"Come on . . . . He can't hit . . . . He's a whiffer . . . ."

At the tender age of 10, I noted that I never heard the word "whiffer" outside of this exact context. For example, no one had ever asked me, before entrusting to me a baseball bat, whether or not I was a "whiffer." Had they done so, it might have spared us all a lot of trouble. But even the most efficient organizations (e.g. suburban Little League teams) are held back by the conventions of idiom. Likewise, the coach who signed me up had not taken the simple precaution of inquiring whether I hit like the catcher's grandmother.

"Here comes his swing . . . . You guys are gonna feel a breeze . . . ."

It made me feel good to think that my futile attempts to hit the ball could at least provide a refreshing breeze for the infield. Though I didn't know the word at the time, the catcher's imagery here gave me a sense of what I would now recognize as "empowerment." I might be a whiffer; but, in my own humble way, I was also a boon to the community.

"Send it right past 'im . . . . No hitter, no hitter at all up there . . . ."

Now, this I resented. I have already rather bravely acknowledged that I was a certified whiffer -- though, as I've explained, it required an on-duty catcher to say so. And I readily admit that, even on a good day, I could not have justly categorized myself as more than 1 to 2% of what you'd call a real hitter. But "no hitter at all"? I don't care if scientists can measure a temperature of Absolute Zero -- if a human being, however inadequate, goes to the trouble of crouching over home plate with bat in hand, then he cannot, I posit, be accurately described as "no hitter at all." Yes, my chances of connecting with the ball were staggeringly tiny, but I insist that they were finite. Hmph.

"Your socks are untied, batter . . . . Swing NOW!"

Well, as I said, my romance with Little League -- and, by extension, the entire world of organized sports -- was short-lived, and mutually unfulfilling. But other people in my household were known to tune in for pro baseball games. And during my teen years, whenever I walked by the TV set on my way to solving advanced chess problems or scoring modern operas in my room, I always glanced at the catcher on the tube. If only they would give these stalwarts throat mics, I thought to myself. For I had heard that professional baseball catchers indulged in the same time-honored tradition of derogatory patter that I'd encountered in Little League, and I had to think that these virtuosos took the whole thing to a level I could not even imagine. For example, where the Little-League catcher would allude to a grandmother -- perhaps even one present at the ball game -- the pro would undoubtedly turn to some more recherché relative, such as a third cousin once-removed. I assumed that catchers routinely stayed an extra month at training camp to take intensive courses in patter, and I further speculated that each catcher had a signature style that the opposing team could always recognize through the face-and-figure-concealing getup. Perhaps, I reflected, patter was a catcher's only path to identity.

Since the available microphone technology had not, for some reason, been applied to the task of broadcasting the ephemeral tour-de-forces of this folk art genre, I could only fantasize about the delightful discourse afforded by those at the top of their form:

"This batter belongs in a batch of waffles . . . . He couldn't connect with the ball if you gave him a bus map . . . . Look at how he holds the bat like a picket sign -- he must be ready to start striking! . . . . Look, batter, your cummerbund is askew . . . . Hey, isn't that your mother kissing the third base umpire?"

Or words to that effect.

In due course I went off to college, where my studies left little time for walking past other people's television sets. But in my senior year, it happened that I dated a woman who was a baseball fanatic. And, as our relationship developed, I discovered that she had a tendency to gush "C'mon, put it right over the plate [baby]" and "Batter batter batter batter SWING!" at climactic moments in our lovemaking. Upon first receiving these idiosyncratic encouragements, I thought that perhaps I had found my soulmate. After further reflection, however, I realized that my lover was mixing her metaphors by addressing me, on the one hand, as the hypothetical pitcher and, on the other, as the hypothetical batter -- often in the same extended breath. I pointed out the inconsistency to her one Saturday night, and the relationship ended soon afterwards.

Following graduation, I returned home for a few months to plan the next phase of my life. I tried hard to avoid sports that summer, as always. But, inevitably, I was cajoled by those giving me room and board into participating in a softball orgy at a family Fourth of July picnic. Naturally, I struck out -- thus augmenting my brother-in-law the catcher's reputation as a minor prophet.

And I'll never forget how his grandmother saved the inning when she hit one out of the park.