The Boys of Summer, and the Men who Organized It. (719 hits)
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Submitted by Dan Theman (Oh boy, he's original) (View user info) at 2005-12-29 01:44:13 EST
I really do play Professional Wiffleball, not lying. (http://www.fastplastic.net) My team name is The Wiffled Wonders, we're gonna be good this year.
This piece, on the most part is true, I've changed names and taken liberties here and there, but other than that... yeah. Go to town.
The Boys of Summer and the Men Who Organize It
"Heynowletsget'emherewhaddyasaykid?!"
It's another language. A very awkward, goofy, foreign dialect. But I understand it. Every last dumb word of it. So stupid, and yet, I'll use it any chance I get. Banter is an incurable disease.
"HerewegoBobbykid!"
I stepped back into position, on the balls of my feet, leaning towards the batter. The guy's a good hitter, but the way he's been going, he should ground it right to me.
Bobby set and delivered. The ball does the same thing every time he throws it. Gives the grass a shave as it flies up into the strike zone. Every time. With Swiss precision. Not to say that Bobby's Dutch or anything.. Nobody ever hits it, at least far anyways...you can't.
Same result.
"Hm. Nice pitch, Kid. Two-and-Two," the batter remarked, as he threw the ball back to Bobby.
Bobby sighed, and gave him a half-hearted nod and a "Yeah," It's the last inning, two outs, our team's up 6 to 4, but you wouldn't be able to tell if you looked at Bobby. He's a different kid when he's on the field. And a good thing, too... most people think he's a genuine asshole. Which I can totally agree with, he can definitely be a jerk when he gets into "Game Mode".
If there's one thing to know about Bobby, it's that he hates getting compliments. He just absolutely hates it, he doesn't have any reasoning for it; he just doesn't like it. I think it's because he wants all the great things he does to be considered commonplace or something. That's where people get that idea of him being an asshole. They think he's conceited. He's just a strange kid, plain and simple. But he can throw that ball, man. That's why we got him.
He slumped back into his set, changed the grip on the ball and unleashed one of the nastiest sliders I've ever seen in my life. I can swear to you right now that it was 3 feet behind the poor bastard at the plate before it took a left turn and nailed the lower outside corner of the strike zone.
"SWEET! That's game, fellas!" I chirped. I always try to say the cool thing, like how they would say it in the movies, and it never quite comes out the way I want it to. Oh well, I suppose.
"Great game, guys. Good luck with the rest of the day," I told the opposing team as we went over to them to shake hands, like any reputable team would do. It's pretty much a formality.
"So we're 1 and 0 so far, boys, that's good... that's good," Nick said as he went to grab a Gatorade out of the cooler.
"It's 93 degrees outside; everybody needs to keep cool and hydrated, if we want to save energy for the games later."
He's such a douche sometimes, as if we didn't know it was hot as balls out and that we need to drink fluids.
It's funny. Sometimes, during these big all-day tournaments, I'll catch myself looking around, and chuckling about how absurd the whole deal is. I mean, I'm playing 'Professional' Wiffle Ball, a game most kids grew out of when they were 5. Now, I find myself waking up in the middle of the night to check my email to see if the order I made on 6 dozen balls went through or not. It's really become a sickness.
My team consists of 4 sixteen/seventeen year old High School kids, Brett, Jimmy, Bobby and me; Dan. I'd like to consider myself the captain of the squad, but if I ever said that out loud I'd never hear the end of it from the guys. We call ourselves Aces High. We're not sure if it's because Brett listens to Iron Maiden all the time, or because we get together once in a while to play cards. At any rate, we all have a common bond in our love for WiffleBall.
Bluntly speaking, my team... we're not very good. I mean, don't get me wrong, we're not horrible; we have our times, but overall, we are not up to the level that the good teams that compete for the National Championship are on. We've got some time before we get there yet.
But in comparison to where the team was 4 years ago? It's like night and day. Back when this all started, it used to be just me and Brett... it was the summer before our freshman year and I had just picked up a Wiffle Bat and Ball for shits and giggles one day in June at the CVS right by my house for like 3 bucks or something. And during the summer in my town, everybody's outside doing something. Wiffleball became my something. I invited Brett over to my house that day and we played for the whole day in my perfect-for-Wiffle front yard.
