She stared at the floor.

I explained again that she would soon be off to college and would have had to leave the dog behind. And that Tonya would pick him a perfect home.

When she didn’t look convinced, I said, “You know, you saved his life.”

She brightened at the thought.

And so did I.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

The National Association of Sports Officials recently polled over 17 thousand arbiters in an effort to determine how things are going on the fields, courts, and diamonds around the country.

To anyone who has ever donned the uniform, the results were not the least bit surprising. Just over 57% of officials responded “yes” to the question, “Is sportsmanship getting worse?” About 46% have “felt unsafe or feared for their safety because of administrator, coach, player or spectator behavior.”

I have been sports official for almost four decades. I have gone nose-to nose with coaches, close enough to feel their spittle on my face. More than once, I’ve required a police escort to get to my car after a game. I had a tire knifed following a coach ejection. In a sub-varsity high school football game, when I was a nascent official, I remember vividly the moment a coach grabbed one of his players near the sideline. “Hit her on the next play!” he screamed, index finger jabbing in my direction. I stood frozen, unsure of what to do.

Had I been a more experienced official, I would not have had the least compunction about immediately ejecting the coach. Had the player hit me, I might today own the coach’s home, as I would have had him and the player arrested for assault. Thankfully, the boy came nowhere near me that day.

The big problem is that young officials – still learning the trade, uneasy with the requirements of what is mostly a thankless job, and not yet enveloped in that protective shell that reminds us to stay calm and not take attacks personally – are unwilling to weather the constant stream of abuse and are quitting in droves. Add to that decline the huge number of veteran officials who are hanging up their whistles everyday. When you consider that participation levels in youth and high school sports has skyrocketed, it’s easy to see that there’s a massive storm ahead. Because, as much as fans and coaches contend that we are the bad guys, there are no games if we don’t show up. As my favorite T-shirt reads, “Without the Ref it’s only Recess.”

It’s not shocking that most sportsmanship problems are caused by parents. When polled, officials rated the parents the culprits almost 40% of the time, in contrast to 30% for coaches and 10% for players. And where is sportsmanship at it’s worst? Again, no surprises: youth competitive sports account for 36% of the problems.

The point, of course, is that it’s getting rougher out there for those of us who blow whistles or call balls and strikes. Note that officials don’t expect all rainbows and unicorns when they step between the lines, but some basic civility would be nice and it might help us do our jobs just a bit better.

I’d also like to ask each and every parent who has a child participating in youth sports to give the following a try. Step in and make a few calls. Pick up a whistle and see how you do with that one look from one angle that we officials get to see on every play. When you are engulfed in all that swirling action, you make the call. And, maybe, the next time you feel like berating an official, you’ll remember that moment and react with empathy instead of anger.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

Every once in a while, when I’m reading the newspaper, I get squinty. Then my right eye starts to twitch. Just such a scenario occurred earlier this week when I was confronted by the following headline: “Legislature looks to curb child marriages.”

I know what you’re thinking. Why, that sounds like a perfectly lovely idea. Let’s do that!

I felt the need to check the defintion of the word “curb”,  just in case I was having a bit of a brain cramp. And there, in my handy-dandy electronic thesaurus, my worst realizations were confirmed. Curb: to limit, control, reduce, cut back. Not, unfortunately, to end.

I wanted to scream.

The first line of the story, written by Dustin Gardiner of the Arizona Republic said, “Every year, about 100 children get marriage licenses in Maricopa County.” The second sentence was equally horrid: “The vast majority of them are girls marrying older men.”

I live in Maricopa County.

Last year, I published a book titled The Scent of Rain, which details the horrors of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, a cloistered cult of polygamists who reside on a north-west border of the state of Arizona, a group that preys on young girls, forcing them into “celestial marriages” with old men. Let’s call these guys what they are: pedophiles.

As I read the following comments, I was glad I’d remembered to take my blood pressure medication.

“Rep. David Stringer, R-Prescot, has been the bill’s most outspoken opponent. He told lawmakers the story of his grandmother and grandfather, immigrants from Ukraine, who married when he was 21 and she was 16. Stringer said they had 10 children.”

Yo! Dave! Back in olden times, girls had virtually no choices. Marriage was pretty much it. Today we educate young women, telling them they can achieve hopes and dreams through hard work and dedication. I wonder if anyone bothered to asked grandma if she had any other aspirations.

Another dissenter to the bill that would simply ask that girls 16 and 17 have their parents’ consent to marry, said, “We know of plenty of exceptions where young girls have been married before they turn 16, happily married to a loving husband with children.”

I was tempted to call Rep. Noel Campbell, R-Prescott, to see if he’d give me a list of all those “happy” teens, so that I might asked their opinions. Something tells me he would demur.

According to the U.S. Global Strategy to Empower Adolescent Girls, there are currently nearly 700 million women alive today who were married as children worldwide. And 15 million more are married annually. That this is happening in my country, my state, and my county is appalling. But don’t get too smug. Right now, minors of any age can marry in 25 U.S. states.

I have been a high school teacher for 18 years. I can tell you with complete honesty that I have never meet a teenage girl who was mature enough to marry. Ever.

We have to do better.

https://www.azcentral.com/story/news/politics/legislature/2018/02/27/hundreds-child-brides-arizona-legislature-looks-restrictions/365193002/

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.