It was normal to find my father and I engaged in heated wiffle ball battle on summer evenings. I remember taking my hacks and running from tree to tree. We had certain rules. A fly ball landing on the opposite side of the street was a homer. A one-hopper to the curb was a ground rule double. A ball that hit the tree was a dead ball, unless of course it landed on the other side of the street and became a tater. I was very excited to hit the ball, but distinctly remember being the pitcher and trying to catch every ball before it hit the ground. For a while, I kept stats and marked them down after every at bat. Infrequent passing cars and the occasional downpour led to short delays, but games were played quite often. Every once in a while a ball was lost in the upper branches of our neighbor's evergreen trees or down the sewer grate. Luckily, wind helped us with the tree and a clever invention of a thick string connected to what was essentially a small plastic container allowed my father and I to retrieve any misplaced wiffle balls and play on.