March is Mostly Mets Reading Month: 'Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72' and real-life adventures with Hunter S. Thompson

I must have the early 1970s on the brain. After yesterday's look at the baseball world of 1973, we can step back a year and the wild world of Hunter S. Thompson.

“Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72” by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

Published in 1973

This was actually required reading for one of my college journalism classes. 

Hunter S. Thompson is the legendary Rolling Stone writer famous for “gonzo” journalism that blurred the lines between fact and exaggerated truth.  And I say blurred, because it appears much of what transpires in a Thompson story occurs through a haze of booze and drugs, all thoroughly documented by the author.

That’s because the main character in a Hunter S. Thompson story is usually Thompson, with the stories being a first-person account of his adventures on the campaign trail.

When Thompson is “on,” he’s incredibly insightful and biting, and no one escapes his pointed wit, especially his colleagues in the media. And when he’s not, he’s still very entertaining. There are parts of this book that are hysterical, difficult to read because of the laughing it provokes. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if Thompson takes his role too seriously, or not seriously at all.

“Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ‘72” is a collection of Rolling Stone stories from the presidential election between Richard Nixon and George McGovern, who Thompson describes as a good man who was over matched when the party establishment took over his campaign.

Among the things we learned is that Thompson had a running feud with straight-laced NBC News anchor John Chancellor.

There’s a scene from the GOP convention in Miami where Thompson is trying to infiltrate a group of young Nixon supporters as they are about to be ushered on to the convention floor for a celebration. All was going well until he spotted Chancellor in the broadcast booth above. Here’s an excerpt:

“They herded us out of the Ready Room and called a ragged kind of cadence while we double-timed it across the wet grass under the guava trees in the back of the hall and finally burst through a well-guarded access door held open for us by Secret Service men just as balloons were released from the ceiling. It was wonderful; I waved happily to the SS man as I raced past him with the herd and then onto the floor. The hall was so full of balloons that I couldn’t see anything at first, but then I spotted Chancellor up there in the booth and I let the bastard have it. First I held up my “GARBAGE MEN DEMANDS EQUAL TIME” sign at him. Then, when I was sure he’d noticed the sign, I tucked it under my arm and ripped off my hat, clutching it in the same fist I was shaking angrily at the NBC booth and screaming at the top of my lungs: ‘You evil scumsucker! You’re through! You limp-wristed Nazi moron!’

“I went deep into the foulest back-waters of my vocabulary for that trip, working myself into a flat-out screeching hate-frenzy for five or six minutes and drawing similes of approval from some of my fellow demonstrators. They were dutifully chanting the slogans that had been assigned to them in the Ready Room – but I was really into it, and I could see that my zeal impressed them.”

A true story? Who knows. But it’s a fun read, especially if you've ever covered one of these things.

Rich and I had the opportunity to see a Thompson appearance in New Haven, Conn. in the late 1980s. It was a surreal evening.

Thompson sat at a table on stage, wearing aviator sunglasses and a cheap, tan Yankees cap that had a visor decorated with ballpoint pen. A bottle of some kind of booze was there, too, and he kept refilling his glass. 

A local radio host sat at another table and served as the moderator, asking a number of political questions, and Thompson, sometimes mumbling, would reply. It was difficult to hear what he was saying, but it was clear he still didn’t like President Nixon.

At some point the moderator called for questions from the audience. After several political questions, an attractive – and I’m guessing rather drunk – girl asked Thompson if he could sign her shoe.

Thompson disappeared behind the curtain – much to the apparent shock of the moderator – and appeared a short while later with another chair and invited the girl to come sit with him at the table.

Questions resumed, with Thompson answering some questions and the girl answering others, especially after the questions were about her and Thompson’s intentions toward her. Any doubts about her sobriety were soon dashed.

This went on for a while before Thompson again got up and disappeared behind the curtain, apparently much to the surprise of the moderator, who, at this point, was barely controlling things. Thompson emerged a short time later with a large trash can, set it on one side of the stage, and proceeded to try to fling like a Frisbee his empty box of Canadian cigarettes. (Unlike American packs, smokes from up north are sold in boxes that are flatter and wider with stronger cardboard.) Thompson was pretty good at this, then started challenging audience members to come up on stage and do the same.

