Friday, June 17, 2005
BK Wiffleball Tournament still a big hit
94 teams and more than 350 players enjoy fun and remembrance on a steamy Saturday
GROTON, MA -- Groton's Brian Kane was once again remembered when 94 teams and more than 350 players participated in the BK Wiffleball Tournament on a steamy Saturday. The annual event, held on the fields of the Groton Dunstable Middle Schools, continues to grow as supporters from the local communities and beyond enjoy a day doing one of Brian's favorite activities&nbs ¶ 11:42 AM
GROTON, MA -- Groton's Brian Kane was once again remembered when 94 teams and more than 350 players participated in the BK Wiffleball Tournament on a steamy Saturday. The annual event, held on the fields of the Groton Dunstable Middle Schools, continues to grow as supporters from the local communities and beyond enjoy a day doing one of Brian's favorite activities&nbs ¶ 11:42 AM
Wiffle ball's curves break out of the backyard
By Douglas Belkin
If the script had been written in Hollywood, the hard-cutting screwball that Mike Kane had been torturing hitters with all afternoon would have remained untouchable right through the championship game.
This Wiffle ball tournament was, after all, a memorial to his brother who was killed in a car crash seven years ago. So as Kane and his teammates outdistanced all but four of the 96 teams by running off seven straight wins to earn a spot in The Brian Kane Memorial Tournament semifinals, he was the sentimental favorite.
But this script was not written in Hollywood; it was written in Groton, and the New England-based team that Kane faced -- the same one that beat him last year in the finals -- was not just any old team. It was ''Doom." In a field of players dressed in cut-off shorts and paint-splattered tank tops, Doom members wore color-coordinated uniforms with the letter D on their hats. They carried their own Wiffle ball equipment in canvas bags. And all their players had traveled the nation like the baseball barnstormers of old, winning tournaments, crushing dreams, and putting backyard pretenders squarely in their place.
Last year they earned $20,000 in prize money by winning 39 tournaments. This year they are ranked second in the nation.
Kane's screwball didn't have a chance. Final Score: Doom 12, Hometown Favorites 1. Doom went on to win the tournament.
''I don't really think of this as a hobby so much as a part-time job," said Adam Trotta, a Doom pitcher who threw a sweeping curveball that was virtually unhittable. ''We play all the time. We're serious about this."
Welcome to the new Wiffle ball. That once casual New England backyard pastime has grown up and gone big time.
Fueled by baby boomers' latent nostalgia for the game, a cult-like devotion to the competition and a thriving Internet community that has enabled far-flung players to connect and organize, Wiffle ball has quietly supersized into a sport that bears little similarity to the game many Americans grew up with.
While the ball can still be a staple in friendly pickup games between two sets of neighborhood 10-year-olds, there now are also seasoned 30- and 40-something adults training to earn a berth in the world championship in Texas. There is substantial prize money at stake, indoor winter leagues to hone skills, and dedicated fields complete with night lighting on which to compete.
And the funky pitches of yesteryear that used to arc lazily toward the hitter have been supplanted by cut fastballs so vicious they can whiz by the plate at 70 miles an hour from a pitcher's mound 40 feet away -- all while breaking 2 1/2 feet across and rising.
''Last year I faced that kid and I swear the ball touched the grass before it came by me for a strike," said Mike Flynn, who grew up playing Wiffle ball with the Kane family, and whose team was knocked out in the early playoff rounds. The ''kid" he was talking about was Trotta. He is 32 and a supervisor at the Massachusetts Department of Youth Services.
''When you watch him, you realized they're pretty much playing a whole other game," Flynn said.
Across the country, from Billerica to San Diego, enthusiasts have built their own backyard diamonds -- in New England, many have fake Green Monsters in left field like Fenway Park. And in the last five years previously informal gatherings have morphed into highly competitive federations. There is the Golden Stick Wiffle Ball League on the North Shore, the New England Wiffle Association in Worcester, and Fast Plastic, based out of Rehoboth, which started running the national championship tournament in Texas three years ago.
''It's kind of like an underground community -- like Fight Club," said Mark Spellman, 28, who plays for Doom and several other teams even though he can no longer pitch because he ripped his rotator cuff pitching three years ago. ''Sometimes I think it's kind of like a cult."
