The umpire wore shorts (standard:humor, 914 words)
Author: Godspenman	Added: Sep 16 2012	Views/Reads: 2568/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Okay, right up front I want to confess that I am an old fogey. In my defense, as if I needed one, I was born an old fogey. I have what may be called old-fogeyitis, a rare psychological disorder only affecting people born of woman.

Okay, right up front I want to confess that I am an old fogey. In my
defense, as if I needed one, I was born an old fogey. I have what may 
be called old-fogeyitis, a rare psychological disorder only affecting 
people born of woman. 

For many years, I beat myself over the head because I did not understand
old fogeyitis syndrome. Years ago, I have learned to accept it, whether 
others accept it or not is not my problem. It was a wonderful day when 
I realized I could have a lot of other things much worse than 
old-fogeyitis. 

Just this week I saw an article in the picture of supposedly the ugliest
woman in the world. As I looked at her picture, it reminded me of one 
of my old aunts. I know I'm not the “prettiest” face in town but I 
wasn't born this way. My face is the result of the stress through the 
years from the old-fogeyitis syndrome. 

One of the amazing traits of this syndrome is the marvelous selective
memory. My memory is so good I can remember things that never happened. 
Some people look at me when I recall one of these pseudo-memories as if 
I was senile. Oh no. It is not senility it is old-fogeyitis. 

I really did not know how bad it was until this past week. My oldest
granddaughter was playing softball and invited me to come and watch her 
first game. She made me one of those “offers that I couldn't refuse.” 
It has been a longtime since I seen a slow pitch softball game much 
less played in one. 

I remembered those glorious days of yesteryear when I played slow pitch
softball. According to my memory, I was the star pitcher on my team. 
What memories they were. Since they are my memories, I feel I have the 
right to make them what I want them to be. 

The Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage, our youngest daughter and her
daughter joined me as we watched my granddaughter's first game. 

We brought our own chairs so we were able to set up our seating
arrangements where we could watch our granddaughter play her first 
game. I am not prejudiced, but from where we were sitting, she was the 
star player on her team. I am not sure how her team could ever get 
along without her. 

It is my humble opinion that greatness like this is inherited. You do
not learn that kind of thing on your own, it is something that is 
passed down to you through your genes. I must have passed it on to her 
because I do not have it anymore. 

It was then that I saw it, which kicked in the old-fogeyitis syndrome.
What I saw shocked me and it takes a lot to shock me. 

Up to this point, I was primarily focused on my granddaughter and her
pristine playing on the field, so I did not see right away what I 
eventually saw. It happened when my granddaughter stepped up to bat for 
the first time. After that, the whole game went blank for me. 

Behind my lovely granddaughter was the catcher all dressed in the
catcher's outfit. That did not startle me. Behind the catcher was the 
umpire, or so he was pretending to be, and that is what startled me. 

It was a girl's slow pitch softball team and every one of them was
dressed in their softball player's outfit. I believe in dressing for 
the occasion. The occasion was a softball game and those involved in 
the softball game were wearing attire consistent with the game at hand. 


Then I saw the umpire. And the umpire was wearing shorts! Shorts! 

It is not that I object to a man wearing shorts as long as he does not
wear them out in public. The last time I wore shorts I was three years 
old and it was only because my mother made me wear them. When I had 
control of my wardrobe, I put away those shorts and began wearing pants 
like a man. 

I think if the good Lord wanted us to wear shorts, in public that is, He
would have made our legs more visually appealing. A man's legs are not 
appealing, unless they have been in the sun too long and the skin 
begins to peel. 

A man, especially an old man, has knobby knees, hairy legs and varicose
veins none of which should be part of public domain. This is not 
something I want to see when I am out in public. 

I can dutifully attest to the fact that my legs have not seen direct
sunlight in over 50 years. I attribute this to the fact that I wear 
pants every day of my life. Not short pants, but pants that go all the 
way down to my ankles. Short pants look like you cannot afford to buy 
the whole thing. 

For some reason I could not watch the game with the same enthusiasm. 

When I got home that night I settled down a little bit and thought of a
verse of Scripture, something Jesus said. “Judge not according to the 
appearance, but judge righteous judgment” (John 7:24 KJV). 

In spite of my severe old-fogeyitis condition, I must remember not to
judge people according to their appearance. It is not what a man looks 
like but rather, what he does that makes him the man that he is. 


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