The Wiffle Ball World Series

It didn’t help that we were playing at sunset. The glare of the sun was blinding the Batter’s eyes.

I tossed the ball as softly and as straight as I could.

It was a swing and a miss — by about three miles.

Believe it or not, I got quite the scolding from the Batter.

“No! You didn’t do it right,” He hurled the accusation my way as he turned to retrieve the ball.

“I didn’t?”

“No.” He threw it back to me. “You need to put it right here!” He pointed to the end of his red plastic bat.

“Okay.”

He connected pretty well on the next two or three throws.

I threw it again. A swing and a miss. There was consternation written all over his childish face. He turned around and retrieved the ball. He threw it back while a glare and snarl inched slowly across his face.

“Daddy! I said put it right here!” He pointed to the end of his bat again.

A swing and a miss. Another miss. Yet another miss.

Each time he retrieved that ball, he grew more visibly upset. And each time he threw it back, he could never remember where he had been standing the previous at bat. He would end up to the left five feet or over the right ten feet. He couldn’t ever remember where to stand. I kept moving, trying to accommodate him. At one point, we had moved around in a complete circle.

By now, the lad was on the verge of angry tears. He did not appreciate my inability to hit the end of the little red bat.

“Here’s the wind-up, the pitch!” I missed it again.

There was a loud exclamation of anger.

With a face red with anger and resentment at my inability to pitch a wiffle ball, he glares at me. “Who taught you how to pitch anyway? Your grandma?”

Then we were joined by his cousin and friend, who chose to cover the outfield. It was about to get better.

Pitch, swing, grounder.

The outfield had something to say about that.

“No, Batter! Hit it up and out to me back here.” Outfielder was pointing up to the heavens.

“Okay, Outfielder.”

Pitch, swing, grounder.

“No! Hit it up, Batter!” bellowed Outfielder. He was straining to point as high as he could.

“I’m just gonna throw it to you, Outfielder! This pitcher ain’t worth a hill of beans!” The batter yelled as he ran toward the outfield and closer to me.

The wind-up, the pitch — it was a fastball straight to the disgraced former pitcher’s kneecap.

“Ouch! Watch where you throw that thing.”

“Okay, daddy.” He half-heartedly stated as he picked up the ball. It was almost as if he was saying, “Get off the field, you old man.”

He ran toward the Outfielder. Keep in mind: the Outfielder and Batter are on the same “team.”

He gets two feet in front of the Outfielder and throws it to him. The Outfielder doesn’t catch it. He had to run about fifteen feet to his right to retrieve the ball.

He throws it back. It lands one foot in front of him.

The Batter ran toward the ball. The Outfielder gets to it first.

The Batter collapses on the ground in a crying fit.

The Outfielder picks up the ball and throws it. The pitcher retrieves it.

Both Batter and Outfielder immediately start vying for the ball.

“It’s my turn to throw it!” Batter stated.

“No, I want it!” Outfielder countered.

More screaming fits. Batter tackles Outfielder. They roll across the ground, trying to get the wiffle ball.

The pitcher had enough. “All right, it’s time to go inside.”

The Batter stomps off, crying, toward the house.

The Outfielder follows close behind, trying to provide comfort. They’re both mad at the Pitcher.

“Batter, Batter!” Outfielder is running after him. The Batter is still stomping toward the house. “Come back, Batter! Come back!”

“No!”

“Batter, I want to give you a hug, Batter!”

“No, Outfielder! I’ve had enough! I quit!!” Batter exclaims.

We finally reached the house, where more fighting and bickering ensued.

No, this was not a Major League Baseball replay. This was two three-year-old cousins who needed to take their naps.

And this, my friends, is why parents lose their ever-loving minds.

to the parents trying to stay strong,
– Caleb