This, too, went on for a while before Thompson again abruptly disappeared behind the curtain, this time not returning.

“Well everyone, I guess that’s ‘Good night,” the bemused moderator said.

Looking back, I’m glad I went to see Thompson, because he’s a legend and the night was an unpredictable sideshow that always seemed about to careen out of control. But I probably wouldn’t have ever plunked down $11 to see him again. Perhaps what had once been a brilliant and sharp mind had become dulled. It was a night both fascinating and frightening.

The book, however, remains a good and very funny read.

Thompson certainly in't a role model as a journalist, though I absolutely know one who thinks he is the heir apparent. But he does show a different way of looking at things, especially the people we cover and how they cover them. 

Your reading list so far:

March 21: "Swinging '73" by Matthew Silverman
March 18: "Roadshow" by Neil Peart

March 17: "Destiny of the Republic" by Candice Millard
March 11: "Street Gang" by Michael Davis
March 10: "Topps Baseball Cards, the Complete Picture Collection"
March 9: "Dodger Dogs to Fenway Franks" by Bob Wood
March 8: "The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt" by Edmund Morris

March 7: "The New York Mets" by Leonard Koppett
March 6: "Mary Lou" by Mary Lou Retton and Bela Karolyi

March 5: "Baseball Uniforms of the 20th Century" by Marc Okkenon
March 4: "Clemente! The Enduring Legacy" by Kal Wagenheim 
March 3: "Mets by the Numbers" by Jon Springer and Matthew Silverman

March 2: "Faith and Fear in Flushing" by Greg W. Prince

Baseball Place No. 25: Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory; and Alternative Place No. 35A: Wiffle Ball Factory

Credit Pete Browning’s slump for the birth of the Louisville Slugger.

Browning was star of the 1884 Louisville Eclipse, and one day young Bud Hillerich brought him something the apprentice carved up in his father’s wood shop.

Browning started slugging, word spread about the bat and a legend was born.

Josh Pahigian tells that story as he describes spot No. 35 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

The Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory sounds like a neat place, with its 120-foot steel bat leaning against the building, and near exhibits inside about great hitters and their lumber.

Alas, this location, too, eludes me. But I can offer a spot just as important to baseball fans everywhere, but much more humble.

Of course, I refer to:

Alternative Place No. 35A: Wiffle Ball factory, Shelton, Conn.


Here’s one of my favorite tales from the archive.

For the unaware, Wiffle balls are plastic baseballs with eight oblong holes on one side that allow even a Little Leaguer to break off curve balls like Bert Blyleven.

You already know from places No. 14, Doubleday Field, and No. 20A, Wrigleyville Wiffle Ball Spot, that the white plastic ball is an object of great affection, and even inspired deep, deep thoughts.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was on one of my first days as a real, full-time reporter when I saw a small factory on Bridgeport Ave. in Shelton, Conn. with the Wiffle Ball sign in front.

The epicenter of all things Wiffle was right there, down the street from the suburban bureau I was calling home.

And the factory existed in relative secrecy, too. I could never understand why signs at the city limits didn’t read, "Welcome to Shelton, home of the Wiffle Ball."

That area of Connecticut is home to Sikorsky helicopters — in Stratford — and Bic pens and razors and even Subway sandwich shops — both in Milford — all of which have a higher profile, and all of which pale in importance to the Wiffle ball.

The plastic spheres were an essential part of my youth. There aren’t too many places to do more than play catch with a real baseball in suburban New York.

But we could take full hacks at a Wiffle ball anywhere in our small yards without fear of injury to person or property. We played Wiffle Ball everywhere.

And the make contingent of the Valley Bureau took our Wiffle Ball seriously. We even mounted a poster for a community production of "Romeo and Juliet" on a back wall just low enough to serve as a strike zone.
Since I covered Shelton planning and zoning, I immediately started plotting for any excuse to write about the factory. I eventually came up with something flimsy, placed the call and secured my invitation.

