Courtesy: Whiffle Ball.com
We were on our way to Anchorage, Alaska for Christmas. My sister Kim, fiancé Celeste, and I had to stop in Portland, Oregon on the way up because the Seattle-Tacoma airport was fogged in; there was no way our pilot was going to land our big bird in the state of Washington anytime soon. We three amigos were on our way to celebrate Christmas at my folks’ house but had to spend a long, lonely night in the Portland airport waiting on our early-the-next morning flight.
Our carry-on luggage was full of presents. After spending a few boring hours looking at the same closed shops, I decided it was high time to have some fun.
I opened up a package that was intended for my nephew Jonathan. His name is Jonathan Paul. Little Jonathan was going to get a great gift—it was just going to be slightly used.
It was awesome! It was a plastic whiffle ball, a plastic bat, and a stand thingy that popped the whiffle ball up in the air as a way to pitch to yourself.
Since I was the guy, I positioned Laverne and Shirley in the outfield and said, “Get ready, I’m going to smack a home run.” In my head I already had my homerun trot figured out.
Two elderly ladies were to our left and they had hardly said a word all night long. I was beginning to wonder if they had their teeth in or not, but was not about to ask. Now that there was action both ladies were intensely watching the festivities.
“Pop.”
The plastic ball floated dreamily up in the air. Taking dead aim—I swung for the fence and just about ripped my shorts with a massive swing.
“Strike One!”
I couldn’t believe I missed the stupid thing.
I had played church softball before and couldn’t ever remember pulling my gluteus while swinging and missing.
“Ha. Ha.” Laverne and Shirley were laughing at old Squiggy, but I was going to show them.
“Pop.”
Another swing—another miss.
The two blue hairs were smirking and jabbing each other in the ribs, having a good chuckle at my expense. My outfielders were looking bored as well, so I thought I better hammer this one into the cheap seats.
“Pop.”
“C-R-A-C-K!”
This time it wasn’t mine, it was the sound of the plastic bat making serious contact with the whiffle ball.
I must tell you that almost the whole while we sat in our section bored out of our gourds, practically no one walked, ran, jogged, vamoosed, moseyed or anything else by us. The five of us—little ladies included—had the run of the place to ourselves. But here was my moment to shine in the Portland airport and baby did I shine!
“Swoosh!”
The plastic ball took flight and rocketed over the heads of Laverne and Shirley who had scooted in as I adjusted my swing. Laverne and Shirley both turned their heads to see where history was going to be made, and that is precisely when the eagle landed.
Actually, another little old lady happened to be making her merry little way around the corner in what she had thought up to that point was a relatively relaxing, quiet airport. This little lady had just visited the concession stand and her arms were full of a large soda and equally large bag of popcorn.
And at that exact time and place, the sun, moon, and stars aligned—and I popped her in the popcorn.
“Boof.”
My homerun ball nailed her bag of Orville Redenbacher and sent the white stuff flying.
Over to my left the little old ladies from Pasadena were beside themselves laughing. Laverne and Shirley both yelled, “Kraig!” And I was too busy apologizing to Mrs. Redenbacher to ever get the chance to break into my homerun trot.
