By Peter Jackel

A steady mist that had developed out of nowhere just wasn’t going to let up anytime soon. There was no choice for Larry Young but to stop play and wait for things to clear up. But it wasn’t rain delaying play; the mist was in Young’s eyes.

As Young paced the wooden floor of the Nash Recreation Center at Oregon, Ill., that spring day in 2001, he dabbed at his eyes that kept welling with tears in the aftermath of the miracle. The veteran major league umpire had been on the field for Nolan Ryan’s 5,000th strike out as well the 3,000th hit for both Rod Carew and Dave Winfield, and he had experienced the splendor of working a World Series under the lights of Yankee Stadium, but never had his eyes seen the glory of such a moment.

"It was just the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen," Young said.

Young, donating his services as he had done so many times before, had put aside his spikes and chest protector for a striped shirt and whistle to serve as referee for a Village of Progress basketball game involving developmentally disabled athletes. It certainly wasn’t basketball at its finest, but it just might have been basketball at its most inspired, and Young had become hooked over the years by the sheer passion of those players.

A crowd of 50 politely applauded inside the Nash Center that afternoon as the handicapped athletes awkwardly maneuvered about the court. Even being able to heave an ugly shot in the general direction of the basket was an accomplishment in itself for some.

Perhaps the most conspicuous player was Gary Moates, a gray-haired, speech-impaired, gangly man in his mid-40s, who had battled muscular dystrophy his entire life. Some four decades earlier, Young and Moates were first-grade classmates in Oregon, Ill., and Young still has a lucid image of the badly disfigured boy being confined to a wheelchair.

"At the time, he couldn’t walk," Young said. "Now, he has grown from that to walking, but very, very awkwardly. His body is just twisted."

Moates had taken a few shots that day, but they were merely lame ducks that fell harmlessly to the ground, like they always did.

And then it happened. In one instant, Moates awkwardly handled a pass and spontaneously threw up a lame duck that miraculously — clumsily — arched about three feet toward the basket and swished through the net.

No, he couldn’t have possibly made that shot. Not Gary Moates. But he did. The passive crowd erupted in cheers. Players on both benches stood up in disbelief. Moates, overwhelmed by the miracle, victoriously flapped his arms as he ran about the court with a smile that could illuminate Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

And then there was Young, an isolated figure away from the commotion who was looking on at Moates’ moment of triumph with misty eyes. Tears have a way of distorting vision until everything runs together like a watercolor painting in the rain, and maybe Young saw his handicapped little sister, Karen, in some melancholic, misty image as he quietly looked on.

Karen Young is mentally and physically disabled. But growing up, she progressed from a frightened little girl who was often the subject of cruelty into an independent, responsible woman who unknowingly inspired her hot-headed brother into becoming the individual he is today, a deeply caring man who is constantly giving for a living.

As a stocky youngster still maturing, Young would sometimes hunt down the bullies who tormented his sister and throw them into lockers. As he grew into a man, he learned to channel his anger into a compassion that knocks people off their feet, not into lockers.

"I guess I’ve been around Larry for so long that I kind of take him for granted," said Dan Manning, a friend of Young’s for more than 30 years and himself a longtime basketball and football official at the high school and college levels. "Without ever being asked to help out with things, he always seems sensitive to when people need help. He’s always sensitive to what’s going on in the community."

Larry Young is a name that is probably subliminally buried somewhere in your subconscious from the dozens of times you’ve heard it mentioned during Major League Baseball broadcasts. What you probably don’t know is that when Young strips off that mask, a respected umpire becomes a tireless philanthropist.

From organizing "Larry Young and Friends Charities," a foundation that has raised almost $100,000 for charities and scholarships in Illinois, to playing Santa Claus, to quietly donating umpiring equipment, to pulling his buddies through their darkest days, Young is a constant source of positive, inspiring energy.

"He’s always been a person who’s there," said Jeff Carr, a longtime collegiate baseball and football official, who serves on the board of directors for "Larry Young and Friends Charities."

The commotion created by Moates’ shot eventually subsided and Young was jarred back into reality. He swiped at his eyes one more time, placed his whistle back into his mouth and focused on the game.

Less than a year later, Young was announced as the 2002 NASO Gold Whistle Award winner, recognizing his years of selfless service for others.

