That promotion came with its own particular pressure. I was barely older than the players on the field. Coaches had thirty years of experience and zero patience for a kid in an umpire's uniform second-guessing himself. Fans in the stands were loud and opinionated. Parents had emotional investments in every close play. And every call I made was final — public, irreversible, and immediately contested by someone.
What I figured out pretty quickly is that authority on a baseball field isn't handed to you by a title. It's built, call by call, through consistency and composure. A hesitant call invites argument. A clear, immediate, unwavering call — even one the coach hates — commands a different kind of respect. I learned to stand my ground not out of stubbornness but because backing down from a correct call is the fastest way to lose the field for the rest of the game.
I also learned something about conflict resolution that no classroom teaches well: you can lower the temperature without giving up the call. A coach who storms out of the dugout needs to feel heard. If you listen, acknowledge the frustration, and then explain your reasoning calmly and plainly, most arguments end faster — and the coach goes back to the dugout knowing you're not going to be pushed around. That balance between firmness and de-escalation is something I used regularly, and it's something I think about a lot now when I consider what a litigator does in adversarial settings every day.
The Tennessee State Games were the high point of those three years. That's a showcase event for Tennessee's top senior talent — college scouts in the stands, families who have invested years in their kids' careers, coaches with reputations on the line. The pressure is real and immediate. Getting selected to officiate meant someone trusted me to handle it, and handling it required everything I had built over three years of working up to that stage.