I was greeted by David Mullany, grandson of the inventor, who gave me a quick tour of the machines that pump white plastic into molds. The yellow bats and cardboard packaging were made somewhere else and shipped to Shelton.

I then dropped the burning question: What makes the balls curve?

And I couldn’t believe the answer: "We have no idea."

It was time for the creation story. Every culture has one.David told me how his father, also named David, and his brother would play baseball with plastic practice golf balls and broomsticks in their backyard.

The boys were trying to break off deuces all day, and the grandfather — he, too, was named David — was once a semi-pro pitcher and worried the boys would hurt their young arms.

So he bought a bunch of the plastic golf balls, sat down at the kitchen table with a steak knife and started cutting patterns into the balls.

For some reason, and the family doesn’t know why, the version with the eight ovals on one side easily curved. Hold a ball so the ovals are on the right, ball curves right. Ovals on the left and you can guess what happens.

The company made a baseball-sized Wiffle ball, and if you look hard you can find softball and mini-sized balls, too.

Then it was time for some inside information. Our office games were important, especially when the weather warmed up and we took our competition to the driveway across the street. I needed a strikeout pitch, and I had an audience with a master.

At that point, he bestowed upon me a private lesson on the Wiffle knuckler. And gentle reader, I pass this knowledge on to you.

Hold the ball so the ovals face your palm instead of right or left. Place two of your fingertips at the base of the holes, and push off with those fingers as you release the ball. The ball should float in without spinning, and the batter will either be mesmerized by the beauty of the whole thing or flail hopelessly when he realizes too late that no curve is coming.

My co-workers got a little out of hand when our lunch-hour games started stretching well into the afternoon, and then when we started challenging the Stratford Bureau.I think about the story of the Wiffle Ball when I ponder some of life’s big mysteries.

The Mullany family built their business on a product without knowing how it worked, but accepted that it just did and always would. Blind faith.

And we can’t explain why some things happen. They just do.

We must remember that God is in control, not us. Accept that curves in life are coming for reasons we can’t — or aren’t meant to — understand.And once in a while, expect a knuckleball.

I shared this story with students in my journalism class. I wanted to show them an example of the interesting people we get to meet as reporters, but also about placing our trust in the creator whose timing and methods we don’t always understand.

I gave each of them a Wiffle Ball, too, as a reminder.

Baseball Place No. 25: Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame; Alternative Place No. 25A: SkyDome

You can’t go to a baseball game in Canada and expect what you’re used to in the States.

It’s that “whole different country” thing.

I don’t get why they have another country’s figurehead on their money and hanging in most hockey rinks. They just do.

Then again, Canadians might not understand some of our traditions, either.
So when you cross the border, you have to be open to doing some familiar things in different ways.

Josh Pahigian takes us to St. Marys for the Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame as spot No. 25 in the “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Note, there’s no apostrophe in St. Marys. Remember, Canadians do things differently. And that's OK.

And the Canadian Hall does some things differently, too. Inductees can be folks who were born in the Great White North or played there.

So it’s nice to see former Mets Gary Carter, Ron Taylor, Tony Fernandez and Tom Burgess in there along with personal favorite Joe Carter. I’m starting a campaign to get Kelly Gruber inducted next.

But the Hall also inducts entire teams, such as the Beachville and Zorra amateur squads who played the first game there in 1838, the 1991 National Youth Team, and every Canadian who played in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League.

The Hall has only been around since 1983, when it was a small display at Exhibition Stadium. It moved to St. Marys in 1989 in a small stone building, and plans call for it to move to a larger building next door.

Sounds like a neat place, but I’ve never been to it. But I have enjoyed another baseball site in Ontario. That would be:

Alternative Baseball Place No. 25A: SkyDome

OK, I know it was renamed the Rogers Centre in 2005 when the team was sold. But SkyDome is such a better name for the first stadium with a retractable roof – at least one that actually worked. Sorry, Expos.

