“Except they’re twenty-five, and fat kids.” He wore a bandanna over his closely cropped hair and sucked on cigarettes to settle his nerves amid sporadic efforts to tamp down stakes in the spray-painted carpet remnants that he uses for pitchers’ mounds and batters’ boxes. “The rest look like me,” Bevelacqua, who is sturdily built, with a certain middle-aged heft, said. convenes on fourteen Sundays between late April and the end of September. Of those, he said recently, “about a thousand, or maybe five hundred” are of a calibre to play-on the grass abutting an elementary school in Blauvelt, New York, where the P.W.B.L. By the next spring he had begun work on a documentary about the sport, called “Yard Work,” and had made himself the commissioner of the Palisades Wiffle Ball League, which he now describes, on its Web site, as “the most recognized Wiffle league on the planet.”īevelacqua estimates that there are ten to twenty thousand “active” Wiffle-ball players, meaning people who compete, and keep stats, in semi-structured environments, not just at back-yard barbecues. “By the end of the day, there was so much trash talking, we agreed to do it again the next weekend,” he recalls. Feeling like a professional athlete who had aged out of his prime, he began selling off his bikes and assorted gear at the back of his newly spacious garage he saw a yellow bat and a plastic ball, and got the idea to organize a game, in his yard, that better reflected the competitive level he figured he was settling into. When he was thirty-seven, and heavily into motorcycle stunts, he had an accident while attempting an endo, or a nose wheelie, and shaved some skin off his shoulder blades and ass. Brett Bevelacqua, who calls himself “the most hated man in Wiffle ball,” is forty-nine and sells residential real estate in Westchester and Rockland Counties, in New York.
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