A little light baseball

It looks something like a child's backyard fantasy if you squint - or drink enough.

Tie game, extra innings, and there stands Warren Whitehouse, yellow plastic bat in hand, a hero's ending in his sights.

Of course, youngsters might be wise to avert their eyes from some of the proceedings - the opposing pitcher flicking a cigarette to the curb; the on-deck hitter chugging a Miller Lite; the sweat-soaked shark tattoo splashed across Whitehouse's left biceps, the one he added "to have [his] ex-wife's name covered up."

But such is the state of a "kid's game" here, in the rented parking lot of a Manayunk condo community, where Whitehouse and a few dozen locals and day-trippers converged this month for an all-day Wiffle ball tournament sponsored by C.J. & Eck's sports bar.

"It's about just [seeing] guys you don't see on a daily basis, getting all your friends together," said Whitehouse, 37, after smacking a game-winning triple to propel his team to the second round. "And don't get me wrong, beers between the games are a good thing."

Whitehouse's is the new face - one of them, anyway - of a growing sport. From backyards to beaches, corporate offices to college campuses, the skinny yellow bat and gravity-averse plastic ball are enjoying a surge in popularity more than five decades after their advent.

It was in 1953 that David N. Mullany created the Wiffle ball, testing his design by slicing perforations into a plastic molding used to hold perfume bottles. His son, David A., was the first to note the "whiffing" sound of a batter's fruitless swing at the shifty sphere in flight. With that, United States Patent 2,776,139 had its name.

"What really started out as a kid's game has grown to be something much larger than that," said David J. Mullany, third-generation president of Wiffle Inc. "It's nice to see that it's still popular - and growing in popularity."

Mullany attributes the product's recent success, in part, to the dire economic environment. Marketed for $3.55 on the company Web site, the bat and ball combo provides one of the cheapest of cheap thrills. While profits were generally robust throughout 2008, Wiffle's annual sales peak came "right in the middle of the tough economy," according to Mullany. Though he declines to release revenue data, Mullany reports yearly unit sales reaching well into seven figures.

"We find folks are staying closer to home," he said. "What do you think of when you go to the beach?"

A friendly Wiffle session by the shore is nothing new, of course. Nor is a little family game in the yard - the then-fledgling sport even made its way onto the White House lawn during Dwight D. Eisenhower's administration.

But across the Northeastern states, players of all ages are putting their unique spin on physics' worst nightmare. At one annual July tournament in Plymouth Meeting, teams are assigned to countries in a showdown for international supremacy. Relevant attire is required; self-aware xenophobia strongly encouraged.

"We had Team Iran one year," said Chris Putro, 40, a former Philadelphian who flies in from Los Angeles for the event each year. "They all wore beards and had sheets wrapped around them. It wasn't very good, but at least they put some effort into it."

According to Kevin Carney, whose backyard has served as tournament headquarters for the last 10 summers, requests for entry have skyrocketed in recent years, especially as social networking sites like Facebook have allowed him to better publicize the event. This year's tournament included nine teams of four.

"The waiting list to get in is like the waiting list for Eagles season-ticket holders," he said.

It should come as no surprise that this gathering, like the Manayunk get-together, has as much to do with suds as with sports. For other groups, though, Wiffling While Intoxicated might only exacerbate already-bitter rivalries.

Kevin Sickle, 28, commissioner of the Backyard Wiffle Ball League in Wilkes-Barre, says a fistfight broke out last season - during spring training! - after a round of trash-talking.

Michael O'Brien, of LRP Publications in Horsham, joins his coworkers for a lunch-hour game, bringing a camping chair - er, strike zone - along with him. Team matchups, he says, often pit sales, marketing, and editorial staffs against one another.

"It's hard to get your feelings hurt on the Wiffle ball [field]," he said, "but it happens."

Naturally, a league's ethos often informs its rules. For safety reasons, any event with an open bar typically removes base-running from the equation, instead designating hits as singles, doubles, triples, or home runs depending on their distance.

At the parking lot in Manayunk, any hit that squirted past the pitcher's mound was a single; one that cleared the manhole cover on the fly was a double; a shot past the condo-complex garbage can was a triple; and a blast that sailed over the yellow police tape 90 feet from home plate earned the batter a home run - and accusations of steroid use from opponents and on-lookers.

In Sickle's league, players are required to run the bases. Under this set of rules, fielders can record an out by pegging the ball at a runner trying to advance to the next base. (Most any standard game, regardless of base-running rules, awards an out for catching the ball on the fly.)

"Ours is more competitive than your average softball league," Sickle said. "You've got to be an athlete. You've got to be able to get around."

Michelle O'Hanlon, a junior at Pennsylvania State University, says there's little disagreement on campus about which guidelines to adopt.

"College kids," she said, "don't really like running around."

O'Hanlon is among the many Wiff-icionados who have a history with the sport's first cousins, baseball and softball. Carney, the Plymouth Meeting organizer who also participated in the Manayunk tournament, believes the game shares the folksy appeal of America's pastime.

"It's Americana - this is what you did when you were growing up," Carney said. "When you reach your mid-30s and recognize you're not going to be able to make the major leagues . . . you're probably trying to relive some of those glory days."

Which might explain why, after the last curveball had fluttered across the night sky, the gang tumbled back into the bar to watch the big boys play at Citizens Bank Park.

"Ibañez homer," the bartender muttered, to recap.

But you'd have to forgive the newcomers for taking their eyes off the big screen now and then. There was Jay's unhittable slider to discuss; and Dugan's defensive gems in left field; and Danny's epic smash - over the fence, beyond the sidewalk, and onto that car's windshield.

Besides, the Phillies' spiffy yard could keep its world-class athletes and sumptuous amenities.

The bar had one thing the Bank never would: cheap beer.