This year, teams from 14 regions in the country -- each fielding three players at a time -- will meet in Texas for the Fast Plastic national championship. The prize money will be $6,000. Bruce Chrystie, 41, the executive director, predicts the pot will climb next year to $30,000. Regional champions have their air fare covered by the tournament.
''It's just taken off in the past couple of years," Chrystie said. ''The people who are into it are just really into it."
In the same way that dodge ball morphed from an elementary school gym class activity to a competitive sport with rules and a governing body, ad hoc Wiffle ball rules have been standardized.
In the modern game the strike zone is 23 inches wide by 27 inches tall and defined by a backstop set 13 inches above the ground. Center field is at least 80 feet from home plate and the foul poles are at least 70 feet down each line. Depending on the pitching speed, the ball is thrown from between 30 and 50 feet away from the batter. And as has always been the case in Wiffle ball, there are no base runners. Hits are determined by where a ball lands on the field. An out is made when the pitcher or one of the two defensive players fields the ball cleanly.
The game has come a long way from the early 1950s, when Dave Mullany started fiddling with hollow plastic balls to make it easier for his son to throw a curve in his backyard pickup games. The design he came up with, which incorporated eight oval holes on one side and none on the other, produced a sphere so unstable that just a soft toss and a little spin produced a notable break.
In the Connecticut neighborhood where the Mullanys lived, a strikeout was called a whiff. When the ball was taken outside for its first game it sailed past most of the hitters and the Wiffle ball was born, said Mullany's grandson, David J. Mullany, who is today the company president.
By the mid-1950s Mullany, whose car-polish company had recently failed, took out a second mortgage on his house to mass-produce the balls. A few years later, Woolworth began carrying the ball and the yellow plastic bat. By the early 1960s a backyard tradition was taking root across the country.
One of the kids who picked up that plastic ball and bat was a boy in Arlington named John Kane. Kane grew up, married, became a father, and in 1983 moved to Groton, where he taught his three sons to play Wiffle ball. In short order he built a stadium in the backyard and the Kanes -- and whoever else was around from the neighborhood -- played through the summers.
Then, in November 1998, John Kane's second son, Brian, a well-liked 18-year-old, was riding home from hockey practice with a friend who had just gotten his driver's license. The friend was speeding and lost control of the car. It slid off the road and slammed into a tree stump.
John Kane was at a friend's house playing cards when he got a call around 8:30 at night. ''At first all they told me was that something had happened to Brian," he said on Friday. He soon found out his son was pronounced dead at the scene of the crash.
''You don't really get over something like this," John Kane said. ''You just get better at adjusting."
The Kane tournament is part of that adjustment. In six years it has grown from 40 teams to 96. On Saturday players came from as far away as Ohio to compete and it felt like half of Groton turned out to support the event.
While its purpose is to fund a scholarship in Brian's memory -- awarded to a graduating high school senior from Groton -- the coin of the realm on game day is pitching, and there is nothing sentimental about how the game is played. Indeed, by the time the sun was heading down there were dozens of cracked and bent yellow plastic Wiffle ball bats discarded after they had been hurled into the ground in frustration.
''It kind of reminds me of golf, the way it gets people so crazy," Spellman said.
Teenagers in the tournament didn't last long. Play was dominated by seasoned 20- and 30-somethings. And Kane's team, behind his inscrutable screwball, seemed destined to take the trophy home -- until it faced Doom.
''Unbelievable," Kane muttered after striking out.
''These guys are unreal," said Anthony O'Connor, Kane's teammate, as he watched the game slip away.
Chrystie, of Fast Plastic, looked on with admiration at Doom's lineup. ''Yeah, they can play," he said. Then he started talking about his son, who had taken a few swings with a Wiffle ball bat in his backyard last week.
''I'm telling you," he said, momentarily taking his eye off the game. ''He's only 5, but the kid's a natural."
Douglas Belkin can be reached at dbelkin@globe.com.&nbs ¶ 12:59 AM
If the script had been written in Hollywood, the hard-cutting screwball that Mike Kane had been torturing hitters with all afternoon would have remained untouchable right through the championship game.
This Wiffle ball tournament was, after all, a memorial to his brother who was killed in a car crash seven years ago. So as Kane and his teammates outdistanced all but four of the 96 teams by running off seven straight wins to earn a spot in The Brian Kane Memorial Tournament semifinals, he was the sentimental favorite.
