My brothers and I used to play whiffle ball with my cousins. As the only girl, I was given the same rules as the 7-year-old, meaning I couldn’t strike out, and the number of times the guys tripped or dropped the ball when I ran was ridiculous at best. But my favorite rule applied to anyone – the ghosties. Because our teams often consisted of about 3 people each, we usually ran out of batters before a team was out. So we called the ghosties out of our bullpen. When we ran out of batters, one base runner would yell, “Ghostie on *insert base number*!” and run to bat. They were the ultimate runners, because they couldn’t get out. A clean hit with a ghostie on 3rd meant an automatic run.

It was funny though, because I think I’m the only one who ever saw them. We all knew the ghosties, acknowledged them as players, and hoped to have enough hits to use them. But I saw them, wispy and ethereal and sometimes transparent in the sunlight. I saw their baseball caps (always the Cardinals, as per my family’s team) and tried to outrun them. I wanted to get a ghostie out while they stole base. But the problem was, they weren’t real. They were a tool we used to score more runs and keep a game running, until someone inevitably got hurt and we switched to capture the flag. But never real.

Sometimes I think about the ghosties and where they go when we don’t need them to run bases. Now, more family plays, so we often don’t need them at all, and I’m never the only girl so I don’t get special rules. I guess I outgrew them. But I always see the ghosties hovering around the 3rd base tree like they’re waiting to be called back in the game. I never told anyone I saw them. It makes me wonder if maybe my little cousins see them now the way I do. But maybe ghosties would rather hide behind trees, peering out from under their St. Louis hats. After all, I know that’s where I’d rather be a lot of the time too.