UMPS FEISTIER ABOUT SLIGHTS.

Byline: KEVIN MODESTI

The human face on baseball's stoical devotion to duty might be Cal Ripken's face, reflected in 2,400 consecutive lineup cards. Or Jackie Robinson's face, with the other cheek perpetually turned. Choose your icon.

I'll choose the umpire's face. Not any particular umpire, but the historical image of the man in blue, the dispassionate arbiter, the ballpark Palace Guard, stern of brow, broad of hip, sore of foot.

In a sport that values the quiet completion of thankless everyday tasks (hitting cut-off men, breaking up double plays) more than occasional spectacles (diving catches, 500-foot home runs), the umpire is the only participant whose performance actually can be rated by how little attention he attracts.

Which is why the recent trend toward umpirialism - the high-handed behavior of umpires in action and the belligerence of their union leader - is so disturbing.

Something is wrong when umpires union chief Richie Phillips, in pursuit of an on-the-field ``Code of Conduct'' to encourage respect for baseball authority, begins a letter to major-league executives, ``You are really beginning to annoy me!!'' and refers to ``your nonsensical position.'' Respect, huh?

I speak as someone who was that rare thing, a fan of the umpires. Kill the umpire? No, cool the umpire.

I remember sitting on the Dodger Stadium reserved level far down the left-field line at a 1978 World Series game and paying closer attention to the left-field umpire than to Don Sutton, who beat the New York Yankees with a complete game, or to Steve Yeager, Reggie Smith, Thurman Munson and Reggie Jackson. There, in the solid form of a man named McCoy, stood real courage.

How could he go 3 hours without sitting down, without a drink of water, without a trip to the bathroom? My adolescent mind boggled.

The umpire was like a spy, sacrificing recognition and creature comforts for the greater good. If he got any attention, he was like the imperturbable Ed Sudol, known for being the plate umpire in most of the National League's 20-inning games in the '60s and '70s. Could there be a more noble path to fame?

The umpire suffered insult and argument with a noble bearing. Let the managers and players have their tantrums. The umpire wouldn't sink to their level.

Other kids, watching baseball on TV, would assume batting stances in front of their sets. I would crouch like a home-plate umpire and practice an authoritative ``strike'' gesture. At least when I got tired I could take a refrigerator break.

The real-life umpire was the Nathan Hale of the sports world. He regretted he had but two knees to lose for his national pastime.

But times have changed. Now the umpire is the Nathan Lane of sports.

Conservative blue blazers are out. Some nights, when American League umpires wear their Santa Claus-red jerseys, they're more eye-catching than the players. Courtly bearing is out. Sometimes, it seems, an umpire is as likely to inflame an argument with a player as the other way around.

In August, Yankees pitcher Hideki Irabu was cursed by umpire John Hirschbeck in an argument over a balk, a role reversal that Phillips admits was ``inappropriate.'' With that, Hirschbeck lost some of the sympathy he won by catching Roberto Alomar spit in the face last fall.

In June, Yankees bench coach Don Zimmer said umpire Greg Bonin told him, ``You're on drugs,'' as they argued about a strike call.

Zimmer had told Bonin the pitch was a foot outside, and, if you've watched much baseball the past couple of years, you know he probably was right. Umpires have become judicial activists, applying rules inconsistenly (on phantom double plays, for example), taking 6 inches from the top of the traditional strike zone and adding them to the outside edge of the plate.

But it is off the field that umpires are doing their image the most damage, or letting Phillips do it for them. Phillips' Sept. 30 letter included a checklist in which commissioner Bud Selig, NL president Len Coleman and AL president Gene Budig could indicate ``which of the following Official Rules violations . . . the umpires must endure'' - including, ``They should be spat upon. . . .''

Phillips might have meant his indecorum as a joke. Baseball officials didn't take it that way, and they shouldn't have, because Phillips showed poor comedic timing, taking attention away from the playoffs.

In the wake of their 1995 labor dispute, and what they saw as lenient treatment of Alomar, the umpires have been throwing their weight around, which might be as dangerous as it sounds. No longer loyal servants, they have threatened to impose unilaterally a strict code of conduct for the postseason, though the public insults they claim to fear have not materialized.

Once, only the players walked around with chips on their shoulders. Once, there was no whining in the umpires' room. Once, the Palace Guard was imperturbable. Now, he turns to glare at the tourists, and growls, ``You wanna fight?''