I’ve been to three games at the stadium. The first was part of the now epic 1989 Glorious Baseball Road Trip with Rich and Mark. That was the year SkyDome opened mid-season, and we arrived a month after its first game.
Rich, Mark and I arrived just a month after SkyDome opened. We also tried to get a glimpse of the team's old yard, Exhibition Stadium. This is as close as we got. We also checked out the Hockey Hall of Fame, which was a much smaller operation than it is now.


I returned with my brother a couple years later, and then with my son in the late 1990s after the team won two World Series.

The difference is startling. It’s like no other stadium you’ve walked in to, seeming more like a mall than a ballpark. Concessions were a line of McDonald’s, long before you saw name brand food booths.

Stepping into the seating area, you immediately see two things: The massive roof – open all three times I’ve been there – and the spectacular CN Tower, which rises alongside the park.

Then you are drawn to the tremendous scoreboard surrounded by all the windows that are part of the hotel rooms and restaurants.

Note the World Series banners in place by the third visit. And here's a view from the Hard Rock Cafe.

There wasn’t a Seventh-inning Stretch, but there were perky people from some government ministry encouraging people to get out of their seats, singing the “OK, Blue Jays” song.

We’re used to retro yards with statues of former heroes. SkyDome Centre has funky statues of fans – loud and abrasive ones – showing what it must look like from a player’s point of view.

And the souvenirs were really fun, too. I picked up a couple quirky things, like my sweet 3-D official souvenir card that tells of the glories of the SkyDome. And another is an official International Time Zone Card, allowing me to tell the time anyplace in the world with just a few twirls of a little dial. It’s just good to know.

You have to trust me, it's 3-D, and really cool.

And the International Time Zone Card is a very handy tool.




So there are 28 other stadiums in the Majors where you can experience baseball the American way, plus that new Death Star rising in the Bronx.

And there is one across the border that’s a little different. Embrace it. But don’t make fun of the British lady on the money. Trust me.

Baseball Place No. 19: The Hank Aaron Home Run Wall; and No. 19A) Milwaukee County Stadium

Which is more important, a record broken or a record set?

Josh Pahigian takes us to Atlanta, where all that remains of Fulton County Stadium is a section of fence and wall marking the spot where Hank Aaron hit Al Downing’s fastball into history.

The exact area where the Hammer passed the Babe is spot No. 19 in the “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.

An important place, to be sure. And I wish the Mets had left us with a standing portion of Shea, or even the mound so future generations can stand on Tom Seaver’s hill.

But other than passing through Atlanta on the Interstate, I’ve never been able to get to see in person the spot where 715 flew.

I did, however, get to see the place where Hank hit his final home run, No. 755, which stood for 30 years as the record, and remains today the untainted milestone.

Alternative Place No. 19A) Milwaukee County Stadium.

The big ballpark from the 1950s was home to Robin Yount, Paul Molitor and Ted Higuera when Rich, Mark and I arrived in 1989, the day after the infamous visit to Comiskey Park.

But we found a nice tribute to Aaron in the stadium, where on July 20, 1976 Hank took Angel’s hulrer Dick Drago deep, the Hammer’s final blast.

Aaron, of course, began his career with the Milwaukee Braves, moved with the team to Atlanta after the 1966 season, and returned in 1975 as a Brewer for two years.

Our first impression of the stadium was that it had the best-smelling parking lot ever. I didn’t know just how many people fired up their grills to tailgate before a baseball game.


The stadium itself was grey and brick, unspectacular to the eye. But it was comfortable and friendly. It was nothing fancy. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The Brewers let us have all kinds of fun.

But the old yard gave us everything we wanted. Seats were close to the action, the brats with the secret sauce were as good as advertised, and everyone was friendly.

Alas, County Stadium came to an end in 2001 when Miller Park opened next door. But there are still some lasting tributes to the stadium and Aaron.

First, there is a statue of Hank, along with other important Brewers.

Then, on the spot where County once stood, the team built Helfaer Field, a little league ball park. The infield doesn’t match up exactly, as you can find the spot where the County home place once sat along the concourse.

Here’s the best part. Not only is the field scaled down, so are the prices for the brats and soda at least that was the case when we went several years ago.


