Editor’s Note: This story is a part of Peak, The Athletic’s desk covering leadership, personal development and success through the lens of sports. Follow Peak here.
Dale Scott was an MLB umpire for more than 30 years. He was behind the plate for Game 3 of the 2001 World Series, when President George W. Bush threw out the first pitch, and was at first base during the Jeffrey Maier Game at Yankee Stadium in 1996.
He was yelled at by Paul O’Neil and Billy Martin, ejected Terry Collins and Terry Francona, and had glass bottles thrown his way at Fenway Park.
Which makes him an ideal person for this question: How do we deal with criticism?
Everyone deals with some form of criticism in their lives; if I write a story, readers can have their say in the comments. Umpires, officials and referees deal with it constantly, in extreme ways, right in front of our eyes. The job requires a level of thick skin. Need a reminder? Consider NBA referee Scott Foster, who came under harsh scrutiny during the NBA Finals.
So I called up Dale Scott to ask for his best advice for developing that thick skin. I didn’t want to talk about the current debates on officiating, like automated balls and strikes or the quality of officiating in the NBA or NFL. Those are for another story.
I was just curious: What does it feel like to take that level of criticism from players, managers and coaches, and what’s the best way to handle it?
We know everyone faces some level of criticism at work. Umpires and officials get it every day. Whether it felt valid or not, how did it affect you mentally?
I remember in the minor leagues, when I was in Double-A, I had an ejection off a called strike three. The hitter called me a few names. He was very calm, but he told me a lot of things that are physically impossible, and I ejected him.
Well, the next day in the Jackson, Miss., newspaper, he was quoted as saying, “I didn’t say anything, I just said, wasn’t that pitch outside, and he ejected me.” And I said, “That’s not even close to what happened.” I was very frustrated because I thought that everybody is gonna believe that. But I also learned a couple of things.
One, you’re never going to beat the power of the pen or the microphone, and you’re just giving it more shelf life if you continue. And two, I don’t really need to read the local papers, because I know what happened, and I can avoid all this criticism that wasn’t warranted or stories about an ejection that isn’t true, and it’s getting me all worked up.
The thing I learned about umpiring — and this is something that transcends social media or any of that stuff — I learned early on that people are criticizing a uniform. They don’t know Dale Scott. They’ll be cheering me two plays later when I call another person safe instead of out. And I just realized, as an official, not to take it personally.
Matt Kemp ripped you after a playoff game in 2014. Looking back, what did you think of his view of your performance? And when your name appears in a story after a big playoff moment like that, what happens next?
That’s a great example. I saw, in a story about the game, some of the comments. And then some friends brought it to my attention. It didn’t upset me; it angered me. Because it was just such cheap shots where there’s no rebuttal. It’s just out there. And, of course, he was traded that winter and he went to San Diego. And I remember all through the winter, I’m thinking: I’m gonna see him in spring training and I’m gonna talk to him.
And it’s exactly what I did.
The first time I had the Padres, I’m walking on the field, and there’s Kemp. And we made eye contact at the same time and he comes over to me and he goes: “‘Hey, I’m sorry about some of the stuff I said last year.”
And I said: “I appreciate that. But you know, those are really cheap shots that are indefensible” — I think I called them “chicken s—” — “and it’s not a lot of fun to read that and have no rebuttal. Whether you like it or not, we are in this together. We may disagree. But we’re on the field together and we need to get along the best we can.” I don’t hold grudges. But I told him, “If you’ve got an issue or a real problem, you can come to me. Because we’re gonna see each other a million times.”
I was thinking about how you guys have to simultaneously ignore some level of criticism and give players and managers some grace. But you also have to remain self-aware enough to know when you might have made a mistake. Is that a difficult balance?
When I thought I might have missed a call — and this was pre-replay time — I would have a tendency to let the players or managers a little more slack on their argument. However, there are automatics where it doesn’t matter whether you’re right or wrong. And they know what they are. There are certain things where they know they’re gonna get ejected.
But sometimes, even if I thought I got it right, you have to understand that it’s a huge call in this game, and people are competitive. You understand the venom that’s coming from them. You have to decipher and let them go so far.
The other thing as an umpire: If a 2-2 pitch comes in, and I “ball” it and I think, Gosh, dangit, that’s a pretty good pitch, I don’t have time to dwell on it. I clock it and then: Focus, focus, focus, get ready for the next one.
It’s very much a mental game. You can be very aware that there’s a possibility you missed it, or that you did miss it, but you also are very aware that you have a bunch more coming and now’s not the time to get down on yourself or re-live a play.
Ballplayers always use the term “flush it.” You flush the failure and move on. Did you have a way you thought about it or a tool to move on quickly?
When I had a play or a pitch that was questionable, one of the first things I’d do after the game was go into the locker room and look at it. And if I missed it, it becomes: Why did I miss it? Was I too close? Was I too far? Was I moving on the play? Was it the angle?
And then you move on.
I had the 2001 World Series. My game behind the plate was Game 3, the game George W. Bush threw out the first pitch. It was (Roger) Clemens against (Brian) Anderson for the Diamondbacks. I had a play in the fourth inning, two outs, runner at second. It was a windy, brisk night. It was a pop-up in front of the plate, the catcher for Arizona, he’s trying to catch it in front of home plate, and it goes right by his glove, and the question was: Did it nick his glove or not? It lands about three feet fair, but the spin on the ball, it spins and goes across the foul line before it’s picked up, and that’s a foul ball.
What made it look so weird, it was so far fair when it hit the ground. So the Yankees think they just scored, and I’m calling it a foul ball. And even Mark Grace, the first baseman, was looking at me like: “Oh my God, have you lost your mind? Why is that foul?” But the ball didn’t touch his glove.
