When I was younger I played wiffle ball nearly every day. Many times, there weren’t enough players to both occupy the base paths, and bat. In that case, a runner would announce “ghostie” to conjure an imaginary base runner and the game would continue. Of course, many times, the inning would end and the ghostie would be stranded, and forgotten.
Ever wonder what happens to all the stranded ghosties? I bet they’re wandering the earth right down, desperately searching for an empty base.
I think they’re rummaging through filthy dumpsters in dingy alleys, hoping to find a paper plate that was once used as a base in a backyard game. I think they’re seeking any random Frisbee with kids’ shoe prints. I think they’re walking among us, dreaming of stumbling upon an overgrown little league field where long forgotten raggedy bases reside among the foot tall dandelions.
Statistics dictate that of the millions of ghosties in limbo, only a tiny lucky few will ever find a plate to call home (not home plate itself, which can’t host base runners and therefore is useless to a ghostie). However, even those fortunate enough to eventually discover a base to occupy are merely back to square one, if you will. Who will ever bat them in?
I believe that only ghosties who have been batted all the way around the bases to home plate in-game have truly transcended to the hallowed dugout in the skybox.
Sadly, there’s little doubt that prospects are undeniably dreary for the vast majority of marooned ghosties. As ex-batters, we must accept personal responsibility for our own uncountable tally of ghosties. I'll admit it; I have ghosties. You have ghosties. Everyone has ghosties (unless you never played wiffle ball, in which case you’re an infidel anyway). It’s time we brush the spider webs off the wiffle ball bats in the corners of our sheds, and embark on personal journeys to find as many of our own stranded ghosties as possible, and knock them in.