While nothing will ever compare to the fulfillment of making a difference in someone’s life, his Gold Whistle Award might come in second. "I think the word that comes up is I have a respect for the Gold Whistle Award," the 48-year-old Young said. "It’s probably the highest honor in officiating right now. And looking back on some of the previous award winners, I know a lot of them — Durwood Merrill and Stevie Palermo I worked with, and I know of Ron Asselstine, Paul Stewart, Tommy Nunez. Those are good people and it’s really a big honor for me to be involved with people of that caliber.

"I think what makes it special is it’s hard to gauge what umpires do on the field. When you think of great umpires, you probably think of Al Barlick, Richie Garcia and Nester Chylak. Those guys are great. But when you think of what people do off the field and off the floor, that’s what the Gold Whistle focuses on."

**********

"I’ll be there in 10 minutes," Young said succinctly to the writer phoning him from a coffee room at a convenience station in Beloit, Wis., for their scheduled interview. While Young’s home in Roscoe, Ill., is just a par-5 from Beloit, it’s a different area code than Beloit and the telephone demands four quarters to complete the call.

How symbolic it is that even from a different area code, Young is just minutes away. As Carr said, "He’s always a person who’s there."

How symbolic it also is that a man who is so low key with his charitable work arrives without his waiting interviewer even noticing. But then, one hardly expected a man at the top of his profession to pull up in a brown 1993 Volvo with more than 200,000 miles on the odometer.

"Cars never meant a thing to me," Young said. During the next 90 minutes or so, it would become evident to the writer that cars are about all that doesn’t matter to Young.

The question comes up: What inspired him to become a man who would win the Gold Whistle Award? That’s when Karen Young figuratively enters the coffee room and takes a seat at the table.

"I think it goes back to the idea that anyone who has lived with a member of the family who needed special care probably has a little greater empathy for the mentally retarded," Young said. "I’m not saying that anyone who hasn’t doesn’t, but I think you actually get a little better insight if you actually lived with the person day in and day out.

"Looking back on my childhood, I was probably as mean as any other kid was at that time. I hope not, but I probably was. But after you lived with someone who has gone through that, it gives you a different outlook on life."

Young looks at you with piercing gray eyes and takes you back. The second of Don and Della Young’s three children and their only son recalls the day a sullen Karen came home from school and retreated to the serenity of her room. Young, eight years older than Karen, gently coaxed her to tell him what was wrong. It took some doing, but Young eventually learned that a class bully had tormented her during a volleyball match at school that day.

"He said she was a retard, she got in the way and she was slow," Young said. "Karen really didn’t cry a lot. She was very quiet and …" Young, who had been projecting a straightforward, businesslike approach to this point, stops and says, "Timeout," before turning away and wiping his eyes. In a moment, he resumes talking, only now his voice is cracking.

"He made her life miserable that day and I remember seeking him out the following day in the boys’ locker room," Young said, picking up where he left off. "He repeated what he said. At least he had the guts to repeat it. And then we got into a huge fight and I threw him against the locker. Coach Holland came in and said, ‘What’s going on?’ and I told him. He got on (the bully) just as bad as I did. So I don’t think we had that particular problem again."

But there would be other problems. Don Young, a nails-tough retired policeman with a gentle side who spent his retirement years riding bikes with Karen, died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 58 in 1978.

The person Karen needed more than anyone was suddenly gone. "I remember her saying to me, ‘What am I going to do now?’ I just lost dad. Who’s going to ride bikes with me?’ She was worried about what she was going to do because they had a routine," Young said. "And a routine for emotionally affected individuals like that is very important. When it’s disrupted, it’s very hard on them."

At the time, Young was living in Florida while working his way through the ranks toward becoming a major league umpire, a goal he reached in 1985. He was barely getting by on the salary he made in the lower minor leagues in those days, so quick flights home to be with Karen were not an option. There was only so much he could do.

The years passed and Karen Young developed into a happy, self-sufficient woman by involving herself in such programs as the Special Olympics and the Village of Progress. As for Larry Young, the seeds of his compassion and desire to help people had already been planted by his handicapped sister and there has been constant growth ever since.

"There’s not a week that goes by when I’m not working with some kind of charity," he said.

Young, with the help and support of his wife of 26 years, Joan, and teenage daughters Jessica and Darcy, is constantly doing something, often behind the scenes. It might be quietly putting together a care package of his old equipment for some new umpire he hears of getting started near Young’s hometown of Roscoe, Ill. And it could be as sizable as starting his charitable foundation.

