Chan vs. Me, Central Park Wiffle Ball League, Game 1.

Rules: Anything you swing at is an out or a hit. Foul, miss, don't reach little stick between home and mound, or pitcher fields cleanly on fly or ground before ball stops, it's an out. Grounder past pitcher, single. Liner past pitcher, double. Over pitcher's head, home run. Five run limit per inning except the ninth. Three outs per inning.

After setting the Chan squad down in the top of the first, I came out swinging, scoring four quick runs. After another single, I asked Chan if five was the absolute limit, or if all runs counted on a homer. He went with the latter. A costly decision. I proceeded to load the bases before walloping a grand salami, giving me an eight to nothing lead.

It was much of the same the rest of the afternoon. After a key five run eighth off a tired-armed Chan, the game was all but over. (This is the point where the "no limit ninth" rule was instated.)

In the ninth, I struck out the first two Chans. His final hitter hit a sky-high popup, which I had to go back on, Willie Mays-style. I made a very difficult one-handed catch to seal the victory.

An interesting moment came when an older Russian couple walked by, holding some type of racquets. The woman was so excited to see some form of baseball. Chan started saying to her, "Here comes the strikeout pitch!" And she was seemingly rooting for Chan for some reason. She was yelling out things I didn't understand. At one point, it sounded like she said "I'll kill you on your birthday!"

On our way home, we walked by a garbage can on the corner of 96th & Lex, the contents of which were on fire. No one did anything. I guess that's a bad sign. All we hear nowadays is to do something when you see a suspicious package. If no one reacts to an actual fire right on the street, I don't think anyone will do anything if they see a bag sitting on the ground.

Just watched A-Rod end the game with the tying run at third, after sweating out a Wickman ninth.