"Poppie at the Bat"

By Jerry Zezima

If, as a former sportswriter, I could vote for players to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, I would cast ballots for a pair of superstars who deserve to have plaques alongside the greats of our national pastime.

I refer, of course, to my granddaughters Chloe and Lilly.

The girls, who are 8 and 4 and a half, respectively, recently showed off their hitting and pitching prowess during the first sleepover they have had at my house since last year.

Our activities, most of which also involved my wife, Sue, included baking cookies, eating pancakes, drawing pictures, watching movies (“Zombies” and “Zombies 2”), going out for ice cream, riding in a kiddie car, zooming down a slide, blowing bubbles and, the highlight of the visit, playing Wiffle ball.

One player who definitely won’t get into the Hall of Fame (unless he buys a ticket) is yours truly, who proved to be even worse at playing sports than I was at writing about them.

That was sadly evident when the girls and I set up a Wiffle ball field in the backyard, where they clobbered my pitches and made me whiff at theirs.

But first, we had to have spring training, which entailed showing the girls how to hold the plastic bat.

“Are you a righty or a lefty?” I asked Chloe, who held the bat on her left shoulder but with her hands transposed.

“OK,” I said after I had corrected her grip. When Chloe stood facing me, I said, “Turn a bit, hold the bat up, look over your right shoulder and watch the ball.”

Two seconds later, after making an underhand pitch, I watched the ball rocket past my head.

“Good hit, Chloe!” yelled Lilly, who picked up the ball and, with her right hand, threw it back to me on the fly.

“Good throw, Lilly!” I said.

“Thank you, Poppie,” Lilly replied modestly. “Can I hit?”

“Let’s give Chloe a few more chances,” I said.

My next pitch was low. Chloe didn’t swing.

“Good eye,” I commented.

Chloe fouled off the next pitch, which was inside. She chased an outside toss before digging in.

“Two strikes,” I said. “One more and you’re out.”

My next pitch was down the middle. Chloe parked it. In fact, the exit velocity must have exceeded the speed at which cars blow through the stop sign in front of the house.

“Home run!” I exclaimed.

“My turn!” said Lilly, also a lefty with whom I had to go through the same routine: hand placement, correct stance, raised bat, watchful eye.

She pulled my first pitch down the line for what would have been a ground-rule double.

“Nice hit, Lilly!” yelled Chloe.

Lilly missed the next two pitches.

“One more?” she asked as I went into my windup.

The word “yes” was barely out of my mouth when Lilly’s batted ball almost hit me in the mouth.

“Home run!” Lilly declared.

If I had been the starting pitcher in a major league game, I would have been sent to the showers. So I decided it was my turn to bat.

Chloe was the relief pitcher. Her first toss was low, but I swung anyway — and missed.

“Strike one!” Lilly yelled from what passed for the outfield.

Unfortunately, I never got the ball out of the infield. Chloe’s baffling assortment of pitches sent me down on strikes.

Then Lilly came in to pitch. The result was pretty much the same, although I did foul off a couple of pitches and actually hit one, but it went directly to Chloe, who scooped it up and tagged me.

When the game was called on account of pain (I hurt my knee), Chloe and Lilly had made a strong case for induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

As for me, being sent down to the minors was the only option after being beaten by a couple of minors.

And the poet who penned “Casey at the Bat” might have concluded: “But there is no joy in Oldville — mighty Poppie has struck out.”

Copyright 2021 by Jerry Zezima