But this script was not written in Hollywood; it was written in Groton, and the New England-based team that Kane faced -- the same one that beat him last year in the finals -- was not just any old team. It was ''Doom." In a field of players dressed in cut-off shorts and paint-splattered tank tops, Doom members wore color-coordinated uniforms with the letter D on their hats. They carried their own Wiffle ball equipment in canvas bags. And all their players had traveled the nation like the baseball barnstormers of old, winning tournaments, crushing dreams, and putting backyard pretenders squarely in their place.
Last year they earned $20,000 in prize money by winning 39 tournaments. This year they are ranked second in the nation.
Kane's screwball didn't have a chance. Final Score: Doom 12, Hometown Favorites 1. Doom went on to win the tournament.
''I don't really think of this as a hobby so much as a part-time job," said Adam Trotta, a Doom pitcher who threw a sweeping curveball that was virtually unhittable. ''We play all the time. We're serious about this."
Welcome to the new Wiffle ball. That once casual New England backyard pastime has grown up and gone big time.
Fueled by baby boomers' latent nostalgia for the game, a cult-like devotion to the competition and a thriving Internet community that has enabled far-flung players to connect and organize, Wiffle ball has quietly supersized into a sport that bears little similarity to the game many Americans grew up with.
While the ball can still be a staple in friendly pickup games between two sets of neighborhood 10-year-olds, there now are also seasoned 30- and 40-something adults training to earn a berth in the world championship in Texas. There is substantial prize money at stake, indoor winter leagues to hone skills, and dedicated fields complete with night lighting on which to compete.
And the funky pitches of yesteryear that used to arc lazily toward the hitter have been supplanted by cut fastballs so vicious they can whiz by the plate at 70 miles an hour from a pitcher's mound 40 feet away -- all while breaking 2 1/2 feet across and rising.
''Last year I faced that kid and I swear the ball touched the grass before it came by me for a strike," said Mike Flynn, who grew up playing Wiffle ball with the Kane family, and whose team was knocked out in the early playoff rounds. The ''kid" he was talking about was Trotta. He is 32 and a supervisor at the Massachusetts Department of Youth Services.
''When you watch him, you realized they're pretty much playing a whole other game," Flynn said.
Across the country, from Billerica to San Diego, enthusiasts have built their own backyard diamonds -- in New England, many have fake Green Monsters in left field like Fenway Park. And in the last five years previously informal gatherings have morphed into highly competitive federations. There is the Golden Stick Wiffle Ball League on the North Shore, the New England Wiffle Association in Worcester, and Fast Plastic, based out of Rehoboth, which started running the national championship tournament in Texas three years ago.
''It's kind of like an underground community -- like Fight Club," said Mark Spellman, 28, who plays for Doom and several other teams even though he can no longer pitch because he ripped his rotator cuff pitching three years ago. ''Sometimes I think it's kind of like a cult."
This year, teams from 14 regions in the country -- each fielding three players at a time -- will meet in Texas for the Fast Plastic national championship. The prize money will be $6,000. Bruce Chrystie, 41, the executive director, predicts the pot will climb next year to $30,000. Regional champions have their air fare covered by the tournament.
''It's just taken off in the past couple of years," Chrystie said. ''The people who are into it are just really into it."
In the same way that dodge ball morphed from an elementary school gym class activity to a competitive sport with rules and a governing body, ad hoc Wiffle ball rules have been standardized.
In the modern game the strike zone is 23 inches wide by 27 inches tall and defined by a backstop set 13 inches above the ground. Center field is at least 80 feet from home plate and the foul poles are at least 70 feet down each line. Depending on the pitching speed, the ball is thrown from between 30 and 50 feet away from the batter. And as has always been the case in Wiffle ball, there are no base runners. Hits are determined by where a ball lands on the field. An out is made when the pitcher or one of the two defensive players fields the ball cleanly.
The game has come a long way from the early 1950s, when Dave Mullany started fiddling with hollow plastic balls to make it easier for his son to throw a curve in his backyard pickup games. The design he came up with, which incorporated eight oval holes on one side and none on the other, produced a sphere so unstable that just a soft toss and a little spin produced a notable break.
In the Connecticut neighborhood where the Mullanys lived, a strikeout was called a whiff. When the ball was taken outside for its first game it sailed past most of the hitters and the Wiffle ball was born, said Mullany's grandson, David J. Mullany, who is today the company president.
