As a kid - I lived for wiffle ball. Fortunately, my folks didn’t have the passion to have “the most wonderfully manicured/green, yard on the block.”
Home plate was actually a home plate, and of course, no grass grew from under. Paths to each base worn. The water meter was second base. How no one ever got hurt sliding into the water meter is beyond me, but it never happened.
Launching one onto the Miller’s front porch was an automatic One Run Homer. The second story - two run homer. To the roof, not only ‘neighborhood legend’, but Grand Slam.
We measured the distance to the curb infronta the Curtis’s house - and recorded it in chalk on the curb. Same thing to the curb infronta the Melrose dorm..
We even went so far as to take a brand spankin’ new white T Shirt - and emblazon the number of our favorite player in magic marker on it. (Of course, Stan the Man, #6.)
Parents each, took their turn somewhere into the game, to treat us all with Koolaid. Chores, meals happened - but they were but a respite to the game that was to assuredly continue.
Arguments? You bet. Fun? Hell yeah. Good plays? Of course. Boners? Absolutely.
We were kids. Safe. Having fun. Sweating. Being, doing. Living. Passionate.
Silly - maybe, but I still look at life - especially this stage, this age… as I looked at wiffle ball back in the day. Can’t wait to get up, get outta bed, “ready to play.”
It’s a perfect age. Not so far from our youthhood to not remember it… yet full well knowing one day the sun will set and the game will be over.
So still……. Having fun. Sweating. Being, doing. Living. Passionate.
With kudos out to Mr. Ernie Banks…… “Let’s play two” (too).. For one day the sun will set, and I’m gonna enjoy the hell outta this wiffle ball game of life ‘til then. Love, Victurd
1 comment:
I loved Wiffle ball. The kids in our neighborhood played it every day in the summer. Hell, we never even knew it was hot outside, didn't care. We were kinda like you. Home plate was a flat rock. There's a shopping center in the field where we used to play now. Hit it over ole' man Reeds house and you got yourself a grand slam. The pitcher had to go and retrieve the ball and deal with Mr.Reed's white German shephard. Needles to say, you didn't want to give one of those dinger's up while on the mound! I don't see kids out today playing wiffle ball. If I did, I'd have to join in............
Good post, brought back fond memories!
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