Bruce Froemming's home is behind the plate

"Baseball" and "legend" are two words that should be prohibited from appearing together for the rest of eternity. But only after this article. Because Bruce Froemming probably deserves the appellation.

His legendary status derives not from bombs off a bat, flash with a mitt, or a proclivity to mow batters down like fescue. It comes from his ability – if I may take license with Pete Rose's famous "see the ball, hit the ball" axiom – to "see the ball, call the ball." Mr. Froemming is an umpire.

He has been calling games for more consecutive years – 37 – than any umpire in Major League history. At 68, Froemming still takes the field daily, although this is his last year. Over nearly four decades of donning an umpire's cap, he has called more than 5,000 games in the big leagues. It's a record that may not be repeated.

"Longevity!" explains former Dodger manager (and probably safe to say, legend) Tommy Lasorda on what's behind Froemming's stature. "And because he's good at it."

A legendary umpire is usually a contradiction in terms. At their best, umpires are supposed to be invisible, rising up to make a call – correctly – and then disappearing again. The only time they seem to get noticed is when they get it wrong. At that point, it becomes all their fault – "it" referring to anything from a team's loss to the collapse of Western civilization.

They also have the unenviable task of controlling the game. That means the players, coaches, and fans. Four umpires are assigned to every matchup, which makes it four against, say, 50,000. That helps explain why umpires are escorted to and from every game by police. It may also give insight into why umpires tend to take the my-way-or-shower approach to dispute resolution. "We're competitive, too," says Froemming. "We're a bunch of Type A personalities."

Froemming has cultivated a reputation for being tough but fair. When he first started out, some faulted him for being too autocratic. Today he seems willing to talk – briefly – as long as it doesn't get personal. He's also noted for his dramatic announcement of strikes – a thespian in a chest protector – and a welcome consistency in how he sees them. "In all the years I've seen him, his strike zone hasn't changed," says Clint Hurdle, manager of the Colorado Rockies.

• • •

Froemming is short, stocky, built like a russet potato. He has a steady gaze, ruddy face, and a surprisingly diminutive mouth. He is affable in person, grandfatherly even, at least until something triggers his "business look." This is a stoney gaze that conveys a demand for absolute compliance. It would intimidate a longshoreman.

The look came up twice in our interview – first when I asked him what goes through his mind when a player gets in his face. "Let me stop you right there," he interjected. "No one ever gets in my face. That'll never happen." Spoken like Tony Soprano.

The second time came at the mention of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Froemming becomes eligible for induction six months after retirement and he seems like a Cooperstown certainty. "I don't talk about that," he says, with finality.

Born and raised in Milwaukee. Froemming was the oldest of three kids. He didn't have the money to go to college, so, after high school, he responded to an ad for the Al Somers Umpire School. At 18, he was the youngest student to don a mask. Only one out of three graduates was hired. He was one of them.

Page: 1 | 2