It was an instant love affair. We were just hooked. Damn near everyday that summer, Brett came over and we just pitched and hit that plastic ball all day, trying new things; curves, slides, rises, sinkers... you name it, we spent hours trying to contort our arm to try and throw it. We'd attempt to hit a ball over the tree in deep center field. I did it one time, and we stopped playing for the day out of respect of the homer. At the time, it was just about the game, but subconsciously, even today still, it has always been about more than that. It's the smell of the grass, the distinctive "Whhhhhhhhssh" sound the ball makes when you throw it, the feel of the bat handle, which is always taped up. (Because everybody knows that things that have cloth tape on them are better and improved.)
I can still remember the long days that consisted of nothing but 3 Wiffleballs, 2 bats, and 35 innings and also being bitched at by the other kids in the neighborhood because Rich and I would beat them so badly. Brett and I were perfect opposites back then. I would pitch; he would supply the power at the plate. Then, we would switch. We were always what the other guy wasn't that day. It was just so much fun. Silly, pointless fun is what the summer is made of, you know?
Since then, all those other neighborhood kids have "grown out" of Wiffle, and it has left me and Brett to our own devices. Everybody else has found real hobbies and things to do, like cars, chasing girls, stamp collecting... I don't know. Everybody is just gone now. The fact of the matter is that we absolutely cannot get a decent pickup game of Wiffleball going anymore. So it's just me and the Aces High boys most of the time.
I'm the team's ace pitcher. As much as I hate to say that, because it sounds like I'm blowing my own horn, but I really am. The other guys on my team will never concede that to me, but it's an unspoken truth in the squad. I'm always trusted with the ball in the big situations against the good teams. I wouldn't say I'm built or strong or anything, but I can say I have a good Wiffle body, if there ever was such a thing. I'm like, 6'2ish, I only weigh 160 pounds, (that's soaking wet with jeans on) and I'm rather lanky. This gives me an advantage, because people have remarked that I'm "Coming at them, all arms and legs" I take pride in this, because as I see it, it's probably the only thing I'll ever really truly excel in, as sad as that seems. It's just a shame that this talent couldn't have been placed somewhere else, like maybe in something that could make me money. But whatever, I love this game, and I'm not really going to whine now.
Brett, if you couldn't tell already, he's been my best friend for a good 12 years now. When I moved into town here when I was 5, he was the kid I sat next to in kindergarten. And we sat next to each other every year until frosh year in High School, I went to the Catholic school a town over, it's a tradition or something my family has, to go to a Catholic High School. I've given up on arguing over it. Brett is a tank. He's a little shorter than I am, and close to 185-190 pounds. All muscle. And he never worked out a second for it, which makes me a little jealous. I'm still better looking, though. He's the Aces High's DH, and when he's absolutely needed, he'll play an inning or two in the field.
Now Jimmy, he's the resident head-case. He's very animated and friendly most of the time, but when he gets into a rhythm when he pitches, (he's our Relief/Closer) he becomes real stone-faced and subdued. He gets this fire in his eye though, man. It's wild. You really have to see it to believe it. His stare is as concentrated as a laser beam. When he looks at the batter with his grey eyes (which the ladies seem to love), it seems like he's trying to burn a hole in the guy. I honestly wouldn't doubt it if he really was. All his quirks and stuff aside, he's been solid for the team, and he's kept us in a few games that we should have lost. He's a monster at the plate too; he hits for power to all fields and rarely strikes out.
Bobby's that kid in that you just want to punch in the face. He has everything. He's smart, good looking, athletic as hell, and he's got money. Anything stereotypical of the All-American Boy you can think of, he has it. He takes it all for granted too, which rubs lots of people the wrong way. Deep down though, Jim's a sweetheart. He really means well most of the time, though people sometimes don't give him a chance. And he's like a gazelle in the outfield and he'll play wherever we put him, which is nice. I go to school with Bob, and with his reputation, he never really seems to have time for me. Which I think sucks a little, but I tend let it slide since he's the best all around athlete on the team.
Separate, we're all losers in our own right, but together, we're... a group of losers. That really describes it, though. As sad as that is, it's really true. We've let a kid's game take over the summer and I don't think we mind, either. Wiffleball has come to define our summers. I look forward to late February and early March to break out the gear and start tuning up for the tournaments in July and August. Once you get into this game, it's hard to want to leave. It all traces back to that summer 4 years ago.
