Hard to imagine is any gut wrench tighter than the one felt by organizers of the Back to Batoche festival on the weekend when a monogrammed sword once owned by Metis leader Louis Riel disappeared from an open display.

Panic struck. Volunteers immediately splayed out in search of the priceless antiquity.

At least that's what all the news accounts reported. My own guess is the first impulse of those festival volunteers who happened to be parents was that if there was any splaying to be done, it was to track down their kids.

Sure enough, Louis Riel's sword was found in the hands of two youngsters goofing around out back on the rodeo grounds at Batoche.

Did I mention both youngsters were boys?

Must I make mention?

To perpetuate stereotypes about young males and females, to make my point, I do. Before accusing me of sexist generalizations, however, I ask that you readers first take a quick quiz.

Which of the following most closely matches your reaction to the temporary disappearance of the Louis Riel sword:

A) “Thank goodness that such a precious artifact was recovered safely, for it would have been a tragedy indeed had a brazen theft dampened the 125th anniversary commemoration of what is indubitably the most profound event in the formative territorial years of what eventually became our province.”

B) “Do-do-do. Do. Do. Do-do-do. Do. Do.”

If you answered “A” I am betting you are female. If “B,” the complete set of 10 notes to the 1963 Kingsmen classic “Louie Louie,” runs through your head, you're a guy. It's not that males are oblivious to the significance of historical treasures. They are aware. But to their standard thinking, all's well that ended well, and now it's time to reset the brain for next important male-type thought.

Such as?

Such as, for the youngest males, for boys, the quest for their next useful thwacking appliance. Back to Batoche security are still unclear on whether the boys lifted the sword themselves or merely happened upon it, possibly after it was removed by somebody else and misplaced or ditched. Either way, the young fellows are no doubt in a heap of heck, and all because of some good fortune, of their spotting an elongated object ideally suited to waving up, down, all around, willy-nilly. It could have been a willow branch, a cattail from a slough's edge or piece of a loose car trim from the parking lot. Unfortunately, for the boys, it was Louis Riel's sword.

If any object is long, thin and fit for brandishing, or whipping, or poking, or any general swinging and whapping for no productive reason whatsoever, trust boys to deploy the said item in its obvious, to them, purpose.

Thwacking appliances. I am the father of two 14-year-old boys and another 11-year-old son. By the most conservative estimate (one incident per day per offspring capita), more than 10,000 times in my life I have confiscated various thwacking appliances, typically through the standard growl-and-snatch method.

Allow me to rattle off a few examples. Sections of Hot Wheels track, for starters. Sticks with tips burned over the campfire to an orange ember glow for continuing the loopy-loop light show in the dark well after the flaming marshmallow has flicked off. Rhubarb stems. Cardboard tubes from the Christmas wrapping paper for toys that the kids set aside a half-hour into Christmas morning to play instead with: cardboard tubes. PVC pipe remnants. Those thin wooden stakes that survey crews painstakingly position to guide road construction (a thwacking appliance that was immensely popular in my own east-central Saskatchewan boyhood, our frequent harvest of which may well explain the need for correction lines).

Of hockey sticks, I have seized hundreds, but never once during regulation game time, only in dressing rooms, rink lobbies and our kitchen. One time the boys couldn't remember exactly where in the neighborhood they plucked a stiff three-foot wire with a yellow plastic flag that marked the location of an underground gas line. I didn't get a wink of sleep that night, tossing and turning and waiting for the ka-BOOM.

Let the record show I am also the father of a 14-year-old girl. Not once has my daughter demonstrated any aptitude or desire for the useless thwacking of random appliances.

Nor has any woman of my acquaintance ever considered $700 a bargain investment for a single stick to smack a white ball down a golf course fairway. Like fathers, like sons. Like guys.