By the mid-1950s Mullany, whose car-polish company had recently failed, took out a second mortgage on his house to mass-produce the balls. A few years later, Woolworth began carrying the ball and the yellow plastic bat. By the early 1960s a backyard tradition was taking root across the country.
One of the kids who picked up that plastic ball and bat was a boy in Arlington named John Kane. Kane grew up, married, became a father, and in 1983 moved to Groton, where he taught his three sons to play Wiffle ball. In short order he built a stadium in the backyard and the Kanes -- and whoever else was around from the neighborhood -- played through the summers.
Then, in November 1998, John Kane's second son, Brian, a well-liked 18-year-old, was riding home from hockey practice with a friend who had just gotten his driver's license. The friend was speeding and lost control of the car. It slid off the road and slammed into a tree stump.
John Kane was at a friend's house playing cards when he got a call around 8:30 at night. ''At first all they told me was that something had happened to Brian," he said on Friday. He soon found out his son was pronounced dead at the scene of the crash.
''You don't really get over something like this," John Kane said. ''You just get better at adjusting."
The Kane tournament is part of that adjustment. In six years it has grown from 40 teams to 96. On Saturday players came from as far away as Ohio to compete and it felt like half of Groton turned out to support the event.
While its purpose is to fund a scholarship in Brian's memory -- awarded to a graduating high school senior from Groton -- the coin of the realm on game day is pitching, and there is nothing sentimental about how the game is played. Indeed, by the time the sun was heading down there were dozens of cracked and bent yellow plastic Wiffle ball bats discarded after they had been hurled into the ground in frustration.
''It kind of reminds me of golf, the way it gets people so crazy," Spellman said.
Teenagers in the tournament didn't last long. Play was dominated by seasoned 20- and 30-somethings. And Kane's team, behind his inscrutable screwball, seemed destined to take the trophy home -- until it faced Doom.
''Unbelievable," Kane muttered after striking out.
''These guys are unreal," said Anthony O'Connor, Kane's teammate, as he watched the game slip away.
Chrystie, of Fast Plastic, looked on with admiration at Doom's lineup. ''Yeah, they can play," he said. Then he started talking about his son, who had taken a few swings with a Wiffle ball bat in his backyard last week.
''I'm telling you," he said, momentarily taking his eye off the game. ''He's only 5, but the kid's a natural."
Douglas Belkin can be reached at dbelkin@globe.com.&nbs ¶ 12:59 AM
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Non-Traditional Sports
"Students today are drifting toward more non-traditional sports," said Andy Shell, the intramural sports director at Campbell University, which plans to offer a dodgeball league next spring. "You have dodgeball, ultimate Frisbee and Wiffleball. The games they played as kids, they want the opportunity to play again."&nbs
¶ 12:43 PM
Could this be the Future?
The following few paragraphs are from an article on replication. Interesting example these guys use. To read the full story click the headline. Here's the example for you lazy boys out there, but click the article for a full explaination.
In 2020 or so, you might be ready to play Wiffle ball with your kids but can't find the ball. So you'd go on the Web, perhaps finding a Wiffle ball design that's been modified by a aerodynamics graduate student so the ball dips like a Roger Clemens slider.
You'd download the design the way you download a PDF file today. Then instead of clicking "print," you'd click "fab."
The computer would dump the design into your fabricator, which would spray molecules from a cartridge to form the ball. A small fee for the design would get charged to your PayPal account. Otherwise, the only cost would be that once in a while you'd have to replace the cartridge, which no doubt would cost three times more than the fabricator.&nbs ¶ 12:01 PM
In 2020 or so, you might be ready to play Wiffle ball with your kids but can't find the ball. So you'd go on the Web, perhaps finding a Wiffle ball design that's been modified by a aerodynamics graduate student so the ball dips like a Roger Clemens slider.
You'd download the design the way you download a PDF file today. Then instead of clicking "print," you'd click "fab."
The computer would dump the design into your fabricator, which would spray molecules from a cartridge to form the ball. A small fee for the design would get charged to your PayPal account. Otherwise, the only cost would be that once in a while you'd have to replace the cartridge, which no doubt would cost three times more than the fabricator.&nbs ¶ 12:01 PM
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Wiffle Balls and the Meaning of Life - by Dave Murray
Visitors to the Bridgeport PostÕs Valley Bureau probably thought the "Romeo and Juliet" poster looked like it was hanging a little too low on the back wall.
But the guys in the office knew the poster had a more important purpose than advertising some community playhouse production. It was our strike zone.
