Wiffle Ball’s curvy path to Hall of Fame

The Wiffle Ball has been inducted into the Hall of Fame, and it’s about damn time.

We’re talking about the Toy Hall of Fame, not the Baseball HOF. One step at a time.

Sorry, all you self-righteous critics who long denied Wiffle Ball its rightful place in the Hall alongside your goodygoody enshrinees, like alphabet blocks, marbles and paper airplane.

Moralists call Wiffle Ball the Gaylord Perry of toys. A cheat! They bray that it takes years to learn to impart movement on a baseball, but with Wiffle Ball, you can break off a monster sinker on your first try. So? Why should Sonny Gray have all the fun?

Wiffle Ball has been called baseball’s slacker cousin, and I am so sick of those holier-than-thou haters, even though Wiffle Ball is holier than thou’s ball.

As if all the other HOF toys are squeaky clean. Mr. Potato Head? OK, he hasn’t tested positive for steroids, but come on. Slinky? The name says it all; you wouldn’t name your child Slinky. Paper airplane? We all know someone who got an eye poked out, and that’s not fixable with Mr. Potato Head parts.

My love for Wiffle Ball goes deep. As a kid, I spent many hours playing the sport with buddies. Wasted time, you say? Sure, we could have done our homework instead and become doctors. We could have gone out and met girls, and become girl-meeters.

But Wiffle Ball taught us so much: How to instantly convert a driveway and street into Yankee Stadium. How to use mud to obscure a ding in the neighbor’s car. How to trash-talk and swear like big leaguers.

We even had an umpire: a stop sign. Find a stop sign (don’t steal one; you probably can buy one on Amazon), stand it on the handle of your garage door, voila. If the pitch hits the sign, it’s a strike. Ping, you nicked the corner. Gong, that was a Linda Ronstadt —“Blue Bayou,” as in: blew by you. All you Wiffle Ball haters?

Gong! Grab some pine, meat.