I was fired from Major League Baseball
It all started with what I thought was a stroke of pure genius. Major League Baseball needed a shot in the arm, something to spice up the old “three strikes and you’re out” routine. And that’s when it hit me—why not let the fans call the shots, literally? “Fan Umpire Night” was born in my head, and I knew it was the kind of disruptive, game-changing idea that the higher-ups would have to love. Spoiler alert: they didn’t.
The concept was simple, really. Instead of relying on trained, professional umpires with years of experience, we’d let ordinary fans take on the role. Imagine the thrill, the power, the sheer chaos! I convinced the powers that be to give it a shot for one game—just one! They finally relented, perhaps thinking the novelty might bring in a few extra ticket sales. In retrospect, I think they were hoping I’d fail spectacularly so they could stop humoring my ideas. Well, they got their wish.
The night started with so much promise. I stood there in the dugout, beaming with pride as Bob from Section 317 marched onto the field. Bob was your typical middle-aged guy: beer gut, sunburned nose, and a whistle around his neck that was clearly too powerful for any non-professional to wield. He was ready. Bob’s grandkids were there too, waving frantically from their seats. They looked so proud—until they realized Grandpa Bob was about to turn a professional baseball game into a backyard barbecue argument.
The first inning wasn’t too bad. Bob called a few strikes, a couple of balls, and nobody seemed to notice that he was making the calls based on crowd reactions rather than, you know, actually watching the pitches. By the second inning, Bob had started consulting his grandkids for close calls. This was where things started to spiral. One close play at first base led to a Snapchat poll—the crowd watched as Bob’s grandkids held up their phones, thumbs flying across the screens, trying to decide if the runner was out or safe. The result was “out,” though it seemed like it was mostly influenced by a trending cat video that was also being shared around Section 317.
By the third inning, Bob was getting bold. He ejected the third base coach for arguing a call—which was odd, because the third base coach hadn’t actually said anything. Bob just didn’t like the way the guy was standing there, “looking at him funny.” The visiting team’s manager tried to protest, but Bob waved his whistle, and that was that. It’s amazing how much authority a man can feel when he’s holding a plastic whistle.
Things went from chaotic to absolute bedlam in the fifth inning. Bob decided it was time for a “democratic approach” to umpiring. He handed his whistle to his grandson, Kyle, and encouraged the fans to shout out what they thought the call should be. It was democracy in action—or anarchy, depending on your perspective. Every pitch turned into a shouting match. Was it a strike? A ball? A foul tip? The fans couldn’t agree, and neither could Bob. So, he just shrugged, pulled out a coin, and flipped it. Heads, the runner advanced. Tails, he went back to the dugout. The batter, pitcher, and everyone else on the field just stared at him, mouths agape. I could feel the collective blood pressure of the MLB executives in the luxury box spike by at least 30 points.
By the seventh inning, Bob had ejected half of the visiting team. Why? “They’re not being good sports,” he announced, with the full conviction of a man who had lost control and yet somehow thought he was saving the day. He even ejected the mascot—something about an “unnecessary amount of sass in that dance.” Security had to come down and escort the poor mascot, still in costume, off the premises. Nothing says “America’s Pastime” quite like a giant furry bird being dragged off the field while children cried in the stands.
The final straw came in the ninth inning. The game was tied, and the tension was thick. The home team had a runner on third, two outs, full count. The pitch came in, and it was… honestly, I couldn’t even tell you. I was too busy watching Bob, who had now produced a magic eight ball—an honest-to-God magic eight ball—to make the call. He shook it, squinted at the answer, and then proudly declared, “Strike three!” The batter dropped his bat in disbelief. The crowd erupted in boos and cheers, depending on which side they were on. Bob just stood there, nodding, like a wise old sage who had seen the future.
And that was it. The Commissioner himself marched down to the field, face redder than a fresh-stitched baseball, and asked Bob to step aside. Then he asked me to step aside—permanently. Apparently, Major League Baseball wasn’t quite ready for my brand of “fan-first innovation.” Who knew?
As I packed up my things that night, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Sure, I’d been fired, but for one glorious night, the fans ran the show. Bob from Section 317 was a legend—at least until security escorted him out. And me? Well, I was the guy who let it all happen. I guess not every stroke of genius is appreciated in its time.