"We formed a foundation about nine years ago called ‘Larry Young and Friends Charities,’" Young said. "Several of my friends from officiating — some are officials and some are coaches — formed this foundation to raise money.

"We’ve raised more than $95,000 over the years for various charities. Not only has it been for the Special Olympics, but also for the American Heart Association, for the American Cancer Association, for an agency in Rockford called Working Against A Violent Environment, children’s advocacies and we’ve got some scholarships for some high schools.

"We do a couple of things each year. We do a golf outing (the day before the All-Star Game in July) from which half the money goes to the Special Olympics and the other half goes to a favorite charity of one of the members of our board of directors. We each take a turn.

"And we do a baseball bash-type of fundraiser at one of the local banks, where we auction off silent auction items. Between those two things right now, that’s keeping us busy."

Yet somehow, Young always manages to find time to take on more. He’s very active in officiating Special Olympics basketball games and during this baseball season, Young and other umpires have taken the time for a program he has helped to re-organize called, "Call to Care."

"It’s a program where umpires go around during the season and visit various children’s hospitals," Young said. "We’ll go to the kids to give them T shirts and autographs."

"Larry’s a person who has set this personal goal and I don’t know exactly what that goal is," Carr said. "I think he uses charities and the foundation to try and reach those goals, but I think he’s got deeper goals — the self-satisfaction of whatever he sees as the result of what’s accomplished.

"He gets the whole family involved. His wife and two daughters get involved and they go after this thing. It’s a personal commitment, and he doesn’t ever seem to let up from that."

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It was the afternoon of March 10, 2001 and Young was joining Manning, his friend of more than 30 years, to work a concession stand for a sectional basketball tournament at Rock Valley College, their alma mater. While the two worked, a police officer ran to Young and told him with a frightening sense of urgency that his wife was trying to reach him. Young almost always carries a cell phone, but he inadvertently left it behind that day.

"Right away, I thought that my daughter’s been in an accident or my mother has passed away or something," Young said.

When Young got to the phone, he heard his wife struggling to compose herself.

Joan Young finally managed to blurt out that Lynn Manning, Dan’s wife and Joan’s best friend, had suffered a brain hemorrhage while riding a horse that day.

"Well, she’s going to the hospital, right?" Larry Young said.

"No, she’s dead," Joan Young said.

Larry held the phone in disbelief. Back at that concession stand was Dan Manning, who would have to be told what had just happened.

"I didn’t know how to tell him," Young said. "I just went up to him and said, ‘Dan, we have to go. I just got a call.’ He thought it was about my daughter, too. He saw me go and he later told me I came back white as a sheep.

"I said, ‘We have to go. It’s about Lynn and it’s not good.’ When we got to the hospital, which was about five miles away, I told him."

At the age of 51, Manning was suddenly a widower with two children to raise by himself. As for Young, at a time when his buddy needed him more than ever, he was due at spring training.

More than a year later, Manning was still not able to say more than a few words about this incident without breaking into tears. But he said just enough about what Young meant during the most difficult time of his life.

"When I lost my wife, Larry just couldn’t do enough," Manning, overcome with emotion, said. "It goes unnoticed because he does so much, but he went to spring training for a day and came back for visitation, for the funeral, and then he stayed here extra time, but that’s just the way he is."

Yes, that’s just the way he is and it’s likely how he’ll be remembered — even if Young doesn’t expect to be remembered for much.

"I was asked that the other day — how I think I’ll be remembered — and I had to think about it for a long time," Young said. "I think my most important job right now is being a good father. That’s the definitive answer, and that’s the way I’d like to be remembered. If I could be remembered by my children as a good father, I think my life would be a success."

Young is only partially going to get his wish. He’ll certainly be remembered as a devoted father, but he’s going to be remembered for far more than that.

"He’s unreal," said Debra Kelly, the Northwest Illinois Special Olympics Director. "I mean, considering so many sports celebrities aren’t exactly your role models, Larry is just completely the opposite.

"If I called his cell phone right now and he answered in Phoenix or wherever he is, he would be like, ‘What do you need?’ and then he would get it. I’ve never met anyone like Larry. And Joan and his children are the exact same."

The big, authoritative umpire, the stocky kid, defending his sister’s pride, he’s no teddy bear. But any hint of gruffness melts away when someone’s in need.

"He’s really been a wonderful person," added Kelly. "He will do anything we ask him to do." That’s just the kind of man Larry Young is.

Peter Jackel is a longtime sportswriter from Racine, Wis.