The Wiffle Ball is a glorious toy, to be sure. I keep one on my desk as reminder.

For the unaware, Wiffle Balls are plastic baseballs with eight oblong holes on one side that allow anyone to break off nasty curve balls.

On one of my first days as a real, full-time reporter, I passed a small factory on Bridgeport Ave., in Shelton, Conn., with the Wiffle Ball sign in front. A magnificent discovery.

The epicenter of all things Wiffle was right there, down the street from the suburban bureau I was calling home.

And the factory existed in relative secrecy, too. I could never understand why signs at the city limits didn’t read, “Welcome to Shelton, home of the Wiffle Ball.”

The plastic spheres were an essential part of my youth. There aren’t too many places to do more than play catch with a real baseball in suburban New York, where I grew up.

But we could take full hacks at a Wiffle Ball anywhere in our small yards without fear of injury to person or property.

And the male contingent of the Valley Bureau took our Wiffle Ball seriously. We even mounted a poster for a community production of “Romeo and Juliet” on a back wall just low enough to serve as a strike zone.

Since I covered Shelton planning and zoning, I immediately started plotting for any excuse to write about the factory. I eventually placed the call and secured my invitation.

I was greeted by David Mullany, grandson of the inventor, who gave me a quick tour of the machines that pump white plastic into molds. The yellow bats and cardboard packaging were made somewhere else and shipped to Shelton.

I then dropped the burning question: What makes a Wiffle Ball curve?

And I couldn’t believe the answer: “We have no idea.”

David told me how his father, also named David, and his brother would play baseball with plastic practice golf balls and broomsticks in their backyard.

The boys were trying to break off deuces (curveballs) all day, and the grandfather — he, too, was named David — was once a semi-pro pitcher and worried the boys would hurt their young arms.

So he bought a bunch of the plastic golf balls, sat down at the kitchen table with a steak knife and started cutting patterns into the balls.

For some reason, and the family doesn’t know why, the version with the eight ovals on one side easily curved. Hold a ball so the ovals are on the right, ball curves right. Ovals on the left and you can guess what happens.

I think about the story of the Wiffle Ball when I ponder some of life’s big mysteries.

The Mullany family built their business on a product without knowing how it worked, but accepted that it just did and always would. Blind faith.

And we can’t explain why some things happen. They just do.

And so we must remember that God is in control, not us.

Accept that curves in life are coming for reasons we can’t — or aren’t meant to — understand.

I shared this story with students in my journalism class. I wanted to show them an example of the interesting people we get to meet as reporters, but also about placing our trust in the Creator whose timing and methods we don’t always understand.

I gave each of them a Wiffle Ball, too, as a reminder.