text: He still remembered how the strong timber of the Louisville Slugger felt in his palm. He remembered the special grip he had practiced for it. He remembered the first time he learned what he could do with just his thick arm muscles and a flick of the wrist, and he remembered how it made him fell. The memories swirled through his mind has he approached the plate with the soft, lifeless plastic toy bat in his hands. He thought back to the countless excited feminine shouts from his college days, the swelling of excitement whenever he approached home plate. Part of him knew those days were long passed, and part of him refused to believe it. As he got himself ready for his chance at bat he went through the same little rituals he had when he was 20. The same steps, the same routines. He grabbed the base, feeling how much different it felt then he remembered. He had been told the wiffleball bat would be smaller then he was used to from when he was young, but he didn't want to believe it. When he felt he was ready, or felt he must have been ready, he looked to his wife. A look of excitement crossed her face like a wild carnality as she let lose a wanton shout. The man she had loved was the confident man with a control in the field. She had often commented on how it felt to see him swing, making the ball go where ever he wanted, however he wanted. When she saw him wielding the thick, heavy wooden bat, when she felt the joy and pleasure it gave her to see him in control, that is what made her fall in love with him. He knew these things to be true. He waited for the pitcher to do his part. The ball came to him fast, he swung, and missed. He felt a flash of anger raising through his middle-aged frame, then embarrassment. He hid his shame and anger behind a joke, a teasing shrug, as he eyed the crowd again for his wife. She smiled at him, caring but he could read how deflated she was. He clearly saw the grin on her lips; as plastic as it was supportive. He looked up, and through his smile his eyes pleaded: "I don't know what happened. But it won't happen again. Trust me." He told himself it wasn't his fault. That it was the bat, the empty, souless chuck of plastic that was to blame. He glared at it, his distain expressing itself through his jokes. His smile as hollow as the bat he was carrying. He did what he could to shake it off. It was perfectly natural and happened to everybody at some point, but still a haunting, cold knot was growing in his stomach. A worry was growing, festering under the surface of his mind. He swallowed hard to ignore it, tried again, swung and missed. He didn't joke. He wasn't angry. And he didn't look around at first. He couldn't blame the ball, the bat or the pitch. He could only blame himself. He knew in his heart that he was the problem, that he wasn't the man he was anymore, and if he wasn't bat-swinger, the star hitter, the man who could knock it out of the park every night, then what was he? Was he even a man at all? He didn't know, and he didn't want to find out. He wanted to hide. He felt shame. He felt ashamed and enraged at himself for making himself ashamed and he wished desperately his shame wasn't a public shame. Again he looked to his wife. He tried to read the look on her face, but he couldn't see her. The more he looked for her, the more he saw a petite brunette staring at her feet. Her hair dangled in front of her, and his heart sank when he could see a hint of a blush. She was ashamed of him, he knew she was, and he couldn't blame her. Her friends would ask how she was doing, and she would tell him. They would discuss his failure with the sly, cool detachment that they discussed everything else. She would laugh with her friends in an amused, ironic way then, but for now she seemed crestfallen. He knew she remembered how he used to be, and he wished more then anything she didn't have to see him like this. He stood frozen in his own thoughts, when a voice broke his trance. First one then several people shouted to continue the game; that he was taking to long. He had to continue now or admit the truth, to himself and everyone. To admit that he was a failure. To admit that he wasn't what he pretended to be. He didn't want to continue, he didn't want to try again. He wanted to curl up for a long time by himself. Suddenly he thought of his father. He knew his Father would be ashamed of him too. He knew his father would already have made it all around the bases by now. His father would have made everybody cheer. His father would have made his wife happy. The crowd was turning sour. They had been whipped into a frenzy and demanded satisfaction. The pleas to continue had become stern shouts to finish his turn at bat, or to get off the field. He sighed to himself, and took his position again. He didn't believe it would work, but he knew what was expected of him. He went through the same motions he always did. He did his part; the thing that defined him. The little dances that made him what he was, even though he was still doubting his own abilities. He lifted the soft bat in his hands, his fingers wrapped around it, hoping that maybe a new stance or trick would suddenly turn him back into the man he was before. He swung, he missed. He expected boos from the crowd. He expected not to be allowed back into the safety of the dugout. As he left home plate, he dragged the bat behind it, wanting nothing more than to drop it and never have to look at it again. But he still dragged it behind him, like it was somehow attached to him. When he looked up, he looked for his wife, only to see her giggling as she spoke to her friend's nephew. She smiled at the 19 year old college football player, her lips pulled back as she softly squeezed his arm. The younger man, for his part, all buffed chest and bravado seemed excited by the attention. She didn't look back at him the entire trip to the little chain-link trench where his teammates were. He sat down in a slump, but felt better in the dark of the bench. His teammates, the ones he felt would be the hardest on him, were all very polite, and friendly. The fear he had of their disapproval disappeared. They told him they understood. It had been a long time, after all, and that it happens to everyone, sometimes. They didn't reject him, they accepted him. They had something they could commiserate over.