Free Everything Is Wrong with Me by Jason Mulgrew Page B

in a schoolyard with as little as two players with your standard Wiffle ball and yellow bat. There were no bases. One strike and you were out, three outs per inning. Anything over the fence was a home run; anything that got past the pitcher was a single; anything successfully fielded (even a grounder) was an out. Play until you have to go home or your arms fall off. Keep score dutifully. Most likely fight with opponent about the score.
Stickball: Similar to Wiffle ball with three differences: 1) played with stick and rubber ball; 2) a strike zone is drawn behind the hitter against the wall of the school, and the hitter now has three strikes per out; 3) fighting over scoring more intense than in Wiffle ball, due to the more fast-paced nature of the game.
Halfball: Same as stickball, but played with a tennis ball cut in half. My least favorite baseball-derived game. (Why would anyone cut a perfectly good tennis ball in half?)
Streetball: Played with full teams in the street/schoolyard, with bases drawn in chalk on the asphalt/cement. Like real baseball, except with tennis ball and loaded Wiffle-ball bat (a Wiffle-ball bat cut open, stuffed with newspapers, and taped up). Also unlike real baseball in that someone’s mildly retarded younger brother will be required to play and a fight will usually break out between the older nonretarded brother and the younger somewhat-retarded brother. Hilarity will ensue, Sunny Delight will be consumed, purple stuff will be eschewed.
Killball: Like streetball, but a mix of 90 percent baseball and 10 percent dodgeball. A hitter can be called out if the fielder catches his ball, throws it at him, and hits him with it when he is not on base. It was with the birth of this game that many of us realized that our testicles were sensitive things to be respected, rather than decorations dangling below our penises.
    I spent the early part of my youth playing these games religiously. By the time an opportunity to play in Little League presented itself, I felt like I was ready to take that next step.
    Yet I don’t want to give the impression that I was just some kid playing the game because he had nothing else to do or because playing Little League is just what you’re supposed to do as a kid. I loved baseball—a lot—not just to play, but to watch and enjoy as well. Every day I’d pore over the sports section of the Daily News, analyzing the box scores, noting how many hits Mike Schmidt had, whether or not Juan Samuel had stolen a base, or if Steve Bedrosian had picked up the save. I collected baseball cards with a frightening obsession/compulsion that would meet its equal later in my life only when a) I discovered masturbating; b) I discovered getting drunk; and c) I discovered sex. * Collecting baseball cards was not just a hobby, it was a lifestyle. My mom inadvertently ruined the second half of 1988 for me when she got me some lame-ass OshKosh B’gosh overalls for my birthday instead of the Donruss-brand Jose Canseco rookie card that I so desperately wanted. ** I spent hours lusting after prized cards in Lou’s Cards & Comics on Broad Street and whole afternoons and evenings in my room studying the statistics on the backs of the cards. If you had asked me how many hits Wade Boggs had in 1983, how many home runs Dale Murphy hit in 1985, or how many strikeouts Doc Gooden had in his rookie year, I could tell you instantly. * If I had put half as much effort into schoolwork as I did studying these cards, I would have graduated from grade school in four years and would now probably be a Ph.D. touring the country lecturing on the reproductive habits of the cnidarians of the South Pacific. Instead it took me eight whole years to graduate and now I couldn’t tell you which president is on the twenty-dollar bill. ** Stupid baseball obsession.
    I wasn’t just a stat nerd; I watched a lot of games, too. Baseball became my first love in large part because it was (and still is) the most accessible of