Hark! What Yonder Wiffle Breaks?

Dark was the month of August. Fans and writers alike stood agape at fallow fields of play, dumbfounded by the utter lack of interest in a sport once teeming with enthusiasm. The inkwells of the LowPress all but dried up.

Any astute fan of a game knows that sooner or later there will be some stoppage of play that no official can resume. Somewhere in the summer of 2010 LowBall reached adolescence and sat alone with a bottle of pills, twisted on Mad Dog and wondering at the meaning of it all. Will we see LowBall next year, next month, next weekend? I wonder will LowBall even make it through the night?

Resigning to draft up the League’s obit last Sunday I thought I heard, carried by the stiff breeze of the day, that sound peculiar to a slotted plastic orb hurled by one man past another. With hope restored I walked outside leaving behind typewriter, camera, notebook, sunglasses, everything.

Aimless wanderings led me in the direction of Mt. Abe. Follicles right down to the scruff on my unshaven face at attention I peered out on the GapBridge from the trees across from center field. The grass was long. Weeds encroached the boxes. I dared not step out and disturb the scene before me. A small gathering of those famous Pliers of the Plastic had assembled.

They stood and talked for quite some time before getting to business. No hard start today at the Church of Wiffle to be sure. I cursed myself for neglecting to bring with me any means of recording this history aside from a shoddy memory. I can say there were hits. There were runs and errors. There was a designated hitter and even the occasional fan. There were no arguments…a questioned call or two, of course…but a shrug of the shoulders and the game moved on. If a player on the other team had run dry there was even genuine concern that he should have another beverage if so desired.

Days later I’ve played the game over and over in my mind. I haven’t dropped a frame of it. To me the detail matters little now. I’m content in knowing it happened. LowBall is alive in the hills of Vermont. The titans of the trade are out there and starting to get the itch again.