Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dr. Seuss and tonight I have the honor of introducing an HRL legend. I could tell you about how this man introduced me to the game of adult wiffleball, how when I didn’t know what life after college might look like, he told me about the HRL’s existence, and that I am forever in his debt for the many memories and friendships that exist as a result, but this is a humble man who would be mortified to know I was speaking so highly on his behalf. I could tell you about his sportsmanship, his humility, his loyalty, and his absolute love of the HRL and the game of wiffleball, but that would embarrass him further. I could also tell you about his HRL awards and accolades, about how for his entire HRL career he played only with his friends and family, but that might make him sign off entirely. So rather than detailing his resume, tonight I would like to share a story with you.
The year was 2008 and it was the 7th game of the HRL World Series. In front of a strong wiffleball crowd for a chilly early autumn Minnesota evening, consisting mostly of HRLers like Truck, Dee, Shirls, Cheezy, J-Zilla, with Sanchez and Steve 1 calling the game for a future video broadcast, as well as friends and family most of whom I’d pressured into coming. It was the top of the 17th inning of the game that would decide if the Reds or the Red Sox would be crowned HRL champions. Hands that had once moved freely were now stuffed deep into pockets for warmth. The score was tied, 0-0, exactly as it was when Spoon threw the first pitch of the game over two hours earlier. I was standing in left field as I had been for every one of the 48 outs Spoon had recorded. Most of the outs had been strikeouts, with Spoon’s smooth, overhand curveball tempting the Red Sox over and over as it dropped from their eyes to the ground in a matter of milliseconds, sinking into the dirt just below the barrels of their bats. It felt like they’d never touch him. As the innings wore on deeper into the cool September night, with no end to the game in sight, and early mornings waiting for them the next day, my friends and my parents who had come to the games in hopes of watching me win the championship that I wasn’t there to win in person the year before, slowly dispersed into the parking lot. It felt like this game would go on forever.
It takes a special kind of swing by a special kind of wiffleball player to recreate the sound of a wooden bat striking a baseball with plastic, but the sound Tugboat’s bat made when it launched Spoon’s slider far over my head and subsequently, the chain link fence in left, was no different to my ears than the sound of Joe Mauer destroying a baseball at the Metrodome. And just like that, a second consecutive World Series victory now seemed all but lost. Tugboat pumped his arm as he rounded second base, oblivious both to Spoon extending his arm for a trademark post home run high five, and to my icy stare from the left field wall.
Throughout the 17 inning marathon, Spoon’s counterpart was The Man, whose confidence exuded off him in every riser and slider that he fired past us. Spoon looked cool, calm and utterly focused as he peppered the board with strikes and the dirt with chase pitches. Six innings had gone by in a minute. And in another second, six more had flown by. No one scored. No one walked. No one committed an error. Every now and then a single fell in, but only a couple, and never enough to string together a run.
The thirteenth inning came, no one scored. The fourteenth inning came, and I’m pretty sure everyone who batted struck out. By the fifteenth inning, our fans were apologetically waving as they departed, and by the sixteenth inning I too was starting to believe the game would never end. Logically, it had to, all we had to do was square up one pitch and hit it solidly over the fence. But the harder we tried to end the game with one swing, the further we got from making contact. The game went on and on.
And then the seventeenth inning came and Tugboat shattered the quiet of the night with his solo shot to left, his screams of joy echoing throughout the park as he rounded the bases. I flexed my visor between my hands as Cheezy darted past me to go retrieve the home run ball, securing it for a so far non existent physical HRL hall of fame.
Down 1-0 in the bottom of the 17th inning, I was set to lead off. The first pitch The Man threw to me I swung quickly and lined off his shoulder for a single. Elway was up next and The Man set him down on strikes. Then Spoon stepped to the plate.
The first pitch The Man threw drilled the bottom of the board for a strike. Spoon stepped out and took a deep breath, a faint hint of cool fog materializing from his mouth. The Man wound up and fired, again drilling the bottom corner of the board for strike two. With Palpatine praying from the on deck circle, The Man reached back into the bucket, picked out another ball, slowly wound up, and fired a riser that looked destined to sail over the top of the board.
Spoon bent his back knee down towards the ground as his wrists tore towards the ball, flicking around just in time to catch it squarely with the barrel of the yellow bat, sending the white plastic ball screaming deep towards left center field. As I ran towards second base I saw Tugboat approach the fence, looking up. He crouched down and then leaped up as high as he could, his fingers outstretched over the chain link fence, only to see the ball drop just beyond his finger tips.
It was gone.
Cheers erupted all around the field. As I sped around second base I ripped my visor from my head and launched it as high as I could into the night. Spoon trotted towards first, his arms outstretched, his palms facing upwards in celebration. As he rounded the bases the words “Oh my God!” were repeated by Truck as he filmed Spoon’s victory trot. Cheezy sprinted past Spoon to retrieve his home run ball as he rounded third base. As Spoon approached the plate we simultaneously leaped into each other’s shoulders, his feet landing on the plate with the winning run.
We’d won. The dream we’d shared of winning an HRL Championship together that we’d had ever since Spoon introduced me to the HRL and to wiffleball had actually happened. That night Spoon became an HRL Champion for the second time. And tonight he becomes an HRL Hall of Famer. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the 2023 HRL Hall of Famer, Spoon.