HST

Write-up coming soon...

A game so good gets two write-ups and this one is a bit long winded. Save yourself the trouble and just look at the photos.

With the bases loaded, in the bottom of the 9th, with the score all tied up, I forcefully stepped into the well worn and dug batter's box. My career nemesis stood upon the mound, strong with a new holster of pitches, this was to be the final at-bat.

Like so many journeys in life, this game was not about how it ended but instead how we all got there.

Before the stirs of the family, before the ramble of parade revelers, I awoke to the distinctive and delightful smell of fresh cut grass. I snuck from the room and out into the wealth of July’s finest sunshine. A blank canvas spread in front of me and before the day.

With haste, I set to the task of prepping the field for the ride. Images and thoughts danced through my mind as the shadows lifted and the dew drifted away. The smell, the feel, the taste all pointed towards an epic day, a great day, the best Wiffdependence day ever.

While putting the final trim on the field and conversing with my father, I accidentally ran one of the lines a wee bit to close. I smiled, a hooligan opportunity, the graf spray leapt from the can and a proper Hunter S. Thompson tag was added to the field.

In the brief silence prior to the parade, I sat back and took in the tranquility of an empty, prepped field, ready for the unexpected, ready to rock.

At the conclusion of the parade, the faithful slowly made their way through the gates into the marginal confines of Hunter S. Thompson Memorial Greens. Hosting and participating always offers a unique challenge and it is only amplified on wifftravaganza days. My jibber and jabber was broken by the unified call for action. Game on. Oh game on.

They run a 5K on the morning of the 4th, we played a marathon in the afternoon. In reflection of any self respecting road race, we got the game started with a flurry of activity. The hometown Lagers, comprised of Hot Rod Beck, Trot Thompson, El Guapo, The Plastic Surgeon, and the Albatross, swaggered out into the crisp field. Trot took the mound and dug into the rocky soil of HST to start the battle against the visiting Loggers, stacked to the brim with the veteran LowBallers Lonichiro, Claudio Chin Music Frank, the OX, the Preacher, and late arrival Hideki O’Leary.

Lonichiro ripped into the opening at bat, sending a long triple to the corner in left that should have taken the air out of the sails of the home crowd. Fortunately, the crowd was pre occupied chasing black eyed princesses and croquet mallet wielding knights. With two on the top side of the diamond, OX sent a liner into right that looked to start the scoring. It was with agile quickness only obtained in the early innings prior to raised levels of High Life that Hot Rod dove forward cradling the unfortunate drive to its out. Despite some lively bats, Trot and the Lagers escaped the top of the 1st having only given up one run. Lonichiro looked strong starting the bottom with a convincing K of Hot Rod. Unfortunately for Lonichiro, control issues and a single from Guap allowed HR to extract a slim amount of revenge, driving in two runs with a signature opposite field deuce. The Lagers highjacked another run on a bases loaded walk and the score stood at 3-1 after one.

Lonichiro looked to recover the runs lost in the 1st, putting in his own two bagger to set up the inning. Ox and late arriving Hideki took advantage of the juiced bases to drive in 2 runs. The bottom of the 2nd saw vintage Lonichiro locking down the Lagers for a goose egg. The game was all even at 3; it was time for the long haul of the marathon. Guap rallied from his early season woes to put the clamp on the Loggers, putting blanks on two innings of near flawless pitching.

His perfection was met by the combined arsenal of the Preacher and Claude. Chin Music showed off a retooled wind-up and accelerated delivery while Preacher pulled rabbits, doves, and behind the back pitches from his downtown Lincoln duffle of tricks.

The wall came down in 89, I still remember the expression of joy and freedom that resonated on that day. On the 4th of 08, the gender wall crumbled with the first ever coed exhibition play. The Widows of Wiffle semi eagerly took the field to toss the plastic and swing the synthetic lumber. The lads retreated to the shadows and Gin and Tonics to take in what will surely be remembered as a groundbreaking feat. Now if only you ladies would stop this senseless running.

