If

 you asked 10-year-old me to list his favorite things about summer vacation, here’s what he would put down: staying up late, sleeping in, Chicago Cubs baseball and … corkball.

I’m hoping that most readers are nodding their heads right now, but I fear they are not. The good ol’ days, when baseball, not smartphones, reigned supreme are over and done with. People don’t play corkball anymore. So, let me first explain for those who do not know the game.

Corkball is baseball, only adjusted to the resources you have available. All you need is a bat, a ball, a playing field and a backstop. No gloves, no base paths, no catchers. How far you hit the ball determines how far the “runner” advances.

For purposes of clarity, imagine a baseball field. If you hit the ball past the pitcher in the air, that’s a single. Past the infield: double. Onto the warning track: triple. And over the fence: home run. Anything that doesn’t get past the pitcher is an out. Now keep that same logic, but remove it from the traditional baseball diamond and put it in a school parking lot. Or an open field. Or a driveway.

The standard corkball bat is the length of a normal baseball bat but only about 1 ½ inches in diameter at its widest point. It resembles a broomstick. There is technically a standard “corkball,” which is literally a miniature baseball, but I’ve never seen it used. Tennis balls are usually the weapon of choice.

Like a game of pickup basketball, ground rules are established before the game, and the single-double-triple-home run lines are established, whether that be “the oak tree on the right,” “the sidewalk across the street” or “the blue car parked behind the pitcher.” Any available landmarks can be used. Strike zone rules are also established. Some games use normal three-strikes-and-you’re-out rules. Some games don’t bother with strikes and balls at all and rather operate on home run derby rules — wait for your pitch, but when you swing, it’s either a hit or an out. And in all rules, foul balls are punished in some way.

My corkball story goes like this: The sport was a family affair. Taught to us by a corkball veteran — my dad — most games were 1-on-1 with me and my brother in our driveway with a standard corkball bat and a tennis ball. The pitcher stood near the street and pitched toward the garage, which had a strike zone duct taped onto it. Luckily, our neighbors across the street encouraged the game, even cutting down some tree branches outside their front windows so they could watch our games more clearly (seriously), and we were allowed to hit toward their house. 

A hit that flew past the pitcher and into the street or into the neighbor’s front yard was a single. Onto their roof or past the house on either side was a double. Off the side of the house was a triple. And directly over their roof and into their backyard was a home run. To their good karma, no windows were broken.

Summer was filled with corkball in the driveway, and the garage has the dents to prove it. Sometimes the afternoons were nothing but a seven-game series of nine-inning games, and great baseball moments came to define many days, whether it was a diving catch on a would-be single, a walk-off home run or a no-hitter. Many other days ended with punches and fights after a high and inside slider that came a little too close to the head.

After a number of years, my brother and I were joined by our two other brothers, who had finally grown old enough to play, and the games became more intense.

Now it was two-on-two. There were outfielders robbing what in years past would be a clutch double. You had to rely on your teammate for big hits and quality pitching. You played, you cheered, you chewed sunflower seeds and you drank Coke.

The games embodied the baseball spirit more than any hardball I had ever played. Always the same teams, always good competition, always in the hot summer air and always every bit of pride you owned on the line … for eight solid years. No records or statistics. Just baseball.

People often say they were born into the wrong time period, and they say it for any number of reasons — history buffs who would rather live through the colonial age than the Information Age, people who dislike today’s electro-dance music scene and would prefer the psychedelic blues rock of the ’60s, etc.

I would say it because of baseball. I want a sandlot and 17 other friends to play ball with every afternoon. I want to field grounders, take batting practice and chase down fly balls.

But there is just no way to get this baseball fix outside of organized leagues, which end after high school and are often too serious for fun anyway. At any given time on campus, I can find a five-on-five game of basketball. I can even find soccer, tennis, volleyball or hockey games.

I can never find a nine-on-nine pickup game of baseball. Maybe 50 years ago, but now the sandlots are dead.

But I still have corkball. 

This Christmas, the best gift I received was a new corkball bat, replacing the one that sadly broke after more than a decade of service. If the new one lasts anywhere near as long as the first, I’ll be able to capture that baseball spirit well into my 30s.

What a gift that is.

Jack is a senior in LAS. He can be reached at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @JCassidy10.