Yesterday’s Memory Monday post left off when Baker Boys Plus had just defeated Plastic Devils in an epic slug fest.
But the game took its toll on the team and it’s star player was left with a stomach ache greater than one you would find after Thanksgiving dinner.
Will Baker Boys Plus be able to recover? Will it be another family disaster? Will we ever get to the end of this dumb story??
Here’s the exciting conclusion of the 2005 Wiffle Ball World Series.
“Sorry, but I feel terrible,” Matt says as he starts to pack up his stuff and leave. “You can’t leave now,” I say trying to get him to reconsider. “If I stay I will just keep throwing up,” Matt says. “Maybe you can use that as intimidation,” Eric jokes. “Kids won’t want to play us if you are puking all over the place.” “Funny but I’ve got to go take a nap,” Matt says as he leaves the field.
So now we are without probably our best player. Once again, I am starting to feel that nervousness again as we walk over to the next field where our second game will be played.
“Is that the other team?” Chris asks as we approach and see three little kids on the field where our next game is supposed to be played. “They are like six years old,” laughs Eric.
Turns out they weren’t six. They were 13, 10, and 8 and were playing with their dad. Thinking a win was a sure thing, we made plans to try and keep it close. We didn’t want to rub it in. We planned on being nicer than all those other teams had been to us when we were younger.
As the game starts, I laugh and joke with Eric that this game with be no problem. My laughter turns to shock as the first two kids hit homeruns. ‘What just happened’ I thought to myself. It was almost as if when the game started the six year olds took off their kid costumes to reveal three major league baseball players.
“Did we really just lose?” Chris asks as we sit down in the grass after losing the game 13-2. “Is there steroid testing in wiffle ball?” asks Eric. “Cuz those kids had to be on something.”
Still in complete shock from what just happened, I call Matt to repeat the score. “We just got crushed by an old man and three six year olds,” I tell Matt as he answers the phone. “Are you serious?” Matt says thinking that I am joking. “No, actually they were 13, 10, and 8,” I say as if their real ages made any difference.
So now we have to win our next game. If we lose our next game we don’t make it to the playoffs and our championship hopes are gone and this year will be like every other disappointing year. Luckily for us the next team never shows up and we win by forfeit. Now we are in the playoffs.
Our first opponent in the playoffs is the type of team that is the most fun to play against. This type of team is made up of guys who don’t really care about wiffle ball and just use the tournament as an excuse to get away from their wives and get drunk at the park. They crack a bunch of terrible jokes and are easy to beat. We were playing them at the perfect time because it was now early afternoon and they had been drinking since 8:00 a.m. We beat them easily because whatever little wiffle ball skill they once had was, just like most of their beer, long gone.
After beating Team Beer we were in the semifinals. The team we would be playing consisted of three athletic looking high schoolers and two older guys who looked like they belonged on Team Beer. The game was going back and forth when finally it happened. My dad got hurt. He was running (if you can really call it running) to first base and he pulled his hamstring. “It wouldn’t be a wiffle ball tournament without dad getting hurt,” I say to Chris as we go to help him off the field.
Now we are without Matt and my dad. I didn’t like our chances. The game continued to go back and forth. They would score four runs, we would score five. They would take the lead and we would have to come back again. The game went into extra innings. Each team scored two runs so we went into another extra inning. This time each team scored one run. Was this game ever going to end? Finally after one more inning we held them scoreless and won 26-25.
We had made it to the championship. And who were we facing? None other than the six year olds. And this time it was only the kids because, like our dad, their dad got hurt attempting to run (I guess pulled hamstrings were contagious for old men that day). So now it was on. Us vs. the six year olds for the Wiffle Ball World Series Championship.
“This time I don’t care about being nice,” Eric says as we take the field. “If we lose to these kids again, I am quitting wiffle ball forever,” I reply.
During the first inning we hold them to three runs. Something didn’t seem the same about them. Maybe they couldn’t handle the pressure. Or maybe the major leaguers from earlier went home early and all that was left was three little kids.
We didn’t take it easy and we ended up winning 23-7. And it wasn’t even that close. We destroyed them. We hit homerun after homerun and they didn’t stand a chance.
As I went to shake their hand and say the obligatory good game I thought about what had just happened. I had just done to them what so many guys did to me when I was little. I beat up on a bunch of little kids and got enjoyment out of it. I had become everything I hated when I was their age. But it was worth it and I’ll do it again if I get the chance.