close call

'Yer out!' One wrong word from category F and the disbelieving runner is given the heave-ho. He brushes his soiled pants and offers three words from category SOB.
The manager scoots his beer belly across the diamond, reluctantly leaving his crackerjacks on top of the bench in the dugout, accompanied by the stadium organist's William Tell Overture blasting through all fourteen park speakers. The organist never misses a pitch, play, or belch.
'He was safe,' Charlie says calmly, catching his breath.
'Nope, Charlie.'
'Yer blind and need to schedule an appointment with a certified optometrist right away.'
The Ump, Milton, points to the official scorekeeper in the press box, then to Charlie, and the thumb goes up. 'Yer, outta here.'
'Already?'
'Yep.'
'Why, Milton?' Milton turns his back.
'Can't we discuss it? Milton? Milton? Can't I even kick up some infield dirt like old Leo Durocher first?'
Milton looks at him.
'Now there was a great manager.'
'He missed the tag.'
'I remember Leo.' Milton rubs his chin and smiles.
'Here. He wasn't tagged. Look at me. I'm kicking dirt.'
'Go right ahead. The organ player will accompany you in mere moments.' Looney Tunes echoes out, mocking Charlie.
'Geez, Charlie, I thought they liked you here in your own home town.'
'I thought they did too. I'm not done kicking dirt, Milton.'
'You'll have to leave us now, Charlie.' Two more umpires wander over.
'He was safe.'
'I'm not going to argue with you.'
The organist begins playing Three Blind Mice. The crowd politely applauds. The Ump points to the right of the press box where the pipe organ resides and ejects the organ player. All is silent except for scattered booing. There is no more music. The organist gathers up his sheet music into a black folder, some papers spilling out like squishy tomato from a decked ham sandwich, folds his spectacles, puts on his raincoat on this beautiful evening, descends six flights of cement steps, gets in his car, revs it up, and drives away weeping.