Suffering Darkest Of Male Tragedies

You want a column about “men’s issues”? I’ll give you a column about men’s flippin’ issues.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to write about my unresolved feelings toward my dad or my mom or my planet or my blankie or my cosmic spirituality or any of those other things that most guys spend about 10 seconds, lifetime, thinking about. This is about my deep feelings toward my bat.

Yes, that’s right, this is about something that guys truly care about. Unfortunately, my tale is a tragic tale, because last week fate shattered my happy little world. I lost my favorite softball bat.

(Excuse me for a second while I pull myself together. I believe that a man should be allowed to weep openly, especially over his Louisville Slugger.) Before I go any further, I must sternly warn all readers against snickering rudely about the supposed Freudian symbolism of “a man and his bat.” Sometimes, as the great Freud himself once said, a cigar is merely a smoke. In the same way, a bat is merely a sports instrument, a finely honed tool, an extension of a man’s primal power, a magic wand, a mighty, gleaming Wonder Boy … Oh, get your minds out of the gutter, for crying out loud.

I will tell you how it happened, so that it may never happen to you.

I was playing in a softball game, my bat nestled snugly in the bat rack. I was momentarily distracted, probably by an exciting play I made at shortstop. The pop-up seemed routine enough, but what made it exciting was the fact that I sprinted 25 feet into the outfield to catch it, only to turn around and see it drop in the exact spot I had just vacated, upon which I sprinted back, picked it up and fired it savagely to second. Anyway, I lost track of my bat for an inning or two, and when I came up to bat the next time, it was gone.

It was every man’s worst nightmare. I don’t know if someone else took it home by accident, or if it got misplaced under a bench, or if someone was so black of heart as to actually steal it. All I know is, it was gone.

First, you grieve.

No, wait, first you look everywhere for it. Then you wait and see if someone delivers a ransom note. Then you grieve.

This bat and I went back a long time together. I bought it 10 years ago, when its shiny aluminum highlights beckoned to me from the display at a Fred Meyer store. It had a sensuous leather grip and a brash green color scheme on the barrel. I knew I had to have that bat, whatever the consequences, whatever the cost. The cost was actually no big obstacle, since it was a 40-percent-off sale.

Since then, I have had thousands of base hits with that bat. OK, hundreds of base hits. OK, well into the double figures of base hits.

My bat has also swatted dozens and dozens of home runs. That’s mainly because I loaned it out a lot, but this in no way diminishes the memories.

In fact, I am so moved by the memories that I would like to set my feelings to poetry because I consider myself a sensitive poet-warrior. Or at least a sensitive poet-utility-infielder. Here then is my “Haiku for a Bat”:

Whence, mighty war club?

Vanished, just like my foot-speed

Life, a called third strike.

For those of you who prefer more traditional rhyming verse, I offer this precious gift for you, titled “Goodbye, Old Slugger”:

I stand like an oak, awaiting a pitch,

It floats in slowly; fat and rich,

I commence to swing, but there’s a hitch,

I’ve got no bat,

Ain’t life a b … ?

Oops, sorry, I nearly used a bad word, which is prohibited in my league.

Grief made me do it.

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Jim Kershner The Spokesman-Review