Back in the action of the main event, our mid innings were greeted with the classic (and Guap favored battle) between the pillars of power, Hot Rod and OX. The top saw Hot Rod on the mound suffering from early pitch pain and renewed crack of the Loggers’ bats. With bases loaded, the Ox stepped into the box. Once again, had the crowd been paying attention they most likely would have stood in anticipation of this epic battle. I suspect they were all sitting around, drinking High Life and bragging about their exhibition inning exploits. At least, that is what I would have been doing. Regardless, all involved in the game knew the significance and dug in. Ox is easily the most feared and most likely batter to knock the slam out. It was obvious from the first overthrown, far off ball, that Hot Rod was either walking the big man or sending him back to the bench with a special K shaped souvenir. A walk and a run it would be. Bolstered by some stingy d from Trot in center, Hot Rod escaped the inning with only one slash surrendered. Ox made short work of the slightly staggering Lagers in both the 5th and 6th, while HR rode some more tremendous big field d from Trot to hang another zip in the 6th.

4-3 Loggers on the sunnyside after 6.

The 7th saw the Lagers’ Ace, The Surgeon, command the mound 1-2-3, over. Ox continued his dominance blanking another series of Lagers’ at bats. Still 4-3, visitors crashing the party.

Uncharacteristically, the Surgeon allowed the bats to crack in the top of the eighth and faced a troublesome loaded diamond with only one away. Fear swept over the remaining 3-4 fans, could this be the nails in the coffin of the Lagers chances? No. With textbook precision, the defense of Lagers carved a double bypass out of the Loggers, turning two to stitch up the potential gash.

Chin Music returned to the now pocked and rocky indention where the mound once stood. The intensity of the game dramatically lifted, fueled by the miracle defensive recovery in the top half, the Lagers looked to bring it back. Trot’s bat lit the first at bat up, grabbing two bags. Claude, the grizzled one year LowBall vet, dug in and made fast work of the next two batters. Once again, it looked grim for the hometown heroes. However, after HR walked to put two on, a glimmer of hope shone on the Lagers as Trot strolled to the plate. Time slowed, beer ceased to flow, no breath was exhaled. Trot caught every bit of a Claudio special sending a liner up the middle in the direction of gold hand centerfielder and all around nice guy, Lonichiro. Lonichiro leapt through, the air intent on ending the Lagers hopes with a miracle catch. This was not that day and Trot’s drive squeaked past into the land of doubles driving in the tying run.

The Surgeon put the clamps on the 9th leaving the mound with the game still tied up at 4 a piece. The finish line of this epic wiffle marathon was in sight. Had any of the crowd stuck it out, they surely would have been rampantly cheering on the home team. As it was, the bench donned rally caps as Claudio returned to the mound. After four batters, Hot Rod stepped into the box against his cross road rival, bases loaded, one down, all the marbles up for grabs. Down to 2 in the field, the Loggers were forced to leave a hole. With another signature opposite field rip, Hot Rod put this one to rest with a walk off single to end what will definitely be remembered as the Best Wiffdependence Day ever.

Player of the Game - Trot Thompson
Winning Pitcher - The Plastic Surgeon
The End.

If I were to tell you over the winter that there was to be a blow-out game played in the dreary drizzle of late May, you would rightly conclude that this would be a mediocre, almost dismal, event. In 99% of sporting events, you would be absolutely correct. Luckily for all of us, we live in the other 1% where a blow-out during a rainy day somehow bucks the odds to become epic. When you celebrate the ridiculous, anything is possible.

Despite dreadful weather, Hunter S. Thompson Memorial Greens welcomed a near capacity crowd to help celebrate Memorial Day. After the tradition hour or so of milling about, Lonichiro kicked the festivities off with a rousing rendition of the National Anthem.

Teams were constructed as follows: Lincoln Loggers - Guap, J-Rod, J-Mac, Ox, Surgeon, and a late arriving Hideki O'Leary vs. the Bristol Lagers - Hot Rod, Unit, Lonichiro, The Albatross, Trot, and The Preacher.

