Date: Fri 18-Jun-1999

Publication: Bee

Author: KIMH

Quick Words:

Harmon-Wiffle-pitch

Full Text:

KIM HARMON ON SPORTS: What Did I Do Wrong?

BY KIM J. HARMON

How did it happen? Back around mid-April, when the chill had finally gone out

of the air and the grass -- gosh darn it -- started growing again, I was like

any other father playing a game of baseball (in this case, Wiffleî ball) with

his kid.

I lost.

I TRIED to lose. I mean, here I am 36 years old and here he is -- my Benjamin

-all of six, and what kind of guy would I be if I threw my full repertoire of

pitches (at last count, it's up to 12) at him and started launching balls over

the centerfield fence which sat a comfortable 100 feet away from home plate? I

grew up playing Wiffleî ball, for god sake, playing two or three games a day

every day of every summer.

I mean, how fair could it be?

Fathers -- adults -- are SUPPOSED to lose to kids. I grew up learning that,

too, especially at all the family picnics where -- inevitably -- a game of

baseball or softball would break out in the backyard.

Remember? You would have two teams of roughly 30 people each scattered around

the yard, nobody playing any positions except for the pitcher, while the kids

pushed each other around and fought over the bat and the adults attempted to

play while clutching a beer in one hand and a cheeseburger in the other.

The pitcher -- usually a father who organized the game, curse him -- would lob

the ball over the plate and everybody would whack it around the yard. The

adults would get their three strikes and if they needed all three strikes they

would eventually get laughed out of the family. The kids would get about seven

million strikes each and if -- glory be -- they managed to hit one, the adults

would go into their full bumbling mode. A father or a mother or an aunt or an

uncle would suddenly be unable to pick up a ball rolling so slow the speed

could not be measured. And if they were able to pick up the ball, they would

be utterly incapable of throwing it accurately to first even if the adult

covering first base was six inches away.

The kids would run around the bases five or six times a turn and the adults

would still be trying to figure out the proper motor functions to throw the

ball somewhere.

That's the lesson -- adults are SUPPOSED to lose to kids.

That's what I figured around mid-April when I bought my first batch of Wiffleî

balls home. It started with me figuring out some rules, like Benjamin gets two

outs an inning and I get one; if I hit the ball into the neighbor's yard, it's

an out; I only get six at-bats an inning; while pitching, I will get balls

called on me and if I hit Benjamin with a pitch, he gets to put a GHOST man on

first.

Seemed fair to me. An early on, Benjamin struggled a bit with his control and

didn't have full command of his pitches (or pitch, because he really only had

one back then) and sometimes he would lollipop it in and there I would be, a

big old guy with a oversized bat ready to make a baked po-tater.

So I would hit a couple around the yard and then purposely hit a pitch into

the neighbor's yard for an out. In the field, I would once or twice

intentionally bobble a ball (catching a grounder or a fly was an automatic

out) to keep Benjamin's inning going.

I realized, too, that I could hit anything with that oversized bat in my hand

so I went out and purchased that familiar long, thin and bright yellow Wiffleî

ball bat.

That might have been the final thing that changed everything around.

I mean, the rules (the rules I made) were against me, the equipment (the

equipment I purchased) made the game more difficult, and Benjamin (the little

son of a gun) was developing a repertoire of pitches and throwing them with

the kind of control that Greg Maddux would envy.

I started to lose.

But NOT on purpose.

Hey, I'm still not throwing the fastball that made me famous in the old

neighborhood (at least famous to myself), but now I open up the bag of tricks

and throw the sinker, the slider, the screwball, the forkball, the palmball,

the curve (two different varieties -sharp or slow), the knuckler, the slurve

(part slider, part curve), the riser, and the eephus and may do any of them

sidearm, three-quarters, or straight over the top.

Benjamin does not handle the slow curve or the sinker very well -- I quickly

learned that -- but he just about scrapes the plastic off of everything else I

throw him and now 19 games into the season, the budding New York Yankee fan

(when I teach 'em, I teach 'em right) is 15-4 with a league-leading 15 home

runs (to my five).

I think it finally got to me the other day. Picture this: bottom of the fifth

(all games are five innings), bases loaded, and I'm down 4-2 (I was down 4-0

entering the inning) and on my final at-bat. Benjamin has thrown me nothing

but fastballs (fastballs that have a slight curve in on my hands, since I'm

batting lefthanded), so, like a fool, I sit back on the fastball thinking I'm

going to tattoo this one to the flag pole in centerfield (a double, which

would score two of the GHOST runners and tie the game).

So what does he do?

The son of a gun throws me a sinker. A SINKER! And as I flail over the top of

the pitch (I saw it even as I began to swing, but by then it was far too late)

I'm thinking to myself, WHO THE HECK TAUGHT HIM THAT PITCH?

No, THAT didn't finally get me. I finally got me a couple days ago when

Benjamin broke open a 0-0 tie with a seven-run third-inning explosion. After

he hit his third home run of the frame (he has a really short porch in left

field), I see him standing up there at home plate with a little smirk on his

face beginning to half-heartedly swing at my pitches.

Taking it easy on me.

On ME!

And I'm thinking -- man, this is going to be a tough summer.