The Crack of the Bat

The Achievers weren't many, but we were ready.

Hank pulled in on his iron horse, with HR Derby on his mind

Peter Jeter cycled in through the outfield gravel, Yankee cap and all

Benjamin, the new guy, came back for more not knowing what was in store

Morten made his triumphant return on that well-worn bike, Phillies cap and all

Eduardo Monsalvo strolled onto the Sandlot all smiles, ready to pitch

D'mensch dragged in the gear and donned the tools of ignorance

And our cherished wooden bat -- Louisville Slugger - 125 - Powerized! - Genuine Model P72 Pro Stock -- was pulled out of the bag for the last time



With our weathered wooden bat, heavy as a sledgehammer, Hank and Peter and Morten and Benjamin took their cuts, getting a feel for the ash. That wonderful sound, the (good) crack of the bat striking the baseball out into the distance, will echo in our minds forever.

Edu tossed in some softies and the dudes crushed these pitches for line drives and long flies. When it came time for HR Derby, two soccer teams were approaching; and the wind began to howl.

We adjusted our diamond accordingly as an early autumn darkness crept in. The dudes started swinging harder and faster. But nobody managed to hit a homer by the time Jeter got jammed and we all heard a horrible sound. Our beloved bat had been cracked.

Lukwata then peddled his way onto the field in a fancy new super utility bike. The darkness was complete. We packed the gear into this transportation contraption and headed off into the night to buy beer and the makings for some spicy spaghetti. We ate at la casa de Dude and watched playoff baseball, with Feebles and Threefingers joining the fun.

But the beautiful old bat sat sadly on the table all night, not so much as a word being whispered about its tragic death. Until Jeter broke the silence to tell Feebles, the formal owner of this mighty magic wand, the sad news.

We read aloud our end-of-year team stats and engaged in some playful shit-talking about the individual numbers as we witnessed the repulsive Rangers wrangle a series victory away from the fun-loving Rays.

In the end, a melancholy night of loss and painfully spicy spaghetti for the Urban Achievers. The Achievers who loved baseball.

And in accordance with what we think the wooden bat's dying wishes might well have been, we commit its final remains to the bosom of the Penthouse Paupers, where it lived so well.


Goodnight, sweet slugger