Yes, we played Wiffle Ball in the office when the coast was clear.
As you probably know, Wiffle balls are plastic baseballs with eight oblong holes on one side that allow even a Little Leaguer to break off curve balls like Bert Blyleven.
It was our civic duty to play. We were supporting a local business. On one of my first days heading to work in the bureau, I nearly pulled off the road when I saw the small factory on Bridgeport Ave. with the Wiffle Ball sign in front. The epicenter of all things Wiffle was right there in Shelton, Conn. And just down the street from our office.
And it existed in relative secrecy, too. I could never understand why signs at the city limits didnÕt read, "Welcome to Shelton, home of the Wiffle Ball." That area of Connecticut is home to Sikorsky helicopters Ñ in Stratford Ñ and Bic pens and razors and even Subway sandwich shops Ñ both in Milford Ñ all of which have a higher profile, and all of which pale in importance to the Wiffle ball.
The plastic spheres were an essential part of my youth. There arenÕt too many places to do more than play catch with a real baseball in suburban New York. But we could take full hacks at a Wiffle ball anywhere in our small yards without fear of injury to person or property. We played Wiffle Ball everywhere.
Since I covered Shelton planning and zoning, I immediately started plotting for any excuse to write about the factory. I eventually came up with something flimsy, placed the call and secured my invitation.
I was greeted by David Mullany, grandson of the inventor, who gave me a quick tour of the machines that pump white plastic into molds. The yellow bats and cardboard packaging were made somewhere else and shipped to Shelton.
I then dropped the burning question: What makes the balls curve?
And I couldnÕt believe the answer: "We have no idea."
It was time for the creation story. Every culture has one.
David told me how his father, also named David, and his brother would play baseball with plastic practice golf balls and broomsticks in their backyard. The boys were trying to break off deuces all day, and the grandfather Ñ he, too, was named David Ñ was once a semi-pro pitcher and worried the boys would hurt their young arms.
So he bought a bunch of the plastic golf balls, sat down at the kitchen table with a steak knife and started cutting patterns into the balls.
For some reason, and the family doesnÕt know why, the version with the eight ovals on one side easily curved. Hold a ball so the ovals are on the right, ball curves right. Ovals on the left, and you can guess what happens.
The company made a baseball-sized Wiffle ball, and if you look hard you can find softball and mini-sized balls, too.
Then it was time for some inside information. We took our office Wiffle Ball games seriously, especially when the weather warmed up and we took our competitions to the driveway across the street. I needed a strikeout pitch, and I had an audience with a master.
At that point, he bestowed upon me a private lesson on the Wiffle knuckler. And gentle reader, I pass this knowledge on to you. Hold the ball so the ovals face your palm instead of right or left. Place two of your fingertips at the base of the holes, and push off with those fingers as you release the ball. The ball should float in without spinning, and the batter will either be mesmerized by the beauty of the whole thing or flail hopelessly when he realizes too late that no curve is coming.
We got a little out of hand when our lunch-hour games started stretching well into the afternoon, and then when we started challenging the Stratford Bureau.
I think about the story of the Wiffle Ball when I ponder some of lifeÕs big mysteries. We canÕt explain why some things happen. They just do. We must remember that God is in control, not us. Accept that curves in life are coming for reasons we canÕt Ñ or arenÕt meant to Ñ understand.
And once in a while, expect a knuckleball.&nbs ¶ 12:20 PM
But the guys in the office knew the poster had a more important purpose than advertising some community playhouse production. It was our strike zone.
Yes, we played Wiffle Ball in the office when the coast was clear.
As you probably know, Wiffle balls are plastic baseballs with eight oblong holes on one side that allow even a Little Leaguer to break off curve balls like Bert Blyleven.
It was our civic duty to play. We were supporting a local business. On one of my first days heading to work in the bureau, I nearly pulled off the road when I saw the small factory on Bridgeport Ave. with the Wiffle Ball sign in front. The epicenter of all things Wiffle was right there in Shelton, Conn. And just down the street from our office.
And it existed in relative secrecy, too. I could never understand why signs at the city limits didnÕt read, "Welcome to Shelton, home of the Wiffle Ball." That area of Connecticut is home to Sikorsky helicopters Ñ in Stratford Ñ and Bic pens and razors and even Subway sandwich shops Ñ both in Milford Ñ all of which have a higher profile, and all of which pale in importance to the Wiffle ball.