It seemed like a pretty good way of preserving a part of the historic grounds without turning them into a parking lot. Are you listening, Mets?

Baseball Place No. 17: McCoy Stadium; and No. 17A) Beehive Field

The problem with Pawtucket is that it’s so close to Boston.

That would be fine if you lived in Pawtucket. But we lived on the New York side of Connecticut, so if we were going to drive that far to see a ballgame, we were going to head all the way to Fenway.

Josh Pahigian, however, did stop at Pawtucket, and it sounds like McCoy Stadium is a pretty neat place. He made it stop 17 of his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

The grandstand was built in 1942 as part of the Works Progress Administration, and it’s famous for two things.

First, for the portraits of PawSox players who were promoted up the road.
The other is that it is the home of the longest game ever, a 33-innings affair in 1981 against the Rochester Red Wings, which started in April and was resumed in June, with the Sox winning 3-2. Wade Boggs, Cal Ripken Jr. and future Met Bob Ojeda all have their names in the box score.

While we never made it to Pawtucket, we did have some minor-league adventures in New England. Some were exciting, but one turned tragic. And they took place at:

Baseball Place No. 17A, Beehive Field in New Britain, Conn.


The home of the New Britain Red Sox was only five years old when we first visited in 1988, but I would have sworn it was much older.

The park was small park was mostly wooden with some metal bleachers extending along the base paths. The bleachers were topped by a short chain-link fence. Remember that for later.

The park gets its goofy-but-cool name from Joe “Buzz” Buzas, the executive who brought the team to the area.

I had never been to a minor-league game before, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. The park was way smaller than I imagined – it seated 4,700 – and I’d never been that close to the action.

Professional ball, cheap snacks, and free parking made this a worthy expansion of my baseball horizons.

The concession stands – well, the stand, singular – was behind home plate on the other side of the grandstand. During my second game, I had just paid for my hot dog and soda when a foul ball flew over the screen and hit me on one bounce.


I retrieved it with only minor spillage – my first and only foul ball!

Another game had a pretty horrible event. Rich and I were sitting along the first base sign, and noticed a guy sitting atop the chain-link fence that is supposed to be a backrest for the last row. He was talking to a camera man.

Rich and I decided to make a snack run, and walked through the exit under the stands.
We heard a sound I’ll never forget. We turned around and saw someone on the asphalt path. It was the guy who was sitting atop the fence. He must have fallen backward, and it was at least 20 feet to the ground.

Rich ran over to help the guy, I went to get help. Technically, I ran screaming incoherently down the path.

I know this because we saw video on the news that night. The camera man must have turned to the path when the man fell.

Police and an ambulance came, and the game went on even through much of the small crowd was now standing on the top of the bleachers looking over the top. We called our paper, and later found out the man died.

The man was sitting atop the fence along the back of the bleachers.

We went to another game at Beehive a month later, and there were marks still on the pavement from where he fell and the paramedics worked. The brought back a lot of sad feelings, and we didn’t go to another game there.

The Red Sox didn’t stay too much longer, either, moving to Trenton in 1995. Another team, sadly named the Hardware City Rock Cats were born that year, and played at Beehive for a year while the new New Britain Stadium was built next door.

Beehive still stands, but the little ballpark is used mostly by the New Britain High School team. My proudly obtained Eastern League ball remains on display in the Baseball Room, still my only caught foul ball.

Baseball Place No. 6: Rickwood Field. (And 6A: Old Comiskey Park)

I’ve never been to Alabama. I’ve never even been close to Alabama.

So this is the first time that Josh Pahigian has tread somewhere where I have not. But when these things happen, I shall offer up an alternative site.

Josh taps historic Rickwood Field in Birmingham, Alabama, as No. 6 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Built in 1910, it’s the oldest standing professional ballpark in the country. It was home to the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro Leagues, then the minor-league Barons until 1988 when it was semi-retired. Future Met Willie Mays played there as a teen-ager.

I’m sure it’s a great place. But I’m reminded of another ballpark that was built in 1910, and was used for two years after Rickwood became more museum than ballpark.

