MARLBORO, NY -I’ve got nothing. It’s July 9th and I’ve got nothing to really talk about regarding sports. There’s no way I can get five-hundred words out of St. Louis Cardinals second baseman Matt Carpenter’s bunt base-hit to the wide open left side of the infield during a defensive shift by the Mets on Friday night. This is sports’ slow time of year unless you call a bunch of women playing “pick up” basketball, the WNBA, a sport OR a bunch of Canucks playing football, the CFL, on a field too wide and long OR the continuous anomaly that indoor football has lasted this long called the Arena Football League. Yeah, yeah and there’s the New York Cosmos, New York City Football Club, and New Jersey Red Bulls soccer if you dare be caught watching one of these games. By now you see what I’m talking about–sports choices are plenty but not worthy of speaking about during this wipeout period. Speaking of Summer wipeouts…
There was a Wiffle Ball game I’d like to talk about that happened on the 4th of July. Three aging men comprised the heavily favored team. One member of this triumvirate (me), is aging quicker then Benjamin Button, another with a hip problem who once contributed on MTM (Grote2DMax), and the only able body in Angry Ward rounded out the squad. The other team were a compilation of youthful splendor as Grote’s seven year-old twins and Ward’s fourth-grader appeared no match for the Geezers on a very small playing field custom made for the power and long legs of the adults. I started the game at first base, Grote pitched, and Ward manned the left side of the field.
Outside of Grote purposely swinging and missing on a third strike, there was a serious side to the game. We kept score and fudged the rules only once on a fifth strike to one of the young boys. A few balls were hit right at me as I made the play on reaction alone–only by lunging for the first base bag did I complete the out. The game was close for the first inning. What those kids did to me in the second inning was akin to beating a dead horse. I could swear these intelligent tykes were aware that I was the weak link in the field with no range so to speak as ball after ball was hit by or over me. 
The second problem was bending down to pick up the ball as the kids just kept circling the bases on their way to run after run. It was only when I couldn’t breathe that Grote thankfully granted my merciful request to pitch. By then, the damage had already been done and the game was all but over. In the first Wiffle Ball game shortened by old age: Kids 8, Invalids 4. I was wiped out. Only through muscle relaxers and Percocet was I able to physically recover but the mental anguish will last a lifetime as I did little to help my team compete.
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