CONTRARY TO WHAT THIS TITLE MIGHT INDICATE and the topics of several recent postings – today’s is not about Baseball.
(This Public Service announcement has been brought to you without interruption)
You may now carry on reading.
Last night I was in bed a bit after midnight. I was tired, but my brain wouldn’t let me drift off – that and the fact that I had the TV on and became involved in watching an old movie. Then I saw that my wife, the lovely and more of a night owl than me, Dawn, was walking around and turning on all the lights.
When she came up the stairs to the second floor she called out, “John, I think we have a bat in the house.”
I told you that this was not about Baseball, so relax.
“A bat,” I said?
“Yes, I think it is a bat and not just a bird. It’s flying around down here, Whoa! There it goes again.”
“I’ll be right down.” I wanted to put on some shoes to give me a little more stability.
Dawn met me at the foot of the stairs with a broom in her hands – and one for me. I was now prepared to do battle against the invader.
The critter zipped past us headed for the kitchen. It was, indeed, a bat. It was your every day small bat, not one of those gigantic Fruit Bats that have the wingspan of a Boeing 737. From wingtip to wingtip I’d guess that it was about six inches, max, but, dang it, it was not supposed to be in the house. It was supposed to be outside scarfing down mosquitoes and other bugs.
It had flown down the chimney and into the house for some reason, but whatever its reason it was not a good one.
We decided that our best ploy was to open the front and back doors and give the bat easy escape routes. We must have had the dumbest bat in town because it flew into the powder room off of the kitchen and just kept bouncing off of the door.
Drunk? Suicidal? Or just Stupid?
While I stood guard with my broom, trying to convince this small mammal to just fly out through the wide open door to freedom and unlimited bugs to dine on, Dawn served as a sort of Maginot Line (look it up.) in the kitchen. She was ready to take action if the bat deke’d me and headed back into the rest of the house.
This went on for about five minutes – flutter, swat, flutter, mumble to myself, flutter. This bat must have been like a cliché bat and completely blind. The back door was wide open. The whole world and all its friends were out there wondering where it had gone. Dumb little Son of A Bat.
Then, for some reason, the bat decided that the best thing to do was head back toward the fireplace and the chimney.
It zigged and I zagged and it passed me like I wasn’t there, broom raised in anger.
Three-fifths of a second later the bat met Dawn as she swung a beautiful broom like she was Madison Bumgarner aiming for the left field seats.
“Where is it,” Dawn asked?
“It is on the floor. You nailed him.”
The bat wasn’t moving, but to make sure I pounded him like a tent peg with my broom.
Requiescat In Pace, little buddy.
It wasn’t like we didn’t give the bat every opportunity to leave peacefully. We opened every door, turned on the lights and did everything but do Bela Lugosi impressions to shoo it out. We were not going to invite it to spend the night.
At the end of regulation play the score was –
Thank you, good night, and drive home safely.
I do feel obligated to point out that Dawn had a very good swing. She kept her eyes on the ball – er – bat, timed her swing and followed through nicely. Willie Mays would have been proud of her form.
She hit it high!
She hit it deep!
It is outta here!