Baseball Place No. 6A: Old Comiskey Park


I attended five games at what was called “The Baseball Palace of the World.”

The first was in 1988, when I was in Peoria and had a day to myself before a job interview, and boldly made the two-hour drive to see.

There was a game with my buddy Rich in, 1990, the park’s final year. Will and I returned for the final two games, and we had enough adventures on that trip to fill a week of blogs. We’ll get to those days at some point.

But Rich, his friend Mark and I included Comiskey as part of a glorious, week-long baseball road trip through parks of the Midwest. That, too, was a pretty wild day and the source of our tale today.

Our trek took us to Wrigley, Comiskey, Milwaukee, Detroit, Toronto and Cleveland, with all kinds of side trips.

I convinced my editors at the Bridgeport Post and Telegram to allow me to write all this as a travel story. This was approval to contact each of the teams and secure press passes.

Unlike Fenway Park and Wrigley Field, Comiskey isn’t tucked into a neighborhood surrounded by shops and bars. Instead, you pull up and see train tracks, parking and housing projects that you didn’t dare venture near.

And while the other parks had a aesthetic charm, Comiskey was a misshapen pile of whitewashed bricks with its name painted on in green paint in a style that looked like some high school art students were kept busy for a couple days.

It was neither pretty nor trendy, and carried an element of danger. Needless to say, we loved it.

I was pretty green, which explains why I wore my White Sox jersey as hopped on the field, press pass dangling around my neck. OK, I was really green. I cringe at this memory.


The Sox were playing the Texas Rangers, managed by once and future Met Bobby Valentine. Bobby V was from Connecticut, owned a sports restaurant in Milford that was a frequent haunt.

I saw him hanging around the batting cage, summoned my courage and approached him. Bobby was very pleasant, and I explained that we were from Connecticut, told him how much I enjoyed his restaurant.

“Gimme your pad,” he said, and wrote “Mike, Mark, Jan or whomever. Please take great care of Dave. He’s doing a great job. Buy him. Bobby Valentine.” Naturally, I prized the note more than the nachos and never presented it.

I then said something lame like, “Let me get a photo for the folks back home.” Bobby humored me, even waving, before I ran off to get more photos.

And I was shooting everything that moved, or didn’t move. Players, batting helmets, caps, gloves, bats – it was all fair game.


Sox outfielder Eddie Williams was relaxing in the dugout as I snapped away.

“Mr. Williams, would it be OK if I took your picture?” I bravely asked.

“Might as well. You’re taking pictures of everything else,” he said with a smile.

Then I joined Mark and Rich to explore the rest of the stadium, which was full of quirky corridors, alcoves and arches. We met famous organist Nancy Faust and discovered Andy the Clown, a stadium fixture who was trilled to talk to us. Mark even snagged a foul ball.

Mark meets Andy the Clown. Note Andy's light-up nose!

Mark and Rich are diehard Red Sox fans, that’s important to know. After the game we were walking around some more, and Rich recognized John McNamara, the former red Sox manager.

He was fired the year before and was working as a scout. He signed Mark’s ball and my pad, and I noticed his huge ring, which looked kind of like a World Series ring with the Red Sox “B” logo. I knew it couldn’t be a Series ring, since his Sox famously lost to our Mets three years prior.

“Nice ring,” I said. “What’s that for?”

“The American League championship from ’86,” he said. “One out away. One more out and it would have been a much bigger ring.”

I could not believe that the man who made the infamous decision to send Bill Buckner out to field first base at the end of Game Six -- move that brought me so much joy when it turned sour for him – was right there talking about the move.

I decided not to tell him about my Mets fandom, or thank him for the move.

Rich, however, brought up McNamara’s unfortunate recent firing, and McNamara then went off on an absolute tirade about Boston Globe sportswriter Dan Shaughnessy, whom he blamed for the dismissal.



McNamara was getting really worked up, and we started backing away slowly.

The next night we saw the Red Sox play the Brewers in Milwaukee, recognized, Shaughnessy and told him about McNamara’s outburst.

“Well, glad he’s not bitter,” he said.

