Marathon Men - an Ode to the Umps

Our team won, in no small part thanks to our efforts, and the Red Sox are now the World Series champs.
We agonized from the couch, calling instructions to Alex Cora, the manager. We retreated to the kitchen for snacks when the pressure got too high. I went to bed before games 1 and 2 ended, a proven past guarantee of a win, although that fell through for game 3.

          For that game My Guy stayed up till 2:00 a.m., but finally caved. A walk-off homer by the Dodgers at 3:30 ended everything after 18 innings.

          18 innings : 7 hours and 20 minutes. According to one source, longer than the entire 1939 World Series when the Yankees won over the Cincinnati Reds.

          Whoops. Stats can be seductive.  I’d better be careful. I’m in danger of falling into Stat Land, where people reel off arcane and obscure facts, like “He’s the first Pisces left-hander with red hair and twin sisters to bunt in the third inning.”

          I’m glad we won. Baseball is the one sport I almost understand. But that marathon third game in the series made me curious. What about the umpires?

          During the course of any baseball game, the opposing teams come and go, onto the field, then back to the dugout. While they’re waiting for their turn at bat they can spit, grab another piece of Double Bubble, a cup of Gatorade, or have a quick pee.

          What about the umps? They stand there stolidly at base or behind home plate through inning after inning. Don’t their legs get tired? Don’t they get thirsty? Don’t they ever hear the call of nature?

          And 7 hours and 20 minutes of this?

          Maybe they have on astronaut gear under all that black.