The Whiffle Ball War

The New York Times and other media have reported on the nasty whiffle ball affair in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Apparently a group of boys decided to fix up a vacant lot in order to spend their summer days playing whiffle ball. They cleared away rubble and undergrowth, leveled the ground and threw up a small wall to resemble the “green monster” in Boston’s Fenway Park. The new field drew kids from around town who wanted to play this simple game. All great fun until the neighbors, police and lawyers got involved to put a stop to it. Liability concerns, you know, and the other plagues of modern American life.

For the uninitiated whiffle ball is baseball lite. Very lite. The ball itself is plastic and perforated on one side so it is easy to curve a pitch. It’s a great game for backyards or anywhere with a bit of space. You don’t even need a full team or other regalia such as cleats or expensive mitts.

The story struck a cord in me (and apparently many others) as the game congers up the golden days of childhood ~ just before the onslaught of hormones, girlfriends and other distractions.

Our neighborhood games were played on the lawn next to my parent’s home. The old house was located on a narrow, woodsy New England street where only a few cars would pass now and then. It was a quiet place in summer.

The house itself served as the left field wall. Right handed batters always hit the ball off the clapboard negating the need for a 3rd baseman. A quick pitcher could handle the carom. In whiffle ball, players shift around depending on the lot size and the skill of the batter. If you wanted talk to your friend or finish a root beer ~ well go ahead. There's no coach to give orders.

The problem at my house was the awkward right field. My Dad’s extensive vegetable garden was the boundary line and you didn’t chase foul balls for fear of crushing tender carrot tops or breaking the delicate tomato plants. However, balls hit deeper were “in play” as the worst you could do was to run over the wild rhubarb plants that were sturdy and not so easy to damage. Anyway, the only one in town who used rhubarb was my Auntie Viola who made sour, tart-tasting pies each autumn. I didn’t mind ruining a few in the interest of a good play.

We never needed a catcher. You always swung on the first pitch and if you missed, the little white ball would bounce off the big pine tree or get caught up in the thick forsythia bush. Mother-nature was as much of the game as any one player.

The highlight of summer was to smack a good curve deep into center field beyond the reach of whoever was out that way. Unless you knew exactly how to do it ~ firing the tricky whiffle ball from the outfield straight back to the plate was an art unto itself. A routine baseball double was a whiffle ball home run.

I feel sorry for the kids in Greenwich.