Celebrating wiffle ball royalty

We Are the Champions!

That was the stellar tune – by British rock band Queen – which was blasting from the eight-track tape player inside the Olinger’s four-door sedan when I joined the family of six to celebrate three of their own following a successful run in a hotly contested youth wiffle ball tournament.

With an additional passenger along for the ride, we were crammed into the 1971 Chrysler Newport like a bunch of sardines while pulling from the carport adorned with Mr. O’s hubcap collection.

While the youngest of the bunch – Brian – sat in the front seat between his parents, this rising seventh grader was sitting amongst wiffle ball royalty with the two oldest – Randy and Mark – acting as bookends and my former sixth grade classmate – Jeff – lying across our laps on his stomach in the second row of seating.

It had been a few days earlier when a black and white photo of the Northside boys wiffle ball team was splashed across the pages of the Ellwood City Ledger touting their success for winning the citywide playground competition.

When our designated driver headed toward Johnny’s Pizza on the opposite side of the mid-size industrial city north of Pittsburgh, the pair of high schoolers in the back seat shouted out the words to the popular song while beating on their younger brother’s hindquarters like a set of bongo drums.

Why does it smell like we ran over a dead skunk?

Once the sandy blond began to convulse with laughter, it was quite obvious where the revolting odor was coming from as we waved hands over his derrière in a futile attempt to air out the backend of the automobile.

Jeff cut the cheese!

“What did you eat for lunch,” queried Randy Olinger as he hurriedly rolled down the back window. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that one of those black and white colored rodents crawled up your backside and croaked; so, you better squeeze a loaf when we get to the restaurant.”

I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.

“Keep it up, dingleberry,” cautioned Mark Olinger upon needling his lifelong roommate about a potential reprisal for the invisible stink bomb. “When you finish up your business in the can, Randy and I might just have to give you a sausage swirly in a pot of lemonade stew; and that can be your appetizer before the main course.”

“Thanks for the vivid description,” protested Mrs. Juanita Olinger while glancing at her teenage boys in the visor mirror. “Once we arrive at the restaurant, you juvenile delinquents better mind your manners if you know what’s good for you; otherwise, we’ll bring our dinner back to the house.”

As this high-spirited crew climbed from the would-be Volkswagen Beetle like a bunch of clowns at Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus, everyone put their best foot forward as talk about the thunder from down under and acts of inevitable retribution came to a halt; after which the “Air Biscuit King” bolted through the main entrance of the popular eatery to use the facilities.

Our dignified decorum mimicked a mullet hairstyle – business in the front, party in the back.

Shortly after stepping into the busy pizzeria, the talkative teens eyeballed the newspaper clipping about their triumphant victory tacked in the upper lefthand corner of the community bulletin board.

Now the whole town knows about our success.

“Look at the shirtless Casanova,” observed the oldest of the bunch while pointing at the photograph. “FuFu Wolfe is going to end up getting a lot of dates since he was the only one smart enough to take off his shirt for the photo; and I bet his telephone is ringing off the hook as we speak.”

What about the muscle stud in the tank top?

“He looks more like Mr. Olympia,” suggested Craig Young as he interrupted the animated conversation to admire his own muscular physique. “In case you’re wondering, I’m the one who obtained permission from the owner to pin our team photo to the bulletin board; because a little self-promotion goes a long way.”

Speak of the devil.

“Sorry fellas, but I gotta skitty,” admitted the rising freshman before bidding his teammates a fond farewell. “Since my family’s waiting outside in the car, I don’t have a whole lot of time for idle chit-chat; so, maybe next time we can coordinate our visit to the pizza shop.”

Meanwhile, the lanky adolescent with spectacles quickly zipped up his cutoff jean shorts prior to sauntering over to the entertainment area where this pinball gaming aficionado was vigorously mashing buttons on the sides of the machine to maximize his last allotted metallic ball in an attempt to beat the high score on the leader board.

Did everything come out all right?

Hardy har har!

“Did you get your seventh-grade class schedule,” I questioned after receiving a subpar score on Joker Poker. “I was about ready to have a coronary upon receiving mine in the mail the other day; because it’s going to feel like I’m back in grade school once again since my homeroom’s in the Hartman Elementary School basement.”

Tell me about it!

My jaw nearly hit the floor when we simultaneously shouted out the name of our homeroom teacher – Mr. Anthony Peitrcollo.

He must be new, because my older brothers said they never heard of him.

With a little prompting from the patriarch of the Olinger family, we expeditiously joined the remainder of the family around a corner table in the dining area as he raised a glass of carbonated beverage to make a sentimental toast to the reigning wiffle ball champions.

“I’m very proud of my boys,” professed Mr. Clarence Olinger before noting their unique contributions to the championship game. “While credit goes to the entire team, the Northside boys couldn’t have won it without Randy’s magnificent pitching arm, Mark’s grand slam home run at the bottom of the fifth inning and Jeff’s expert catching abilities behind home plate.”

All the other restaurant patrons erupted with a round of boisterous cheers for the hometown heroes as the jovial trio stood to take a well-deserved bow for the banner season.