l am clearly a glutton for punishment.

It was confirmed a little over 22 years ago when Kathy Cortez, against my better judgment, convinced me to try umpiring adult softball.

Anyone who knew me from my Little League career that lasted one season with zero hits, no walks, and the absolute minimum of 10 strikeouts would have been in stitches just hearing the suggestion.

You clearly don’t have to be good at a sport to officiate.

But I was beyond not good.

I played right field when my coach had no choice but to play me based on Little League participation rules.

It is the position you play your worst fielder in given most people that can hit the ball in that direction are lefties.

Any since there are less lefties in the world and even less switch hitters, I was a natural for the position.

I was taunted by adults during the limited playing time, whenever I did have to field the ball, for throwing like a girl.

Actually, that would have insulted girls as I clearly couldn’t throw as good as most girls.

I don’t know what would be an apt description of my lack of athletic prowess and coordination.

All I know is my coach — a railroad diesel mechanic that could have been a candidate for sainthood — likely prayed that I’d throw the ball in the right general direction and do so with it staying airborne for more than a dozen feet.

I would have “self-washed out” of the Minors of the Lincoln Little League if it was not my mother.

Her rule was simple. If I tried something, I either had to stick it out for a season or a year.

Did I mention my Scouting career lasted one whole year as a Cub Scout?

And I still can’t tie a decent knot to save myself.

You get the picture.

One might wonder why Kathy, who oversaw Manteca Parks & Recreation programs, in her right mind would ask me to umpire.

She told me that I was one of the better referees she had for the adult basketball leagues and as such I could easily handle calling softball games.

Her argument was basketball was more intense and fast-paced with more moving parts.

I hesitated at first.

I had flashbacks to Little League where I clearly was clueless.

But I bought into her argument.

For five or so years before coming to Manteca, I officiated adult basketball leagues.

This is not to brag, but I was fairly good at it.

I made it a point to out-hustle virtually every player downcourt. I thrived in making snap decisions.

And, I one point, I knew the rule book by heart.

It had nothing to do with the fact I covered high school sports for years. It had everything to do with wanting to be on top of my game the five and a half seasons I worked as a correspondent for  Associated Press covering the Sacramento Kings.

Knowing rules in such detail clearly isn’t a must to cover sports. But for whatever reason, I did so for my stint covering NBA games.

I also, cue up the raised eye brows, found officiating relaxing.

So I said yes’ even though it was going to be a steep hill not just learning all the rules but being able to apply them in split second situations.

Kathy had no doubts based on seeing me in action on the basketball court.

Her praise blinded me, so to speak.

And “blind” is an apropos word, because in the ensuing three softball seasons that was the nicest word hurled my way by hecklers.

That was especially true at the Northgate Softball Complex on a warm evening.

Kathy, and other umpires, had warned me. Hesitate, and you can lose control of the field.

She emphasized it was important to hustle.

I had confidence officiating basketball games plus I wasn’t the only official on the court.

I didn’t have confidence umpiring and I was the only official on the field.

Strikes and balls are clearly hard to mess up in adult softball unless an umpire forgets to use his hand clicker each time.

Infield rules and such aside, what is easy to mess up are the calls at first, second, and third with home to a lesser degree.

The general rule called for running toward the mound to better position yourself to make base calls.

One of the three Northgate fields at the time had particularly dicey lighting at twilight that made calls difficult, at least for me.

It was the third game of the night that things went south.

To make a long story short, I had two disputed calls.

Looking back, the root of each one was in the lag time I was taking to process what I saw.

Hesitation is not an umpire’s friend. It’s just as bad as making a call that is clearly wrong.

If you can’t sell your call in a firm and clear manner, no one is going to buy it.

That first night set the tone.

Kathy reassured me I wasn’t that bad and that I’d get better with work.

I don’t know if it was a white lie. But I do know that the feedback during the game that I got from the bleachers and afterwards when they felt a need to tell me to my face how bad they thought I was, didn’t help.

Usually, you could call me anything you want and it wouldn’t unnerve me.

Players weren’t as bad.

I was going to quit after the first year and Kathy convinced me not to, adding I would get better.

I don’t know if she said that because she was desperate for umpires, but in retrospect I wasn’t  probably as bad as I and others made me out to be.

Do not misunderstand. I was clearly the weakest umpire.

The other umpires worked with me and gave me pointers.

It didn’t help when basketball season came around and I was back in my element.

More than a few that played both sports would tell me they couldn’t understand why I was a good basketball official but a crappy umpire.

For the first two umpiring season, almost every night I got home tense. In some instances, I was told the color was drained from my face.

Nothing in my life before then or after rattled me in the manner umpiring did.

Finally, the third season I managed to get to the point that other umpires were telling me I finally had the hang of it.

I quit umpiring after that season.

Three years later, I was pumping gas at the East Yosemite Avenue Chevron when a man I recognized as one of the players that consistently reminded me how bad I was as an umpire approached me.

He asked if I was Dennis Wyatt, the guy who used to umpire Manteca Recreation softball.

I said yes, bracing for what I excepted to hear next.

Instead, he wanted to know when I was coming back to umpire.

I looked at him as if he was stark crazy and volunteered that I recalled that he repeatedly told me that I wasn’t that good.

His response?

“True, but at least you hustled.”

This column is the opinion of editor, Dennis Wyatt, and does not necessarily represent the opinions of The Bulletin or 209 Multimedia. He can be reached at dwyatt@mantecabulletin.com