Special to Page 2
After suffering a massive stroke this past weekend, former major league umpire Eric Gregg passed away on Monday.
When word first circulated that Gregg was sick, I was conflicted. I wouldn't wish a stroke upon anyone, and would wish the pain of grieving upon no one's family. But I'd be lying if I said it was easy to muster sympathy for the man. I should be -- and I am -- ashamed of that.
For nine years, I hated Eric Gregg.
I never met the man, but hated his guts. I held him personally responsible for altering the history of my favorite team in all of sports, the Atlanta Braves, by giving the Florida Marlins' Livan Hernandez the largest strike zone in baseball history during the 1997 National League championship series.
Hernandez struck out a postseason-record 15 batters that day in Miami. But he couldn't have done so without help from Gregg, who called almost every pitch Hernandez kept in Dade County a strike. Unforgettable was the incredulous look on Fred McGriff's face as Gregg rung him up for the last out of the game; the Crime Dog struck out looking at a pitch that, seriously, appeared to split the opposite batter's box. Even though that loss put the Braves down 3-2 in a series they would go on to lose, McGriff could do nothing but shake his head and laugh. Unless Tom Emanski had a video that would turn him into Stretch Armstrong, there was nothing he could do.
And the Braves haven't been the same since.
I sincerely hated Eric Gregg for that. Never mind the harmful effects of corporate ownership, or that the team's closer of the future proved to be as ineffective as he was ignorant, or that Bobby Cox and John Schuerholz seemed more concerned with winning 100 regular-season games than winning four of seven in October. The way I saw it, the Braves remained stuck on one World Series win because of Eric Gregg.
I laughed when he wasn't offered his job back after the umpires' mass resignations in 1999 turned into the union's strategic nightmare. I wouldn't wish unemployment upon anyone, but this was Eric Gregg, the man responsible for the worst officiating performance of the past 25 years! How could he dream of quitting his job when that game in '97 made it clear he was lucky to draw a check? That's what he deserves, I thought back then.
What do I think now? That I must have been sick.
On Monday afternoon, before it was announced that Gregg had passed away, I read that his son had told The Associated Press, "I think we're running out of time now."
And it hit me -- my goodness, he's got a son.
It wasn't until that moment that Gregg seemed human. During the late '80s and early '90s, he was a caricature. Undeniably overweight, Gregg was the most recognizable umpire of his time because it was impossible to avoid him. His belly bounced as he ran to get in position to make calls, and huge calls seemed even bigger when signaled by his huge arms. Back when people found obesity to be funny, instead of a serious cause for concern, Gregg was always good for a couple of laughs.
Then he became known for Game 5. The only reason to laugh at that would be to keep from crying.
But it never crossed my mind until Monday that he had a son, one that probably loved him as much as most of us love our fathers, one who probably could care less what his daddy thought was a pitch nine years ago.
Now, Kevin Gregg doesn't have a father.
But for a couple of days, I felt no sympathy.
That's one of the dreadful side effects of loving a team. When our teams hurt, we hurt. And we direct the pain, disappointment and frustration toward the person we hold most responsible for it all. Braves fans will swear a small corner in hell is reserved for Jim Leyritz. And until Monday, most would have sworn an entire wing of Hades was reserved for Eric Gregg.
It never dawned on me that, on that autumn day in Miami, Gregg had what all of us have from time to time -- a bad day at work.
John Smoltz realized that. "Eric will be ever known for one game," he told the AP, "but I don't think that's fair."
Smoltz lost a lot more from Gregg's strike zone than I did. His team lost that heartbreaking game. Not his favorite team, but his team. Still, he held no grudge.
I shouldn't have either. Nor should Cardinals fans continue to curse the ground on which Don Denkinger walks. Ahead 3-1 in the '85 World Series, three outs away from the championship, Denkinger missed a call at first base that should have been the first out of the ninth inning. The Cards went on to lose that game, and eventually lost the series to the Royals. Because of that call, Denkinger received nasty letters and death threats for years.
Denkinger and Gregg were both umpires, but they were men first. Men with thankless jobs who only get noticed when they do something wrong. And though most of us are fortunate enough to live anonymously and have our mistakes forgotten as quickly as we make them, officials' gaffes are immortal.
Worst of all, they can do nothing to redeem themselves to us. Think about it -- how many great calls are part of baseball lore? The bad calls last forever. So we vilify umps, heckle them, and never let them forget how much their mistakes hurt us.
Right now, Kevin Gregg hurts more than I ever did over one baseball game. May his father rest in peace.
And on a much less significant note, may Braves fans find the same thing when it comes to that fateful game -- peace. Here's hoping it took something less sobering than death to bring that to most of them.
Bomani Jones is a frequent contributor to Page 2. Tell him how you feel at bomani@bomanijones.com.
