From 1977, when Postema was hired by Florida's Gulf Coast League—only the third woman to invade the male sanctuary of organized baseball umpiring—until 1989, when she was released by the Triple A Alliance, it hardly ever was easy. Players were constantly putting Postema in what they perceived to be her place. Once she came onto the field to find a frying pan deposited on home plate. Another time a manager handed over his lineup card and then planted a kiss right on Postema's lips—in front of 18,000 spectators. Far from wilting under such challenges to her authority, Postema became more determined. "I loved my job," she says. "I had my heart set on becoming a major league umpire."
But baseball had no such plans for Postema. In November 1989, after 13 seasons and 2,000 games in the minor leagues, she was passed over for promotion to the major leagues and released. An evaluation report by the leagues' Office for Umpire Development claimed Postema's work had "deteriorated in areas of enthusiasm and execution," even though it had rated her "better than average" earlier in the season. Postema was devastated—and livid. Last December she filed a sex discrimination suit against professional baseball, demanding the first available umpiring opening, plus back pay and damages for pain and humiliation. "Baseball wasn't ready for a woman umpire no matter how good she was," says Postema in her just published book, You've Got to Have Balls to Make it in This League.
But Martin Springstead, the American League's executive director for umpiring, views Postema's fate differently. "There are 32 jobs in the American League and 28 in the National League," he says. "The turnover rate is low. It's difficult for anyone to make it."
Postema, the youngest of three children, learned to play hardball as a girl in Willard, Ohio. Her father, Philip, a retired farmer, and her mother, Phyllis, a housewife, encouraged her love of baseball. "She used to throw her hardest and try to burn me," says her brother, Todd, now a fire-alarm technician in Las Vegas. "It stung, but I'd never say anything. When I burned it in to her, she never said anything either."
In 1976, Pam was visiting her sister in Florida when she read about the Al Somers Umpiring School in Daytona Beach. Postema applied. At first, Somers refused her, explaining that there wasn't even a women's restroom on the premises. "When someone says I can't do something, I gel more determined," says Postema. "I told him, 'Don't worry, I have strong kidneys.' "
After the six-week course, Postema landed her first umpiring job for $550 a month—to the dismay of some Gulf Coast League players. Six years later she had moved up to the Triple A Pacific Coast League, the highest level below the majors. During the winters, she worked in Colombia, Puerto Rico and Venezuela, where fans threw fruit at her and even issued a death threat. "It was tough at times," she says. "I really didn't have anyone to confide in. The attitude of the [other umpires] was, 'If you have to, work with her. But don't help her. Don't make it easy.' "
Postema advanced anyway. In 1987 she was asked to umpire the Hall of Fame game at Cooperstown, N.Y. The National League invited her to work spring training games in 1988 and 1989. But in November 1989, after the major leagues had promoted two men with comparable or less experience than Postema, she was let go. "I don't know why she lost her job," says San Francisco Giants manager Roger Craig. "She was a pretty good umpire."
Postema, whose suit may be heard next year, isn't ready to hang up the mask. "Why should I change my job because of small-minded people?" she asks. "I liked the traveling. I liked the freedom. I have the ability, the integrity and the knowledge to make it in the major leagues."
SUSAN REED
LYNDON STAMBLER in San Clemente
- Contributors:
- Lyndon Stambler.
Saved by the Bell Reunion
The hookups, the meltdowns, the memoires
The case reveals what was really going on what they think of each other now!