The first half of the game saw stingy defense and downright nasty pitching. After 4, the Lagers clung to a 2-1 lead on the strength of a solo shot from Hot Rod. Then the clouds opened up, the rain fell, and the runs started pouring in. Ox and Guap each hoisted grannies in the fifth jumping out to a 9-6 advantage.
Like a massive head wound, the bleeding just would not cease for the Lagers. Ox put an exclamation point on his 3 ding, 2 grand slam, 9 ribbie day with a crushing shot through the trees and over two fences, giving the neighbors something to remember. Your player of the game.
There is no tastier beverage than a High Life poured from Lord Wiffle's Chalice. Guap samples as the Albatross looks on. We all dream of taking that drink at the conclusion of Wifftober.
The rain certainly affected the movement of ball and I would contend hurt the tosses of the tall two on the Lagers. Result-three straight mercy innings, Loggers up 23-10.
Sidebar: I am generally regarded as one of, if the most, serious wiffler. The funny thing is that, although I am fairly serious on the mound or in the batter's box, it stays there. I have had back to back games where I have been mercied. I have every right to be down, but I am not. And believe me, this is not typical as I am deeply competitive. However, I don't show up hoping to walk away with the title of the best wiffler, I show up to hang out with great friends and enjoy the spectacle of an organized wiffle extravaganza. Back to the game...

Joy and Kaela brave the weather to ensure the stats were kept. Sadly, later the sheet spontaneously caught fire, I rushed to extinguish the sacred stats, but my dog ate the remnants. Bummer.
J-Mac made his season debut on the mound and held the Loggers lead at 23-12 through two fast innings. His efforts were strengthened by a phenomenal running catch from the surgeon to end the eighth. It looked dire for the local heros with The Plastic Surgeon looming in the wings for the ninth.

Lonichiro and the Preacher show off Lord Wiffle's Chalice.
And it was. The surgeon stitched up the blow-out win with a stereotypical mental medley of precision. Game over, Loggers 23, Lagers 12.

A BIG THANK YOU TO KAELA FOR KEEPING STATS AND WITHSTANDING THE ELEMENTS (stats to be uploaded within 4 months) AND THE WIDOWS OF WIFFLE FOR KEEPING A COUPLE EYES ON THE KIDDIES AND LEAVING MY HOUSE LOOKING TIP TOP.

As Lonny said to me, "The only way this could be any better would be if we were winning."

Just your typical rainy day blow-out in the world of seriously ridiculous fun.

HR BECK - awaiting redemption.

ps I lost the bidding war for another bat, they kick you when you are down.

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." - Hunter S. Thompson
HST, Hunter S. Thompson Memorial Greens if you are not into the whole brevity thing, is located stumbling distance from quaint, semi-historic downtown Bristol, Vermont. The field pays homage in name and quirks to the late, great, and less than sober Hunter S. Thompson.

Constructed in late 2007, HST employs the latest in really inexpensive wiffle field technology. Innovative, though pre-existing, bleachers line the left field line, often crowded with a rowdy younger crowd on sunny afternoons. The outfield fence is 7 feet tall and is spring loaded such that people fantasizing about robbing a ding can fail without fear of breaking their arm or nose.

At first glance, the dimensions appear to favor the long ball. However, the relative low elevation in comparison to Lincoln combines with the tall fence to shutdown most would be pops. In addition, a slight elevation change along the right field fence raises the difficulty and a nasty maple rigorously defends the right field line line.

Straight away center lies 88 feet from the plate and also benefits from a slight rise. As a promotion for this season, any homer to hit the small building behind the fence will be rewarded with a Miller High Life (or purple Gatorade for non consumers). Should this homer actually knock over the building, the offer will not stand.

The left field corner sits 77 ft from the plate where the fence meets the building. There is a loosely defined portion of the building that juts into fair territory. Generally every game the definition of what is actually fair changes. Two small triangles in the left corner and center constitute the only triple zones at HST. Anything that hits the fence is a ground ruled double.

