Baseball bat of life

Here's a gritty little tale about a man who faces the baseball bat of life head-on:

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In a dusty, nowhere town where the sun seemed to glare with personal spite, lived a man named Cole. Cole wasn’t big, wasn’t small, just a wiry knot of muscle and stubbornness, with eyes that looked like they’d seen the devil and spit in his coffee. Life, to Cole, wasn’t a gift or a curse—it was a barroom brawler, and he was always ready for the fight.

See, Cole had learned early that life swings a baseball bat at your nutsack when you’re sipping a cold beer, laughing with friends, or just starting to think things might be okay. It don’t care if you’re ready. It don’t care if you’re down. That bat’s coming, splintered and mean, aiming to break you. Most folks crumple, cry, or curse the sky. Not Cole. He’d stand there, legs apart, staring down the god of annoyance itself, whispering, *“Swing, you bastard. I’ll swing back harder.”*

He’d taken his licks. Lost a job when the mill closed, his wife to a trucker with better stories, his dog to a coyote’s jaws. Each time, that bat cracked him good—right where it hurts most. But Cole? He’d spit blood, grin, and keep walking. “That all you got?” he’d mutter, dusting off his jeans. He wasn’t dodging life’s swings; he was begging for them. *Hit me*, he thought. *Make me feel it. I’ll endure. I’ll outlast you.*

One night, under a sky bruised purple, Cole sat on his porch, whiskey in hand, calm as a snake before a strike. He was ready. Always was. The god of annoyance, that faceless prick, was late. Bills were paid. His new job at the garage was steady. Hell, he’d even met a woman who laughed at his dumb jokes. Too quiet. Too good. Cole knew what was coming.

Sure enough, tires screeched. His brother’s truck swerved into the yard, kicking up gravel. “Cole! Ma’s in the hospital. Stroke. It’s bad.” There it was—the bat, whistling through the air, aiming low. Cole’s gut twisted, but his face stayed stone. He drained his whiskey, stood, and grabbed his coat. “Let’s go,” he said, voice flat but eyes burning. Life thought it could break him? Nah. He’d drive to that hospital, hold his ma’s hand, and stare life down like it owed him money.

In the truck, Cole’s brother babbled, scared, broken. Cole just looked out the window, seeing that invisible bat swing again and again in his mind. He didn’t flinch. “Keep swinging,” he thought. “I’ll fuck you back harder.” He’d endure. He always did. Because Cole wasn’t just living—he was daring life to try harder, to hit lower, to bring its worst. And when it did, he’d be there, ready, spitting in its face,unbroken.