IT'S HOME

by Judd P. Berthiaume

My mom had this idea of a nicely groomed lawn with trees and little flowers that line the house. You know, the way the land in front of a golf course clubhouse looks. The grass never seems to deviate even a half-inch in length. It doesn't even look like someone has set foot on the area. Instead, it has been the site for anything from the Super Bowl to the World Series, from the World Badminton Championships to golf's U.S. Open. It has seen croquet wickets, bocce balls, and Frisbees. It has even been flooded as an ice rink, serving as the home of our own Stanley Cup Finals venue. It's the Berthiaume Backyard and it's home.

Unfortunately for my mom, our backyard would now probably be classified as something closer to death. The most popular and lasting game in the Berthiaume Backyard is Wiffle Ball and it's also been the most devastating to my mom's country club plan. It's a baseball game that's played with a skinny yellowish-orange bat and a plastic ball with holes in one side.

Wandering from the official rules of Wiffle Ball, which is more of a home-run derby style of play, we have incorporated many of baseball's rules with slight modifications to allow for teams with anywhere from one to five members.

We have played from every corner of the yard trying to find the best layout for proper ground rules. We have hit towards our neighbors' fence until we were strong enough to continuously deposit balls in their yard. When this required numerous trips to their front door to retrieve them, we started to hit from the opposite corner, but only long enough to figure out that the few trees we have planted were a serious health risk for right-fielders.

The third corner of the yard, acting as home plate, was under protest from my parents as the snow fence we installed for our outfield fences was too much of a hindrance to those who had to mow the lawn.

After much trial and error we found the perfect setup. We would put home plate in the middle of our yard, closest to our neighbors' fence, and hit into the house. There would be an occasional sound equivalent to that of a bird flying into the window, but the house was the perfect distance away from the plate to serve as the outfield wall, and the deck served as a roomy luxury box for interested fans.

It wasn't long after we darted into my mom's flowerbed three or four times that my mom officially conceded the back yard to us. The snow fence was out and the back yard was ours. The front yard was mom's. Though this negotiation cut an approximate third of the yardage off of our golf course, it was worth the free reign on our Wiffle Ball field.

Wiffle Ball in the Berthiaume Backyard would occasionally include a guest or two and quite often the guests would become as addicted to the game as we were. Long days in the yard included multiple tournaments, and those days transformed into long weekends.

As participation increased, a Wiffle Ball website came under development soon giving an identity to the madness: the Frank Viola Wiffle Ball League. The continuing interest in the 'female home run race' and the championship crowns from week to week kept a contingent of die-hards coming back.
Paths started to show in the yard marking the road most traveled and imprinting the history of the FVWBL into the Berthiaume Backyard. Just about any member of the FVWBL will tell you that the Berthiaume Backyard is their official home for Wiffle Ball. But many of those members don't realize how much more the yard has been.

The Berthiaume Backyard was a place where brothers grew up and where friendships were developed. Home runs were hit, goals were scored, aces were served, putts were made, and championships were won.

The dream of making the big leagues has faded with my mom's demolished flowerbed, but championships will likely be played in the Berthiaume Backyard until this 22 year-old kid has a 22 year-old kid of his own. Every summer we are one year older, but the passion for a game shows no signs of aging. And as you take a step outside, into our luxury box of a deck, the batters' boxes, pitcher's mound, and base-paths are evident. There are no signs of decorative vegetation and no new trees to speak of.

The Berthiaume Backyard is ours. The Berthiaume Backyard is home.

-Judd P. Berthiaume can be reached at viola16@yahoo.com