Smoking was against the rules…League president Billy Hitchcock demanded a clean image of Southern League baseball for the sake of young fans. (photo from a private collection)
It happened in Knoxville more than 40 years ago, and during my time as a minor league umpire. The worst call that had nothing to do with baseball that I ever saw an official make…and I was part of it. As another season winds down, have a good laugh.
Half asleep on the living room couch one evening last week, I woke up in time to catch the end of an ejection in a major league baseball game on TV, and one of those kind where the ejectee was getting his money’s worth.
It was worth watching, I’ll tell you what, and probably the only entertaining part of an 11-4 baseball game. Frankly, it’s a shame that technical fouls in basketball and ejections in baseball have gotten such a bad rap for the sake of sportsmanship over the years…because I honestly believe that in all my years in baseball there were more people who came to the minor league parks to see someone thrown out than to watch the game itself.
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A lot of managers and players back then took it upon themselves to be entertaining in that respect, and on many occasions when a losing team was in town they went out of their way to give the fans what they wanted.
Unfortunately (or fortunately), in my seven years in the minors I was involved in a couple of doozies, including one in the AA Southern League, while calling balls and strikes one night in Knoxville, Tennessee.
When I got to the old ball park on Magnolia Street that Friday afternoon for the opening game of a three-game series, there was a telegram (yes, a telegram in 1977) waiting for me in the umpire’s locker room. It was from the league president, Billy Hitchcock, informing me that during my regular partner’s excused absence for the weekend there would be a substitute umpire be working in his place, sanctioned by Hitchcock, himself.
“I have it on good authority,” he wrote, “that Tom Lucky is a qualified local umpire experienced in both high school and college games. I believe the two of you should get along fine for the three-game series.
“However,” he continued. “He is not to work the plate. You will have that duty by yourself for all three games of the series.” … Billy Hitchcock, President
When he showed up to work he was carrying his uniform shirt and pants over his shoulder in a suit bag, a wiry-looking guy who on first appearance would make you think of Dale Gribble. As he quickly dressed I couldn’t help but notice his prominent mullet haircut, a real Tennessee topper.
“You wear that mullet in this heat?” I asked, curiously. It was early June in Knoxville, about 95 degrees, with accompanying humidity.
“Oh yeah,” he said with a broad smile. “You know what they say…business in the front and party in the back.”
I inwardly groaned.
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At 7:20 on the dot we made our way to home plate to exchange lineup cards with managers George Farnsworth of the Chattanooga Lookouts, and Jim Napier, managing the host Knoxville Sox, the White Sox AA team. We shook hands, as was custom, and I nodded to Farnsworth and Napier in the usual manner. Lucky was more forward. “Howdy,” he said, pumping Napier’s hand like a farmyard pump handle. “I’m Tom Lucky, from Seviersville.” Napier, a hulking man and an old catcher for the early San Diego Padres, looked him over warily.
“Let’s get this going,” he said, casting a cynical glare in my direction.
And going it went, no issues for the first few innings. Both pitchers were on their game, there were no close calls of any kind, and mostly it was three-up, three-down baseball going into the fifth inning.
But while the Knoxville pitcher was completing his warmup throws between innings, a ruckus in the corner of the home dugout caught my attention, and looking that way I saw Napier come charging up the steps and running in the direction of Lucky, who was standing between the foul line and the dugout. Napier’s eyes looked blood red with rage, and literally there was smoke coming out of his nose. Seldom in eight years of baseball, did I ever see someone that mad.
There was a rule in baseball at the time, and one that Billy Hitchcock stood by proudly…that smoking was forbidden by all personnel in the dugouts. Hitchcock was a Bible-banger from Opelika, Alabama, in his day a good major league player for the Detroit Tigers, and as president he wanted his league to be the model of decency and clean living as an example to young people.
However, no one that I knew in umpiring EVER enforced the cigarette ban because it was trivial, and the game between the lines was hard enough to manage without looking for trouble in the dark corners of the dugouts. And Tom Lucky had found plenty of trouble because Jim Napier was a chain smoker and unapologetic, even to Billy Hitchcock, about it.
The typical Southern League fine for an ejection back then was $75…even for smoking.
When Napier got within ten feet of him Lucky turned and started to sprint towards the outfield, with Napier right on is heels. A couple of the Knoxville players intervened to hold Napier back until I got out there, and by the time I did he was turning the air blue with one obscenity after another other directed at Tom Lucky.
“I had to eject him for smoking,” Lucky said to me, his voice trembling. “It’s the league rule. It’s right there in the rule book. And I think Hitchcock would support us on this one.”
Napier, of course, knew nothing about rule books, and was screaming that he was going to protest the game, which you can’t do on an ejection for smoking. It took the better part of ten minutes to get him cooled down and off the field, but not before he threw a Gator-ade cooler full of blue stuff out on the on deck circle, completely washing it out…a mud hole for the rest of the night.
By the time everyone was in position to play, and me behind the plate, I looked over at the Chattanooga dugout and there they stood…every player, every coach, George Farnsworth, and the trainer on the next-to-top step with a lit cigarette in their mouth. I yelled, “Play ball”, and we proceeded without incident.
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Fast forward, though, forty years and to Greenville, South Carolina in 2018 where Ohio State was playing in a non-conference tournament against teams from from the ACC and the Big Ten. I was sitting in the press box working on my game story one afternoon when a voice asked, “Hey, are you Sonny Fulks?”
I looked up to see a tall wiry guy that looked like Dale Gribble, and with his hand stuck out.
“I bet you don’t remember me, do you,” he said with a smile. “Go ahead. Guess.”
“You have the advantage,” I said. “I have no idea who you are.”
“I’m Tom Lucky,” he offered. “Remember? We worked in the Southern League together one weekend in Knoxville.”
I still didn’t remember.
“I was the guy that threw out Jim Napier for smoking. Now do you remember?”
“You got to be screwing with me,” I said. “I thought he killed you in the parking lot that night.”
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“No, no, I’m still around, running the scoreboard a couple nights a week here at the ballpark. You know,” he added, “I still think I made the right call that night. You ever think about that?”
“No, Tom,” I laughed, “I can truthfully say I’ve haven’t thought about that call for years…that and a lot of others.’
Still wearing the mullet, he left me after shaking hands good-bye, and I couldn’t help but detect a sense of redemption in his voice as he left – waiting all these years for the off chance that one day he’d have the last word about an ejection for smoking. I watched him as he left the press box and disappeared into the crowd.
I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life, not one. But as I thought about that chance encounter the rest of the evening…damned if I didn’t wish I had one right about then.
That, and something to wash it down with.
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