You know you’re old and washed up as an athlete when you hurt your arm playing Wiffle ball.

That’s what happened when I was the pitcher in a spirited game with my grandchildren, who not only hit home runs off me but ran so fast around the nonexistent bases in my backyard that when I tried to throw them out at home plate, I threw out my arm instead.

Now you can call me Lefty. But I’m still ambidextrous — incompetent with both hands.

Also playing were my younger daughter, a star athlete as a kid who now has knee problems, and one of my sons-in-law, who once threw a baseball through a window in our shed.

An enthusiastic fan was the family dog, a spunky Chihuahua who couldn’t hold a bat or she would have hit home runs off me, too.

I have not been modest in telling my grandkids that I was a pretty fair athlete in my day.

“I think it was a Tuesday,” I added.

What I haven’t told them is that I was the worst player on the worst team in Little League.

In my last season, I got one hit, a double that amazed the umpire, who said, “You’re hitting this year.”

“I closed my eyes,” I told him.

He laughed and called me out when I got picked off second base.

That’s why I love Wiffle ball, which doesn’t require any real athletic talent aside from the demanding ability, in a close game, to stay awake.

That’s also why it has become our family pastime.

When I was a kid, I played Wiffle ball with my mother, father and sisters. I had approximately the same success I did in Little League.

When my kids were kids, I took them to my parents’ house so my mother could strike me out. She was the MVP (Mom Valuable Player).

The pitching prowess has obviously skipped a generation because I have played Wiffle ball with two of my granddaughters, who are sisters, and they’ve belted my pitches all over the yard, even though the younger one held the bat the wrong way.

This time, the slugger was my older grandson, who is 9, plays organized baseball and enjoys it because he’s something I never was — good.

I should have used analytics when preparing to face him, but I didn’t have the time or the mathematical acumen to calculate release angle, spin rate or whatever statistic can help you gain an advantage over an opposing batter.

I was, however, able to determine the exit velocity of the balls my grandson hit: FAST!

Some of them were launched so far that they hit the roof of the house, rolled off and landed in the bushes, which I had to chop through to retrieve the ball without, I fervently hoped, disturbing a hornets’ nest.

Other shots sailed over my head, requiring me — also the infielder, outfielder and bat boy — to turn around, run like a wounded sloth after the ball, pick it up and throw it to the catcher, my younger grandson, who’s 6 and is the slugger’s brother.

The ball typically arrived about 10 feet short, the same distance wide and a good half-minute after the batter crossed the imaginary plate.

On one such throw, I felt something pop in my arm.

I felt like a major leaguer who is put on the injured list for flank tightness or toe tenderness. What’s next, a tweaked pinkie?

I didn’t do myself any favors by continuing to serve up gopher balls that I had to chase down and throw, tenderly, back to the catcher.

I was, of course, the losing pitcher. And I’ve been sent down to the minors, sore arm and all, by a team of minors.

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