The Laws of McRae Park Wiffle Ball

1. First of all, this isn’t technically Wiffle ® ™ ©  Ball.  This is a bunch of people in a park with a soft (really soft) foam ball and some bats.  We hit the ball.  We talk a little trash.  We may or may not keep score, or even count outs.  It’s fun.  If you’re going to go complain because we’re not using the skinny yellow bat and the regulation Wiffle ® ™ © Ball, maybe you should just go join a Wiffle ® ™ © Ball league, if you truly desire to suck all the fun out of it for yourself.  But don’t suck the fun out of it for us too.

2. The Ball: Made of foam, fat as a grapefruit, and soft enough that when my kid pitches wild and hits the baby sitting on the picnic blanket in the head, she hardly even notices.  Remember to squeeze it when you catch a pop fly or it will just bounce off your hands.

3. The Bat(s): Fat, skinny, foam, plastic, big or little, depending on your age.

4. The Bases: Yes, we will be running the bases.  Yes, grandma, we WILL be running the bases.  Preferably in the order 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and home; though some of the under-5 set have been known to go in reverse or random order (sometimes both at the same time).  Whatever.  12 paces apart seems to make it a good race between the baserunners and the fielders.

5.  The Players: Everyone plays: me, the wife, the kids, grandpa, grandma, random kids and/or grown-ups who happen to wander by.  Even the baby, though she is the perpetual catcher/backstop/occasional ball thief.  Players may join in at any time.

6. Balls and Strikes: Will not be counted.  Throw the ball where they can hit it.  Otherwise, the rest of us are just standing around.  If the batter is under 4 their mom or dad might help with the hitting.  Being hit by a pitch does not entitle you to first base, but it does entitle you to pretend to wince and/or writhe on the ground and/or dance about in simulated pain and agony.  Charging the mound is not discouraged by these laws.

7. Ground Rules: If we’re under the pine tree, over the fence is a home run.  Everything else is playable.  If you hit it into the pine tree, you’re out, and everyone else is entitled to free hits on you for as long as it takes my eight-year-old to climb the tree and shake the ball out.  Otherwise, if you hit it foul, it’s your job to go get it.  If you hit a home run, somebody else has to get it.

8.  Making an Out: Outs can be made in several ways.  A caught fly ball is an out.  Force outs and tag outs are made in the usual manner.  If you don’t have a fielder nearby, just throw the ball at the runner, and if you hit him, he’s out.  Tackling and/or holding a baserunner upside down by his or her ankles is also a valid way to make an out, provided the baserunner is under age 12 or is married to the fielder.  Nothing in these laws should be construed to discourage tickling, either by the fielder or the runner.  Similarly, blocking, dragging, holding hands, doing somersaults, leaping, diving, and crying as a ruse are all valid ways of making or avoiding an out.

9.  Scoring a Run: Congratulations!  Now get out and field.

10.  Batting Order: If there are enough players to form teams, the teams can decide their own batting orders.  (As a side note, teams MUST pick a name before coming up to bat.  Traditionally the two youngest players compromise on the name; such a compromise usually consists of combining the favorite animal/color/natural disaster/mythical creature/disgusting bodily fluid of each one.)  If we play work-up, then we bat youngest to oldest, with the standing exception that a newcomer gets to bat immediately.

11.  Finishing the Game: A game is completed when one of the following conditions is met: A. It’s dark out.  B. We’re out of soda (does not necessarily end the game but usually will at least provide the opportunity for a Seventh Inning Stretch).  C. We have lost all the balls and/or broken all the bats.  D. Dinner is ready.

To Cure What Ails You

SALEM--Spring training started yesterday.  Not the sunny one down in Southern Southizona, with the charming man-boy millionaires of summer jogging in mesh jerseys.  Spring training started yesterday in my back yard.

It started when I came home from work all of a funk.  Too many hours in front of a computer screen, too many days of wearing a tie, too many evenings in a very fine recliner.  Despite my poor patient wife’s ministrations I was irreconcilable.

I have learned in my years that there is a certain simple joy to be found in the essential tasks of sport: a clean dive into a chilly pool, the union of a receiver with a tightly spiraling football, the neatly described arc of a 21-foot bank shot; but the triumph of them all is a well timed reversal of a pitched ball just over the heads of the infield.

This will cure what ails you.

My wife is the Commissioner of this league tonight; she drafted me, the 8-year-old, the 4-year-old, and the baby, who I put in an oversized stocking cap, propped up in the stroller, and instructed her to call my balls and strikes.  (Her zone was a little narrow, but it’s early on in the season.)  The wife drafted us straight out to the back yard so she could get dinner finished without my grumbling wrecking up the flavor.

The 8-year-old, he comes from the left side, with a duck-toed stance and a dangerous bat for anything I left up too high.  The 4-year-old is a rookie right-hander with a close stance, a fat bat, and a pair of Oshkosh overalls.

I pitched—from the stretch, and fielded the zingers both of them tapped all the way back to my long-suffering neighbor’s fence.  Those two whopped good long hits, even for the little guy; and they scrambled around the tree and back to the wall, which our ground rules state is a single and a home run all in one if you can make it back to the wall without me throwing the ball at you.  (I’ll admit I went all out to tater the 8-year-old, but missed mostly, and only half-stepped it after the 4-year-old’s grounders.)

The 8-year-old cracked one of the hard plastic wiffle balls almost all the way around, proud when I showed it to him nearly bisected into hemispheres.  The 4-year-old mostly wanted to wear the batter’s helmet, kept it on even in the field a la John Olerud.  Mrs. Commish came out to let us know dinner was ready, and to watch the rookie sensation hit.

We tromped inside.  My midwinter blues had dissipated amidst the sharp cold air and the sharply batted balls and the boys’ heels turned up speeding along the base paths.  Here is another thing I’ve learned in my years.  Here is something better than a clean catch or a square hit, here is a subtle joy pieced together bit by bit, not unlike the game itself: to watch your son strike a plastic curve ball, to see his knees twist and bend in the follow-through, his hand dismiss the bat, to see his small face upturned to follow his clean single through the chill blue air.

That will cure what ails you.