Now, of course, things are a bit more sophisticated, we've found and recruited Jim and Bobby who can play as well, if not better, than us at times. We're registered and actively playing in this nationally recognized tournament. We have all the gear a "Pro" team needs. We buy cases of balls at a clip, we use longer, bigger barreled aluminum bats, rather than the traditional yellow "banana" bat, and we have a custom strike zone designed to the specifications and dimensions of the tournament rules, matching doubleknit jerseys with our team name in cursive on the front, and our nicknames and numbers embroidered on the backs. We play in the New Jersey Region, but we have traveled upwards of 2 days in a car to play in tournaments out of state. We play men, some in their 30's and 40's, who have families, pay bills and own houses, in a game made for children. If you think a group of 17 year old high school kids playing Wiffleball out of state during their time off from school sounds crazy, you haven't seen grown men travel by plane, across the country with their wife in kids in tow, to do it.
And there's no secret for why these guys travel so far, and for so long, to do what they do. They're VERY GOOD. Plain and simple. They're just that good at Wiffleball. So good at Wiffleball that they're willing to waste entire weekends for the cause. It's kinda silly when you think about it, but some people are good at things like painting or playing an instrument. So you can't fault them for going great lengths to showcase their talents. But along with how good they are, some of these guys bring this seriousness to the game, that I personally don't know how to treat. At times it's good, like an extra inning game, where everybody's dialed in, living and dying with every pitch. That's fun. But then there's times where you just want to go "Dude, shut up. It's Wiffleball... calm down." There's this fine line that has been treaded on for a while by these guys. You can jump on the computer and find whole online communities dedicated to the sport. There's even a guy out in Michigan, I think, with an online radio show that covers anything and everything about Wiffleball.
That's the line. Although it's really cool to have so much coverage and in-depth detail, you also get the feeling that somebody needs to find something better to do with their time than spend 4 hours everyday broadcasting on Wiffleball. Don't get me wrong, it's a great thing, but it can just be a little overkill. Either way, I'm fairly certain going to play this sport until I can't anymore.
As usual, my girlfriend Bethany, and her buddy Cheryl showed up late for the tournament. It's not her fault though... Beth's mom is just always late for anything she does. So to get her anywhere on time, you tell her the time you would come to be early, plus another fifteen or twenty minutes. She'll be where she needs to be at the right time.
It's really a wonder that she stays with me through all the crap I pull with this team. I'm always at some kind of practice or strategy session with my boys, or I'm out buying balls, or breaking them in, or practicing on my own, using her as a batter to stand in the box while I pitch... it's a mess. But I guess when you like somebody enough, you make concessions. I'm a lucky kid. She really cares for me and it's pretty special to me that she would take time out of her day to watch me play. I sat down with her one day and taught her how to record score for baseball, but I simplified it a bit, since we don't use all the same stuff. So she and Cheryl keep the book for us. We call them the Queens of the Aces High. They've even got matching shirts. Pretty cool.
We had been sitting around for a good 20 minutes after the first game, so I took a glance at the clock on my cell phone, and it said 10:34. We were making pretty good time considering we got started with the first game at 9:30. Our next match up was against a team from out of state at 10:45, I think somewhere in Massachusetts or something. They called themselves the Dirt Hens. Which is a gay name, but they're a much better team than us, so it leaves little room for me to talk.
As always, I took the hill to open things up. I pitched 4 innings in the last game, and not to make excuses or anything... but my arm was a little sore. I dunno. It just wasn't 100%. Whatever.
It was a little nerve-racking to go up against a team in the top five in the nation. At the last check on the league's website... our team was #47, which in comparison to the over 120 teams that play, isn't too bad. But when #4 plays #47... there's bound to be problems
.
Boy, were there problems. For the first time almost ever, we got embarrassed for 20 runs or something. The game ended on the mercy rule after only 3 innings. Yeah, they beat us pretty bad. But what do you expect when I throw 16 walks, right? They kept hitting the ball, and then when we finally would get to the plate, their pitcher, a guy by the name of I think, Joe, or something would sit us down in order in 9 pitches. It was the first time that I didn't have a good time playing Wiffleball.
It sucked. It absolutely sucked to get mad; mad over something so stupid. But then again, it didn't suck, since I took it so seriously, and I knew I should have done better. We all should have done better. It was depressing, to say the least.