We had a lot more fun that day than in Comiskey’s final two games, which the Sox could have handled better.

We went to the new ballpark the following season, and watched as crews demolished the Baseball Palace of the World, which was even sadder.




Today, all that remains of Old Comiskey is a marble marker where home plate sat, and foul lines painted in what is now a parking lot across the street.

Scott and Will pose with the Comiskey home plate marker prior to BaseballTruth Executive Game 1

Wiffle Balls and the Meaning of Life

Rich delivers a pitch in the Valley Bureau while Pierce conducts an interview.

Visitors to the Bridgeport Post’s Valley Bureau probably thought the "Romeo and Juliet" poster looked like it was hanging a little too low on the back wall.

But the guys in the office knew the poster had a more important purpose than advertising some community playhouse production. It was our strike zone.

Yes, we played Wiffle Ball in the office when the coast was clear.

As you probably know, Wiffle balls are plastic baseballs with eight oblong holes on one side that allow even a Little Leaguer to break off curve balls like Bert Blyleven.

It was our civic duty to play. We were supporting a local business. On one of my first days heading to work in the bureau, I nearly pulled off the road when I saw the small factory on Bridgeport Ave. with the Wiffle Ball sign in front. The epicenter of all things Wiffle was right there in Shelton, Conn. And just down the street from our office.

And it existed in relative secrecy, too. I could never understand why signs at the city limits didn’t read, "Welcome to Shelton, home of the Wiffle Ball." That area of Connecticut is home to Sikorsky helicopters — in Stratford — and Bic pens and razors and even Subway sandwich shops — both in Milford — all of which have a higher profile, and all of which pale in importance to the Wiffle ball.

The plastic spheres were an essential part of my youth. There aren’t too many places to do more than play catch with a real baseball in suburban New York. But we could take full hacks at a Wiffle ball anywhere in our small yards without fear of injury to person or property. We played Wiffle Ball everywhere.

Since I covered Shelton planning and zoning, I immediately started plotting for any excuse to write about the factory. I eventually came up with something flimsy, placed the call and secured my invitation.

I was greeted by David Mullany, grandson of the inventor, who gave me a quick tour of the machines that pump white plastic into molds. The yellow bats and cardboard packaging were made somewhere else and shipped to Shelton.

I then dropped the burning question: What makes the balls curve?

And I couldn’t believe the answer: "We have no idea."

It was time for the creation story. Every culture has one.

David told me how his father, also named David, and his brother would play baseball with plastic practice golf balls and broomsticks in their backyard. The boys were trying to break off deuces all day, and the grandfather — he, too, was named David — was once a semi-pro pitcher and worried the boys would hurt their young arms.

So he bought a bunch of the plastic golf balls, sat down at the kitchen table with a steak knife and started cutting patterns into the balls.

For some reason, and the family doesn’t know why, the version with the eight ovals on one side easily curved. Hold a ball so the ovals are on the right, ball curves right. Ovals on the left, and you can guess what happens.

The company made a baseball-sized Wiffle ball, and if you look hard you can find softball and mini-sized balls, too.

Then it was time for some inside information. We took our office Wiffle Ball games seriously, especially when the weather warmed up and we took our competitions to the driveway across the street. I needed a strikeout pitch, and I had an audience with a master.

At that point, he bestowed upon me a private lesson on the Wiffle knuckler. And gentle reader, I pass this knowledge on to you. Hold the ball so the ovals face your palm instead of right or left. Place two of your fingertips at the base of the holes, and push off with those fingers as you release the ball. The ball should float in without spinning, and the batter will either be mesmerized by the beauty of the whole thing or flail hopelessly when he realizes too late that no curve is coming.

We got a little out of hand when our lunch-hour games started stretching well into the afternoon, and then when we started challenging the Stratford Bureau.

I think about the story of the Wiffle Ball when I ponder some of life’s big mysteries. We can’t explain why some things happen. They just do. We must remember that God is in control, not us. Accept that curves in life are coming for reasons we can’t — or aren’t meant to — understand.

And once in a while, expect a knuckleball.