The pitcher sits atop a flat "mound" that benefits from the natural slope and hurls off a piece of native Fair Haven slate. The owner is said to have played high school ball for the "Slaters". HST is required by unwritten law to always have music in the not so dug-out. The present owners have pledged to not sell the naming rights, though offers and especially generous bribes are accepted.

Apologies upfront for the distinct lack of a recap.

Life is what it brings, it’s not about cars and fancy things.
Or hair salons and diamond rings girls. Don’t you lose no sleep.
Life is all about, the things you’ll never figure out.
It’s all about the people you love, and memories you keep.
Classified "All About U"
When Dom and I were on the Mongol Rally, we had a run from Astrakhan, Russia to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan through half of Kazakhstan that lasted over 7 days. During these days we fought to keep our cars running and to survive the heat of the desert, we slept on the ground beneath the stars and continuously inhaled volumes of sand. When we finally reached Bishkek, we were tattered and torn. With a substantial amount of luck, we stumbled into a wealth of good fortune and were treated to 3 days of luxury at the hands of an anonymous benefactor. One evening as we all sat around telling stories of the rally, our benefactor observed, "There is no greater clean than a shower after being dirty for many days, no drink better tasting that the one following many nights gone dry." - read more on the rally here

On Sunday, there was no wiffle greater than the one that comes after many months of dormant bats, no weather better than that following the long cold of the Vermont winter.

A mere week earlier, HST had been engulfed in a snow squall that called into question the intelligence of scheduling a wiffle game 6 months in advance for late April. Thankfully Sunday arrived with superb weather and the wiffle faithful (vacationing Commish withstanding) crawled from their winter shells and broke out the old arms.

I don't remember a ton from the game. Well I do know that J-Rod and Unit were tight on the mound. There was an early slam off the bat of J-Rod and my batting stunk a lot. In the absence of West Coast Howard Wingman Howell, I attempted to raze No Nickname Atocha and he promptly took me for a trip. That really blew, but I did rob him of a single later on. Ox showed up, firm in his commitment to DH and avoid the field to help his broken mug heal. He ended up pitching. The Player of the Year, El Guapo, was sidelined following a early season surgery. His influence was felt on the theoretical mic. LowBaller of the Year, Lonichiro, serenaded downtown Bristol with a 7th inning rendition of the National Anthem, sensational. The surgeon made his inaugural HST appearrance and we welcomed Michael "I can't remember what nickname Mike gave him" Dennison to the mix. Even Claudio emerged from his Nuke Wonderworld to partake, claiming afterwards, "Days like these really don't make leaving easy." My team lost by a mere run in the end.

Since revamping the website, I have heard the same comment pretty much universally utilized, "You are crazy." There is a fine line that separates passion and insanity and though popular opinion suggests otherwise, I like to think I tend to the former. As my wife will attest, if it wasn't wiffle it would be something else. I understand that not everyone is going to be as fanatical as myself and everyone enjoys and takes away different parts. At the end of the day, I am fairly confident that everyone has a pretty good time and all for the cost of a six pack, a $4 bat and ball, and some white spray paint.

The thing with wiffle and specifically LowBall wiffle is that it is more than just a silly game and make no mistake I do not lose sight of just how silly it really is. It is an experience that has grown from simply involving good friends to involving full families. My daughter talked about the wiffle ball game for nearly a week prior, constantly asking how long until the wiffle starts. At the conclusion of Sunday, as I tucked her into bed, she asked, "Dadda, when is the next wiffle ball game?" I suspect she was not the only one, young or old, to drift off to sleep with the same question in their head.

Until the next wiffle,

HOT ROD.

In case you didn't already know, I like the wiffle quite a bit. There should be no question of the dedication of the LowBall faithful after yesterday's game. In near freezing temperatures, in intermittent drizzle, a host of the old school wifflers showed up and fought through a game of epic proportions. In true LowBall fashion, the teams were randomly drawn at the start of the game, pitting the Loggers (Trot, Ox, The Surgeon, Unit, Wingman, Sharp) against the Lagers (Hot Rod, Lonichiro, J-Mac).

