Though not the official beginning of spring, the Undergraduate Council’s low-key Springfest provides some with a sense that the warm weather and sandals are here to stay.

Not me.

The way I see it, there is a far more accurate barometer for measuring the staying power of spring days.

Just look around and see how many long, yellow wiffle ball bats are flailing helplessly around campus.

It’s true, folks—the last American sport surely heralds (for those in the know) a time of relaxation and idyllic afternoons in house quads and the tent-littered Yard.

The timelessness of the sport is understood by all—it’s the same bat and ball that was pitched to you as a kid.

Of course, the pitching has changed. The overhand lob has given way to the filthy, nasty, unhittable curve, riseball, or sinker.

The natural development of the game has eluded some.

A number of holdouts still serve up meatballs, but such an amateur level of play is to be considered bush league at best.

We’ve got all our lives to play in beer league slow-pitch softball games. Bring some gas!

The arm angles and breaks make that little white ball with eight glorious holes as impossible to touch as Ben Crockett’s nasty stuff.

Without question, wiffle ball is not a hitter’s game. The ball is moving all over the place, and never the same way twice.

Mind the caveat on the box, wiffle ballers: “It curves!”

Basically, though, I’m just happy to see people outside playing the game. Without belittling the role of video game sports, indoor athletic contests just don’t cut it when you haven’t seen the sun in seven months.

The more that people take part in the wiffle fraternity, the less that people are jogging along the Charles and making me feel bad about myself.