The plastic spheres were an essential part of my youth. There arenÕt too many places to do more than play catch with a real baseball in suburban New York. But we could take full hacks at a Wiffle ball anywhere in our small yards without fear of injury to person or property. We played Wiffle Ball everywhere.
Since I covered Shelton planning and zoning, I immediately started plotting for any excuse to write about the factory. I eventually came up with something flimsy, placed the call and secured my invitation.
I was greeted by David Mullany, grandson of the inventor, who gave me a quick tour of the machines that pump white plastic into molds. The yellow bats and cardboard packaging were made somewhere else and shipped to Shelton.
I then dropped the burning question: What makes the balls curve?
And I couldnÕt believe the answer: "We have no idea."
It was time for the creation story. Every culture has one.
David told me how his father, also named David, and his brother would play baseball with plastic practice golf balls and broomsticks in their backyard. The boys were trying to break off deuces all day, and the grandfather Ñ he, too, was named David Ñ was once a semi-pro pitcher and worried the boys would hurt their young arms.
So he bought a bunch of the plastic golf balls, sat down at the kitchen table with a steak knife and started cutting patterns into the balls.
For some reason, and the family doesnÕt know why, the version with the eight ovals on one side easily curved. Hold a ball so the ovals are on the right, ball curves right. Ovals on the left, and you can guess what happens.
The company made a baseball-sized Wiffle ball, and if you look hard you can find softball and mini-sized balls, too.
Then it was time for some inside information. We took our office Wiffle Ball games seriously, especially when the weather warmed up and we took our competitions to the driveway across the street. I needed a strikeout pitch, and I had an audience with a master.
At that point, he bestowed upon me a private lesson on the Wiffle knuckler. And gentle reader, I pass this knowledge on to you. Hold the ball so the ovals face your palm instead of right or left. Place two of your fingertips at the base of the holes, and push off with those fingers as you release the ball. The ball should float in without spinning, and the batter will either be mesmerized by the beauty of the whole thing or flail hopelessly when he realizes too late that no curve is coming.
We got a little out of hand when our lunch-hour games started stretching well into the afternoon, and then when we started challenging the Stratford Bureau.
I think about the story of the Wiffle Ball when I ponder some of lifeÕs big mysteries. We canÕt explain why some things happen. They just do. We must remember that God is in control, not us. Accept that curves in life are coming for reasons we canÕt Ñ or arenÕt meant to Ñ understand.
And once in a while, expect a knuckleball.&nbs ¶ 12:20 PM
A Mets fan in Michigan remembers
The Major-Leaguer, the Actor and the Truth
The following story is from Dave Murray, a Mets fan located in Grand Rapids Michigan who wrote about what happened on the day of the final game at Comiskey Park in 1990. Wiffleball alongside wrigley field brings it into the yardball category. Great read, check it out below and also visit: metsguyinmichigan.blogspot.com for more.
By Dave Murray
Will and I were so into Wiffle Ball that we carried a ball and bat in our trunks at all times. You never know when youÕll come across a great place for a game.
We had one of those moments in Chicago in 1990. We were excited to be in town to cover the historic final game at Comiskey Park and arrived the day before because we snagged tickets for the final night game as well.
With some time on our hands before the game, we headed to Wrigley Field to check out the souvenir shops. To our great glee, we discovered a perfect strike zone painted on stadium wall along Waveland Avenue.
We were happily breaking off curves like Greg Maddux from the center of the street when two guys came up to us, amazed that we would be playing Wiffle Ball alongside Wrigley Field.
They wanted to play, and when we hesitated they tried to impress us. One was tall and stocky, and claimed to have a cup of coffee with the 1987 World Champion Minnesota Twins, even flashed what appeared to be a championship ring. The other was slender and dark, and claimed to be an actor with a role in "Bull Durham."
Reporters are skeptical by nature, course.
I didnÕt recognize the name of the guy who claimed to be a former Twin. I had a pretty good knowledge of major leaguers since baseball card companies at the time issued extensive sets that included just about every player in the bigs as well as even minor prospects from the minors.
And Will is a walking baseball encyclopedia. In fact, if there was a contradiction between Will and the official baseball encyclopedia, IÕd believe Will. And he didnÕt recognize the name, either.
The guy did have a 1987 Twins ring, but that didnÕt necessarily mean he was a player. Teams give rings to a lot of employees.