The reason I tell you that: Between innings, I’m thinking: I hope to God Fox has a camera that shows it not hitting his glove. So if it’s an angle where you can’t tell, now people are going to say: “Well, it hit his glove. That should have been fair.”
I was really confident. But I knew it was really close.
Dale Scott threw out Red Sox manager Terry Francona during a game at Fenway Park in 2010. (Photo by Elsa / Getty Images)
It feels like that constant worry about messing things up would be exhausting in some ways. Journalists always talk about waking up in the middle of the night worried they got something wrong.
I’ve walked off the field sometimes when both dugouts are on fire and people’s heads are exploding, like Game 5 in Toronto with the bat flip and the whole s— house we had up there. I know that I can look in the mirror and say: “You did a pretty good job today. Even though there was turmoil everywhere.” And there are other times where I’ve walked off and nobody has said a word, and I looked in the mirror and said, “That wasn’t a very good game. You’re better than that. You missed a pitch.” But in the course of the game, it wasn’t a big deal.
Everybody has to deal with it their own way.
Did you have any tools or methods for developing thick skin? Is there a secret?
It didn’t happen overnight. I learned, first in the minor leagues and then in my first few years in the big leagues. There are a lot of cliches, but they’re so true. I learned that it’s a marathon, not a sprint.
Here’s another situation that taught me something. I was in the Kingdome one day, and I had a play at third base that went against Seattle. I called the runner out. I got into a little bit of an argument with the manager. But there’s that delay as they see it on the monitors in the Kingdome, and then you hear: “BOOOOO!!!!”
So, I’m thinking: Oh, s—, I missed that. Because they just saw the replay, and they just booed. The whole rest of the game, it’s in the back of my mind: Man, I missed that play at third. I get into the locker room after the game and watched it. You couldn’t tell whether he was out or safe with the angles that they had.
A light bulb goes on: You can’t always trust what the fans are saying.
Were some comments more cutting than others? Did some hurt more?
Derek Jeter was never ejected in his career. Which is pretty phenomenal because he played a lot of games — and a lot of big games. One time in New York, I called him out on strikes. And he doesn’t say much. He’s not a guy who b—— and moans all the time. He just kind of dropped his shoulders and started to walk to the dugout and he goes, “Dale, that pitch is outside.”
I said, “Derek, I got it on the plate.”
He goes, “I think it’s out.”
Very calm. And I’m thinking: Here’s a guy that doesn’t bitch on every pitch. He wasn’t Paul O’Neil. So I start thinking: Maybe I did miss that pitch. And I looked at the pitch after the game. He was right. It was off the plate. The next day, as he runs out in the top of the first, I go, “Hey, Derek. I took a look. That was a legit gripe.”
He goes, “Hey, don’t worry about it. I appreciate you looking and I appreciate you telling me.”
There are other guys. I mentioned Paul O’Neil. If he didn’t swing, it’s a ball. I didn’t know that. I didn’t get the memo. But if he didn’t swing, it’s a ball. When they start questioning pitches, you almost don’t give them much attention.
There are so many factors that play into it. It’s so mental. You just try to block out the noise, block out what’s not important, deal with what you have to deal with in front of you, and if it gets to a point where you have to deal with a player or manager, then you deal with it.
There’s that classic video of Tom Hallion (long-time umpire) and Terry Collins (the Mets’ manager at the time). The “Ass in the Jackpot.” I think that’s such an interesting video. Not just because it’s funny. But it’s incredible emotional intelligence from Hallion. He de-escalates the situation, lets Collins vent and still holds his ground.
There are times when managers are just venting. And it may not even be about you. They’re venting about a call your partner has made. Or a situation that they just don’t like. It’s a very intricate dance. I tell people at camps and clinics, “It’s easy to eject people. What’s tough is taking a player or manager who is really pissed off and frustrated and keeping them in the game without losing your authority.”
I had Terry Collins in a game in Atlanta one time. I was at third base. We reversed a call, and Terry comes out and he’s really frustrated. I know he’s venting. But you get to the point where you’ve had your say. We all know what’s going on. And one of the things I told him: “I was wrong. We got together and got it right. We’d do the same thing for you.”
Finally, at one point, I just said, “Terry, do you want to get run or not?” And he goes, “I don’t give a s—. Is that what’s supposed to happen?”
I said, “You tell me.”
And he said, “Yeah, you better.”
And I said, “OK.”
Yeah, he’s frustrated. But he knows: “I need to get ejected on this. I need to throw a little tantrum.” And as an umpire, you have to understand their job. You have to understand there are times they’re gonna throw you under the bus to fire up their team, and that’s fine, as long as it’s done professionally.
What was the best piece of advice you got on how to develop thick skin?
(Former American League umpire) Marty Springstead was such a mentor. One of the things he used to tell me is, “Don’t be a roller coaster. The season is a marathon. There are highs and lows. Just try to stay as even as possible. It’s never as good as you think it is. And it’s never as bad as you think it is.”
The thing you can get trapped into when you’re a young umpire is you go out and you slay a plate job in a big game and think, “Wow, you’re on top of the world.” Well, the very next day, you’ll have a checked swing, or a catch/no catch, or a pole-bender at third base that decides the game, and you’re right back in the basement.
If you have a big s— house with a manager and a lot of negative press, don’t get too low. It’s never as bad as you think it is. And conversely, if everything is going really well, don’t get too cocky and think you got the world by the balls because, quite frankly, you don’t.
And it pertains to dealing with situations, dealing with the aftermath and dealing with the personal feelings you may have and putting it all in a bucket where you don’t get too overjoyed or down in the dumps. Because you’ve got a bunch of calls during a season. And you’re only as good as your last call.
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; Otto Greule / Getty Images)
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