The black bat

Beneath my bed is a black bat. I bought it at a Chatham A’s game in 1999. It’s heavy, thick and hard. Were it to crash into somebody’s skull, well, the bat would probably remain in pretty good shape.

I bring this up because, last night, my neighbor’s house was broken into. She’s a nice woman in her 60s, and the thief used a crowbar to crash through a window and enter. Not only did the thug (or thugs) ramshackle the home, but they stole lots of stuff—including her wedding ring.

Right now, I want to take my black Chatham A’s bat and slam this guy in the head. Were he standing in front of me right now, and were I holding the bat, I’d swing away. Hard. I would aim high, I would aim low. I’d scream, “How’s that feel, bitch! How’s that feel!”

Or, maybe not.

Truth is, I’m not a violent person. At least not out of the moment. But what would I do, were I in bed and made aware of someone creeping up my steps? Would I call 911? Of course. But would I grab the bat, creep toward my kids’ rooms and break out the ol’ George Foster stance? I believe I would.

Then, with any luck, I’d swing away. And connect.

Man, this pisses me off.