The return of the JACKHAMMER

There are a lot of things I owe to my dad, not the least of which is a pretty decent sense of humor (if I do say so myself). I'd have to say that one of my/his favorite qualities, which I now believe I possess, is the ability to laugh at myself while on the playing field. I can't always laugh at myself; for example, when I'm at work and I screw something up - it's not funny. But on the playing field, I can usually laugh off a hideous error or shake off a line drive to the pitcher without so much as a curt word. It does indeed make the game more fun.

And while we're on the topic of softball (yes, we were on this topic), and things I owe to my dad, I owe two more wonderful softbally things to my Pop: my bat and my glove. See, I had this life-beaten, tattered-by-many-games glove, which was full of more than the allotted number of holes... and I couldn't part with it to save my life. A good , well broken-in glove is like................ a broken-in pair of running shoes. Just as you slide your feet into an old pair of shoes and there is a well for each toe, a well broken-in glove has a well for each finger. Unfortunately the well where each finger lives collects the perspiration from said fingers, and eventually you wear right through the leather. That's where I was at a couple of years ago. My dad said to me more than once, "You know, Beth, you really need to get a new glove." To which I would reply, "I know, but I just love this one... it's perfectly broken in and I HATE breaking in a glove!"

My dad solved that problem for me. He bought me a new glove and broke it in while I was away at college. When I got home for the summer, ready for a good season of co-ed church ball, he had a new glove waiting for me... already soft and ready to welcome a big fat pop fly. In addition to this glorious gift, he bought me a bat. It wasn't brand new, but let me tell you: it was perfect. I absolutely loved it. I couldn't tell you its brand name, but it said "JACKHAMMER" down its perfectly-fat barrel. The handle was just the right diameter. I couldn't tell you its weight or its length, but whatever the numbers, the weight was just right, the length was just right... and I used that bat for many, many seasons. There is a goofy guy on my current softball team who would feel the need to yell out "The power of the JACKhammer!!!" every time I walked to the plate.

But one sad, probably rainy night, I left my bat behind. I forgot to pick it up after the game. At our next game I looked in the team's bag, and there was no bat. I sent Josh to look in the men's team's bat bag, and there was no Jackhammer. We recently started to repeat the cycle of teams in our league and I asked the other teams if they had seen it, thinking maybe, just maybe, one of them had picked it up. No luck there, either. Resigned to batlessness for the remainder of the season, I'd started picking through my teammates' bats. Nothing even came close. I'd find the right length, but the weight was wrong. Or the weight would be right, but the bat too short. It was terribly disappointing, and whenever our goofy cheerleader guy would yell out, "The power of the JACKhammer!" I'd shake my head sadly and say, "Nope, it's only the power of the Jennie Finch," or whatever lackluster bat I was currently holding.

Until tonight.

Our pitcher was rummaging through the bat bag, sizing up each bat and taking a swing or two to figure out what he wanted to use. He slid the Jackhammer out and looked at the side of it, I'm guessing at the length/weight information. Goofy cheerleader guy said, "Hey, doesn't that bat-" I about shoved him aside as I tried to keep from screaming "HEY! THAT'S MY BAT!!!" I wanted to jump up and down. I actually hugged it. I went 2 for 4 tonight, but one of those outs was a lucky snag by the shortstop as the ball very nearly sailed over his head. I have to say I made the best contact tonight that I have all season.

And I know it's because my Jackhammer is back. Thanks again, Daddyo.