The 83-year-old pitcher checked all the bases, then turned to face the next batter, a strapping, strong, sporty type from the generation between the pitcher and the previous batter. The outfielders backed up, ready for the big hit. It came, but the 40-year-old woman playing right field made an easy catch for the third out.
Score: 15-18, top of the ninth (so-called; we skipped a few innings to get there).
Yes, we were keeping score, though no one cared much what it was, and yes, we had rules, which were sometimes ignored for the sake of letting a child get on base. After all, it was wiffleball, and nothing rivals wiffleball for a multi-generational game because nothing rivals wiffleball for equalizing skill levels between children and old people, out-of-shape adults and well buffed sports types, men and women. So it was wiffleball, more than the swimming hole (where many adults sat in lawn chairs at the edge of the creek), more than the piñata (which was only for the children), more than cornball toss (since only four people at a time can play), even more than the magnificent meals (because twenty people couldn't sit around the table at once) that brought together all ages and all types at the family gathering I attended last weekend.
"Family," these days, is a stretchy term. As mother of the hostess's stepson, I was on its stretched-out periphery, as it was her side of the family, not her husband's (my son's father's) who were gathering. The second-generation cousins, six little girls between the ages of ten and two, were the highlight of the weekend: playing at the creek, dressing up in high heels and slinky dresses, swinging on the swing, falling off the foot-high tightrope, sharing candy from the piñata, making hits in wiffleball. The matriarch of the family – the mother and grandmother and great-grandmother of this side of the family – had died only the year before, so there was a sense of generations moving on as her children, in their sixties and seventies, were now the elders.
Elders and children and in-between-ers came together on the wiffleball field for a good long warm-up session, with the pitcher throwing balls from behind the back, from under the leg, and after endless wind-ups. Team captains chose teams, picking children early so they would feel important. The rules were explained: There was no such thing as a strike-out. Foul balls didn't count. Pop-up flies, if caught, counted as outs. No stealing.
The weather was lovely. In the outfield we daydreamed under lofty clouds. Runners ran without getting overheated. We used oversize bats for the hard plastic, perforated wiffle ball, which was easy to hit, anyway, and easy enough to catch that even the children occasionally made a good catch. The ball could also be hit a long distance by a mighty swing, so good hitters had a chance to strut their stuff. In the second day's game my team lost by an embarrassing number of runs, but no one was dispirited. The children ran off to other play, the adults gathered the bats and balls, the sun beamed, and the day leaned gently into the evening.
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