I was driving through one of Lewiston’s many fine neighborhoods one recent afternoon, when I came upon a loud spat — what we used to call a “row” — involving several preteen boys. The tone and wordage of the disagreement revealed at once what they were arguing about: Wiffle ball!

In particular, one boy was trying to convince the others that hitting four foul balls in a row constitutes an out. Here I screeched to a stop, dropped my motorcycle in the yard and stomped out onto their makeshift playing field to educate them.

My friends, four fouls is never an out. Anybody who tries to enact that rule is an unAmerican weenie who secretly yearns to join the math club. When playing Wiffle ball, it is your right — nay, obligation! — to drag the game out as long as possible.

Foul balls, broken windows, lacerations, screeching moms and fistfights over close plays are all part of the joy and beauty that is Wiffle ball — a proper game must last either six hours or 120 innings or it doesn’t count. A game can only be called off on account of A. a foul ball into the pucker brush exploding a hornet’s nest; B. the ice cream truck; or C. puberty.

These things and many others will be tacitly agreed upon at the start of the game. One of the many joys of Wiffle ball is setting 10,000 rules in order to avoid arguments, then arguing like fiends on every play nonetheless.

Four fouls is an out! It makes me want to spit Big League Chew onto the grass just thinking about it. Same with “hitting back is an out.”

My friends, hitting back is not an out. It’s annoying, sure. It’s rude, no doubt about it. But in matters of Wiffle ball, rude and annoying behavior is to be dealt with in a traditional manner; specifically name-calling and threats of violence, as in: “Rudy, if you hit the ball back to the mound one more time, I’m going to make you swallow your retainer.”

That kind of backyard diplomacy has been working since the first boy hit a rock with a stick and declared it a home run despite the fact that the rock traveled no more than 3 feet.

To start a Wiffle ball game, one boy tosses the bat to another and the second boy catches it in his hand. Each boy places a fist around the bat until one of them can place their thumb on the top of the knob. This determines who gets the first at-bat, and the results are non-negotiable. It’s an utterly inane process and one that is very easy to cheat, but to cease using this method would cause a fracture in time-space out of which every ball lost in the woods would suddenly come raining out like bombs from outer space.

Or something. Just do it.

Here are some more rules, non-rules and some timeworn traditions that are, now that I can give them objective consideration, absolutely nuts.

Batting one-handed isn’t against any particular rule, it’s just freakin’ lame. You want to swing one-handed? Go play tennis with the other gals, Nancy. The same philosophy applies to bunting. If you find yourself bunting in Wiffle ball, you might as well just go inside and spend the day knitting with your Nana.

Catching off the roof is an out. Well, duh. As long as you catch the ball before it touches the ground, the batter is out. Same with catching the ball as it bounces off every limb on a tree, same with balls that bounce off birds in flight. If a Wiffle ball sails into the mouth of a chimney and you run inside to pluck it out of a pile of ash, the batter is out. It happened to a kid I know.

Sliding into a base isn’t just optional, it’s mandatory. If you don’t scrape all the skin off both knees during a game, you’re doing something wrong. Concussions are to be ignored. If you step on a rusty nail because you’re using a piece of old lumber as second base, you will be allowed a 3-minute timeout to swear.

A fielder should dive outright for every ball hit his way, even weakly hit bloops. If you dive into fresh dog poop (it happens,) simply clean yourself off with the garden hose.

If you and your fellow players are forced to secure a cracked Wiffle ball with duct tape, the ball will subsequently travel much farther when hit. It’s perfectly acceptable for each player to convince himself that he has suddenly grown five-times stronger and is capable of hitting a ball all the way into Old Mrs. McDonough’s flower garden across the street.

Throwing the Wiffle ball at a base runner is part of the game. Moreover, it’s a specialized skill that will benefit you later in life. If you can hit your best friend Timmy “Stink Bomb” McGee in the face with the ball as he rounds third, you’ll probably grow up to be an important CEO capable of hitting underlings in the face with a stapler.

If your backyard rules declare that hitting a runner with the ball does not constitute an out, do it anyway. For the reasons listed above.

Ghost runners. As in, “I’ve got a ghost runner on second, so anything hit past the dead squirrel scores a run.”

Or “My ghost runner scored from first because the ball bounced off your baby brother.” Or “Sometimes my ghost runner whispers to me in the night and tells me to do very bad things.”

The rules of broken windows are simple: everybody runs, including the kid who lives in the house that was damaged.

Wearing lampblack is perfectly OK, but it’s even better if you can actually give yourself two black eyes. Ask a friend for help with this. That’s what friends are for.

You should never stick your tongue into one of the Wiffle ball’s holes because it hurts like hell.

Soiled diapers, trash can lids, schoolbooks, and that stack of magazines you discovered in your old man’s sock drawer all serve as perfectly functional bases.

Why the hell are you reading this when you could be playing Wiffle ball?

BONUS WIFFLE BALL FACTS: One of the very first assignments I got at the Sun Journal was to cover a Wiffle ball tournament out in Poland. No, really. It was great fun, but back at the office the debate raged for hours. How the hell do you spell Wiffle? Personally, I thought it was “woofle.” Several others insisted it was spelled “whiffle,” probably because it’s really fun to say that way when you emphasize the H. Then there were the editor types who insisted that the W needs to be capitalized no matter which way you spell it. Boy, I’d like to catch those people rounding third when I have a ball in my hand.

Remember, this was a time before the Internet, so finding the proper spelling was no easy task. Ultimately, I had to go to store after store (including LaVerdiere’s Super Drug) to find a Wiffle ball bat and settle the matter. Because I’m a journalist, dammit.

Incidentally, the official rules of Wiffle ball can be found here. Read them, study them and then completely disregard everything you learned. The only rules you need to know are outlined above.

I have spoken.