Temperatures at Gapbridge were at just about bone shattering levels. Wiffle balls were cracking in practice and hands were constantly numb. Only the truly brave or insane play in conditions like this, while I would like to say I am mostly the former, I believe most would conclude the latter.

The front nine played out with the Loggers leading 15 to 11. Ox was on fire, knocking 3 balls out of the park and standing strong on the mound. The pitching was on point with a total of eleven one and dones being recorded in the first half of the game. Honestly, it was so cold I don't remember much else, other than me getting thumped for 5 runs.

After a short recess, the back nine continued at Hunter S. Thompson in sunny Bristol. The Loggers quickly added to their lead with 3 runs in the tenth while Wingman only allowed 1. As is often the case in LowBall, things shifted quickly in the eleven with the lagers putting 7 on the board powered by strong doubles from Rod and Ich.

The teams continued to battle and arrived in the 16th with the Lagers trailing the Loggers by one run. J-Mac put three K's on the rack and the Lagers came to bat in the bottom facing the freshly rebuilt arsenal of the Unit. Despite a strong showing earlier in the game, the Lagers now had Unit's number and rallied 5 runs on to the board behind strong drives from all three players. Now down by 4, the Loggers brought a fierce offensive onslaught against LonIchiro on the backs of opposite field dings from Sharp and Unit.

Leading by a mere 1 run, the Lagers looked to pad their lead in the bottom of the inning but faced a focused Unit. After holding strong, the Loggers came into the 18th down by one and down to their last three outs. Hot Rod was on the mound, having recorded 13 K's on the day, but giving up 10 runs. Ox drove a shot to the left field corner that LonIchiro was able to run under and snag for the first out. Unit got walked and the winning run arrived at the plate in newcomer Sharp. Sharp made contact sending a ground ball to right, Beck dove off the mound, snagging the grounder, flipping it to Lon on the mound, who quickly converted it into a game ending double play. A fitting way to end a great communal battle, with the only play in wiffle that actually involves two players. The Lagers retained rights to the trophy 29-28, but everyone won.

Three pillars to the trophy, three players in the field, a truly team game.

Trot had the play of the game, self described as the moon. I would like to clarify this as being the eclipse as the humor factor eclipsed the quality of what was certainly the best defensive play of the game if not the year. Hat's off, there is no shame in a great play, none.




Until next season...

Write-up may actually happen, for now here are some of the best photos to date, in my opinion.

For anyone wondering, this picture shows the key to my curve, crazy wrist snap.
When a man buys a house, there are many visions for future; perhaps a refurbished kitchen, maybe a game room, or even a roof that doesn't leak and a floor that doesn't slope. Well in my case, I spotted my yard and thought to myself, some day I will have a true wiffle field. Well on Sunday, the dream was finally realized, well before the other visions I might add.

Fans take advantage of HST's innovative bleachers as Shoeless Jon Wingman "insert new nickname here" Howard Howell battles the Guap.
Hunter S. Thompson Memorial Greens opened to a near capacity crowd on Sunday. It was a fitting opening, a solid game with ups and downs, defense, nasty pitching, and a few solid rallies. The home team took the win in an efficient 9 inning battle. El Guapo gets the player of the game for hitting the first homer in HST and for robbing The Unit of a big homer off the right field wall. Big props to the Unit for making a rare Sunday appearance, it made the game a true Lowball festivity. I actually have the stats sheet and will try to get a full write-up later, for now some photos.


LonIchiro sporting a very rare Ichiro road jersey from Japan.

The view out. 70 ft to the building in left, 77 to the fence, 90 straight away and 75 to the right, 7 foot fences all around.

Sideline lounge as shot from the cheap seats behind the right field fence.

Newcomer Steve The Clayman swings away against El Guapo.

The view in.

The essence of LowBall. If you know, you understand.

The Ox readies on the mound.