Fake Reporter Should Cover Wiffle Ball

It does not take politics or religion to make a great friend. It takes Wiffle Ball.

The Beltway buzz is about a so-called "fake" reporter in the White House. Somehow, this made me wonder how I have such a great friend who is on the opposite side of the political fence. Then I figured it out.

Many years ago, on a beautiful spring afternoon in Poughkeepsie, left-hander Vanishing James threw a meatball to yours truly. The rest is history.

A lifelong Yankees fan and right-handed hitter, on this day I happened to be imitating the swing of the Mets' biggest gun at the time, Darryl Strawberry. Straw had the look of one of the great left-handed sluggers of all time (and his 1988 Strat-O-Matic card was an absolute home-run monster).

There we were, Vanishing James and I, on the front lawn of his parents' house on Van Siclen Drive. I stood at the far end of the house in my lefty Straw stance, Van Siclen in front of me if I pointed the Wiffle bat toward the imagined right-handed batters box. My butt was pointing at his house.

About 30 feet away, in pitching position on the imaginary mound, was Vanishing James, a lefty throwing with his left hand, the trees lining Van Siclen at his back during delivery.

The hurler winds up and grooves the Wiffle Ball toward me; actually, in my mind I was Strawberry. I (Straw) have the left elbow up, and the right elbow pointing down and sitting just near my lowest rib.

As the pitch comes in, the left elbow cocks up, the right elbow thrusts down, and the bat instantly wags from its straight-up position toward the incoming ball and in front of my left ear.

Then the right knee kicks up to the belt line (which was significantly more visible back then).

As the ball sails closer, the right leg uncoils, the left leg stiffens and the left foot pivots; the right foot finds terra firma. Next, the hips begin to turn, but the right shoulder remains intact. The hands, gripping the plastic bat that looks like a super-duper-sized McDonald's french fry, begin their journey toward the hitting zone.

Looking more and more like a beach ball, the white Wiffle moves closer.

The wrists begin their turn; the hands dart toward the zone. The shoulders are square to the imaginary plate. Everything is perfect.

The Wiffle Ball arrives and is greeted by the smoothest, most powerful and balanced stroke possible without ruining the plastic bat. At the moment of impact, bat meets ball on the solid end -- a Wiffle Ball has air holes through one side.

A new journey begins.

Rocketing on a parabola that mocks a power alley in right-center field, the violent whack has changed the direction of the Wiffle Ball -- and our lives -- in a most spectacular way.

First, it finds its way through some of the branches that hang most near to the house, facing the sun and away from Van Siclen. Next, the ball makes its way further up and out of the shadows of the house. The two players' visual hammerlocks are set dead on the ball.

The next milestone to clear is the driveway, and that is done with ease. As the plastic missile continues its ascent, pitcher and batter realize they are witnesses to history, and their respective places in it.

Will it clear the roof gutter of the next-door-neighbors' house? Affirmative. And still rising. This is a plastic Wiffle Ball, for God's sake!

How about the break in the roof? Done.

There is little time for descent. The ball touches down just past the halfway point of the roof, pitcher and batter gawking in stunned disbelief.

"Was that the furthest shot ever," I asked Vanishing James, after a pregnant pause and large gulp.

His look told me that nothing remotely like this had ever happened in his many years of Wiffle Balling parallel to Van Siclen.

Our place in history was firmly secure, even if it was just the two of us bearing witness. We might as well have seen a UFO together, because if anyone saw the setup, they simply would not believe it was possible.

To this day, we still hark back to that magical moment. Whenever opinions about the world we live in and life in general go awry, we can always go back to that place, to that moment on Van Siclen, and it makes everything right.

"Can you believe this stuff about the fake reporter in the White House?" Vanishing James said. And, of course, two strongly opinionated blokes began to spew about their differences in philosophy.

But, like always, we found our way back to the happy place.

"Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck,"he said, to which I replied, "right there with the Darryl Strawberry Wiffle Ball."