Then we did what we always did, forgot about it. We lost... it wasn't like the first time it's ever happened. We got ready for the next game.
Our current record was 1 and 1, and if we wanted a chance to see the playoffs (it was a round robin style tournament... the teams with the best records advance to the playoff round), we would have to beat this next team. You could see the hope quickly disappear from all of our faces when we reported the score of the last game to the tournament director and found out who we were playing next: The Bombers from Long Island. They were not as good as the Dirt Hens, but they were a national powerhouse in their own right.
As our screwy luck would have it, The Bombers hadn't made it to the field. They got tied up in some sort of unbelievable traffic coming into Jersey and wouldn't be able to make it in time. So by default, we got the win! Not exactly how we would have wanted it, but that's the thing about Wiffleball. There are winners, losers, and teams that don't show. (Yeah, it's real professional.)
So we were 2 and 1, with a very good chance to make the playoffs. Or so we would have hoped there were eight spots open, and 6 teams had went an undefeated 3-0. We were in a tie for those last two spaces with four other teams. This meant we would have to play a one inning sudden death style play-in game to see who could earn the right to play in the 8 team playoff.
Again, as luck would have it, we got pitted against the only other professional Wiffle team in our town, The Hunt's Field Hammers. It's doubtful that there are any other teams in the whole country that happen to live in the same town as one another... it's pretty crazy, if you think about it. They were the guys who introduced us to this Wiffleball tourney in the first place.
So this was a rivalry game of sorts, and we didn't want to lose, especially after that last embarrassment. We won the coin flip, and were in the field first. It was only a one inning game, so we had to make sure we could hold them off. I took the ball for the start, and much to my surprise, we made quick work of them. It got hairy for a second or two, with a man on second, but that was about it. We got of the jam, and we went to work at the dish.
I led off. Their pitcher, Mike (29 years old) was throwing absolute smoke. He quickly had me 1 and 2, and I fouled 3 or 4 pitches off to stay alive in the at bat. Then, for some strange reason, he thought he could sneak a slow, looping curveball past me. I guess he threw it since he had me looking silly on the fastballs. Whatever the reason, he made the wrong pitch selection and I rocketed a ball back, back, back, back off the wall for a triple. Another foot up and we'd be looking at a 1-0 game. Almost. As my dad says: "Almost only counts for horseshoes and hand grenades." He's right. The score was still 0-0 and all the talk in the world wasn't going to push the ball over the fence.
Nick stepped up after me, and quickly stepped down, hitting a soft ground ball right back to the pitcher, for the first out of the inning. The run did not score. Rich got up after Nick, and struck out. The runner was still on third, 2 outs, in a one inning playoff. The stakes could not be higher. Bobby made his way to the dish, and after a good 5 minutes, pulled a walk out of his at-bat.
It was my chance to be the hero. First and third, two outs. All we needed was a ball out of the infield to score the runner. It was my chance.
"How do you write that in the book, Dan?"
"Write what?"
"What you just did... how do I put that in the book? I've never had to do one of them yet."
"A backwards K, babe."
"Oh, okay."
Unfinished from here.. It'll go on with us losing, I don't know how to end it. Help would be appreciated? Or you can just tear me apart, your call.
User Reviews
Submitted by rubbermaid (user info) at 2009-03-10 09:41:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wiffle ball +
Best day in uber history +2
Submitted by Wickedriser (user info) at 2005-12-29 15:21:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Wiffleball, you know, the ball and bat game.. the ball with the 8 holes in it on one side.. yellow bat.. you've seen it before.
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2005-12-29 12:50:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I don't have a fucking clue what whiffleball is, but I am guessing it is some kind of softball/baseball game.
Anyhoo I enjoyed this.
-Dave
Submitted by ScottPeterson (user info) at 2005-12-29 03:05:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
You have little pink pom-poms on your sneakers?
Submitted by jagmcmanus (user info) at 2005-12-29 01:57:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
what the fuck is a waffleboard?
Submitted by Dreg (user info) at 2005-12-29 01:52:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
drunk +2
Submitted by Wickedriser (user info) at 2005-12-29 01:49:06 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
I fucked up the names. I liked different names,I went to change them all up, and I missed some.. "Nick" should be "Jimmy" and Rich should be Brett.. I'm an asshole. -2billion.