Several lives ago in the 1980s and ’90s, I was an umpire, working slow-pitch softball games for adult tavern leagues.
As someone who enjoys baseball/softball, it was fun work (a joyous oxymoron) because you’re being paid to watch a ball game, and you get the best view in the park, jogging around and trying to be on top of every play. For extra fun, some players took it too seriously and hollered hilariously when (they thought) I’d gotten the call wrong.
In my summers calling balls and strikes and being yelled at, I became friends with Steve, another umpire. He was a counterculture sort, with a tilted outlook and irreverent attitude. We laughed at each others’ jokes, which I sometimes think is the meaning of life.
The leagues were run by cheapskates, so only one umpire was assigned for most games, but for the playoffs or upper league play, two umps were on the field. This led to the highest compliment of my umpiring career: Steve was the most senior ump at a tournament one weekend, which by tradition gave him first pick of who’d be his partner. The umpire-in-chief started reading a list of the other umps working that tournament, and the first name he read was mine. “Say no more,” Steve said. “If Holland is here, I’m working with Holland.”
After that, Steve & I probably worked fifty games together over the years. I don’t remember whether this was his idea or mine, but at the ground-rules meeting with both teams’ managers before the game, we started introducing ourselves as brothers. “I’m Doug Holland, and this is my brother Steve,” or vice versa. Usually the managers believed us, but the visual punchline was that Steve was skinny as anorexia, and I was fat as a gourd. Still am.
Steve had a wicked sense of humor, and between innings we’d stand side-by-side at the foul line and discreetly insult the players or tell jokes. He chewed garlic during the games because it made him stink, so players were less likely to argue with him, but to me he smelled like spaghetti for dinner. Which often happened, after the games.
Steve was a man of mystery, though. He never wanted to talk about his past. A few times in small talk, I asked such probing, personal questions as, “Were you raised here in Seattle?” His answer was only a smile and, “I don’t talk about that.” After a few asks without answers, I understood, respected his wishes, and never asked again.
The lack of asking brought us closer. Inspired by the scent of garlic, we went for Italian food after the games, any time we worked at the same sports complex on the same night. In the off-season we sometimes went to the movies or a basketball game. Can’t say I knew Steve well, because knowing him well wasn’t allowed, but I loved the guy.
Haven’t seen him since ’91, when I quit umpiring and drove my van into the sunset to invent a new life for myself in San Francisco. To some extent, Steve was why that idea popped into my head, and I became a man of mystery like him.
It’s been a great life, but the mystery is pretty much over. I returned to Seattle a few years back, and I’m old and retired, all my best friends are dead, so sometimes it’s a little lonely.
This morning, I suddenly realized I’d never yet searched the internet to see if I could find Steve, to offer him a beer and a plate of spaghetti and an evening talking about old times. The moment the thought hit me, I typed his name into a search box.
And I should’ve known. After all, I’m in my late 60s, and Steve was a few years older. What I found was Steve’s obituary. He died 14 years ago. Cripes, he was only 57. Hit by a damned truck.
Even in my sudden sadness, though, I smiled at this line from his obit. I’ll paraphrase instead of quoting it, so you can’t search and find him; Steve’s privacy mattered to him, and I still respect that.
… Little is known about Steve’s life before he moved to Seattle in 1979. Whenever anyone asked, he would simply smile and say, “I’d rather not talk about that.“
The ball game is over for Steve, and it’s almost over for me. To my friend and fake brother and inspiration, farewell and thank you, and let’s meet for pizza sometime soon.
3/4/2026
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