The other guy claimed to be an infielder in "Bull Durham," one of the guys on the mound when one of NukeÕs eyelids is clogged, Jose needs a live chicken to sacrifice and no one knows what to get Jimmy and Millie for their wedding. "Candle sticks," of course, was coach Larry HockettÕs answer.
The guy had the lines down pat, and we didnÕt have any photos from the movie in hand for comparison purposes.
This was a little icky. It seemed like the kind of lines guys would be spouting trying to pick up girls over a bottle of Bud at the Cubby Bear after the game.
We told them we were in town for the final Comiskey games Ñ a very big deal, the hottest ticket in town Ñ and they didnÕt seem to believe us, either.
Will and I exchanged some skeptical glances. ItÕs not like we could openly debate this in front of them. Lacking proof, we decided to let them play. We even took some photos Ñ just in case they were legit. Although I must say the alleged major-leaguer couldnÕt hit my nasty Wiffle knuckleball, making his claim that much more dubious.
After playing for a while, the guys moved on, presumably to hoist those brews at the Cubby Bear.
"What do you think, were they telling the truth?" I asked Will.
"Who knows," Will replied. "They may be lying. But we know for sure that we really are going to the final game at Comiskey!"&nbs ¶ 11:32 AM
The Major-Leaguer, the Actor and the Truth
The following story is from Dave Murray, a Mets fan located in Grand Rapids Michigan who wrote about what happened on the day of the final game at Comiskey Park in 1990. Wiffleball alongside wrigley field brings it into the yardball category. Great read, check it out below and also visit: metsguyinmichigan.blogspot.com for more.
By Dave Murray
Will and I were so into Wiffle Ball that we carried a ball and bat in our trunks at all times. You never know when youÕll come across a great place for a game.
We had one of those moments in Chicago in 1990. We were excited to be in town to cover the historic final game at Comiskey Park and arrived the day before because we snagged tickets for the final night game as well.
With some time on our hands before the game, we headed to Wrigley Field to check out the souvenir shops. To our great glee, we discovered a perfect strike zone painted on stadium wall along Waveland Avenue.
We were happily breaking off curves like Greg Maddux from the center of the street when two guys came up to us, amazed that we would be playing Wiffle Ball alongside Wrigley Field.
They wanted to play, and when we hesitated they tried to impress us. One was tall and stocky, and claimed to have a cup of coffee with the 1987 World Champion Minnesota Twins, even flashed what appeared to be a championship ring. The other was slender and dark, and claimed to be an actor with a role in "Bull Durham."
Reporters are skeptical by nature, course.
I didnÕt recognize the name of the guy who claimed to be a former Twin. I had a pretty good knowledge of major leaguers since baseball card companies at the time issued extensive sets that included just about every player in the bigs as well as even minor prospects from the minors.
And Will is a walking baseball encyclopedia. In fact, if there was a contradiction between Will and the official baseball encyclopedia, IÕd believe Will. And he didnÕt recognize the name, either.
The guy did have a 1987 Twins ring, but that didnÕt necessarily mean he was a player. Teams give rings to a lot of employees.
The other guy claimed to be an infielder in "Bull Durham," one of the guys on the mound when one of NukeÕs eyelids is clogged, Jose needs a live chicken to sacrifice and no one knows what to get Jimmy and Millie for their wedding. "Candle sticks," of course, was coach Larry HockettÕs answer.The guy had the lines down pat, and we didnÕt have any photos from the movie in hand for comparison purposes.
This was a little icky. It seemed like the kind of lines guys would be spouting trying to pick up girls over a bottle of Bud at the Cubby Bear after the game.
We told them we were in town for the final Comiskey games Ñ a very big deal, the hottest ticket in town Ñ and they didnÕt seem to believe us, either.
Will and I exchanged some skeptical glances. ItÕs not like we could openly debate this in front of them. Lacking proof, we decided to let them play. We even took some photos Ñ just in case they were legit. Although I must say the alleged major-leaguer couldnÕt hit my nasty Wiffle knuckleball, making his claim that much more dubious.
After playing for a while, the guys moved on, presumably to hoist those brews at the Cubby Bear.
"What do you think, were they telling the truth?" I asked Will.
"Who knows," Will replied. "They may be lying. But we know for sure that we really are going to the final game at Comiskey!"&nbs ¶ 11:32 AM
