In honor of Throwback Thursday, I thought that I would hop in my Time Machine and travel back to a time when I was the Wiffle Ball King of Brooklyn.
We shared a driveway with the two elder ladies next door, who I only ever knew as “The Sisters.” They were so sweet and kind. I remember that they didn’t have a car, so they rented out their garage to a young woman, who parked her green car there.
It was such an odd concept to me back then that someone would pay to park in a stranger’s garage when there were parking spots all over the neighborhood. Now, however, as a car owner, I truly appreciate knowing exactly where my vehicle is going to spend the night.
I’ve always been a fan of black and white photography, so I think that’s another reason why this photo appeals to me so much. That look on my face is priceless. I have no clue who took the photo, so I don’t know if I was giving the unknown photographer a little attitude, or just being my usual sullen self.
I do know I loved playing Wiffle Ball when I was a kid. We would use the front step and gate as the strike zone. If the pitch landed anywhere in there, it was a strike.
The pitcher set up shot in the middle of the street. Anything hit on the ground was an out. A ball that made it to the sidewalk across the street was a single. If you hit the front porch of the house across the street, it was a double. If you hit the front of the house, it was a triple. If you roofed it, it was a homer and the game was over because we only usually had only one ball at a time.
Only on 77th St, when I dug into the batter’s box in front of my house, with my yellow plastic bat in hand, was I ever a hitting machine.
And could I pitch. I really knew how to get that wiffle ball to move in all sorts of bizarre ways. I felt like Gaylord Perry with all the movement I could get on my pitches.
Those were the days, Modern Philosophers. How I miss being the Wiffle Ball King of Brooklyn…