It’s not much to look at from the street, just another carport with rusted athletic equipment and a stuffed iguana standing guard over the beer fridge.

But my man cave doesn’t need to be your man cave. My man cave doesn’t need a fat leather chair, although for the record, I have one inside, in the living room. And my man cave doesn’t need a flat-screen TV like the neighbor has. That would just get in the way when I set up the chop saw.

There are few places in this world that a grown man can call his own, and chief among them is the space in his home reserved for a carport or a garage.

Here a man is the undisputed master. Here he can burp and scratch and wear the T-shirt stained with paint, oil and blood.

The only thing he has to do is wipe his feet on the doormat when he’s done, which is a minor inconvenience.

A man can love his wife and be true to his partner, but he also needs a place of his own, a place where his version of organization and cleanliness has no governor.

In our home Mrs. G. has the house and I have the carport.

I love my carport. I can build things in it. I built a free-standing countertop last weekend, and if I ever finish rebuilding the fence, I’ll credit the carport space where I spread out every tool I own.

In my carport I can make a mess. I don’t have to explain why the spray paint missed the tarp or why there are sections of Christmas tree trunks in the eaves. Sure, I’ll sweep away the sawdust, but not until I’m done, OK?

The focal point of my carport, beyond the open space (cue singing angels), is my beer refrigerator.

When I first moved an old refrigerator into the carport years ago — at the urging of Firstborn, who was 8 at the time — I didn’t think this part of my man cave needed any locks.

Then someone stole a pony keg of Heineken beer from the fridge.

So I bought a lock. For good measure, I put the fearsome dead iguana on the top.

My carport also has an inner sanctum — and welcome back the singing angels, please! Mrs. G. and I disagree on what to call this space, though: I think of it as a storeroom, a small one, but she says it’s a closet. A small closet.

I’ve stored a lot of stuff here through the years, probably enough to call me a hoarder.

All of it fits together like a puzzle: I have rows of empty peanut butter jars full of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and wall fasteners, all organized by type; jars that hold screwdrivers, jars that hold pencils and work knives; shelves for power tools (and by the way, isn’t the cordless drill the most awesome tool ever invented?); buckets for hammers, hand saws and extra plumbing supplies; plastic bins for holiday decorations; and an impressive display of surf magazine photos — just because.

In our new role as empty-nesters, though, Mrs. G. and I have talked about moving to a smaller place. It sounds like a good idea until I think about the carport and my storeroom and wonder what will get discarded.

Maybe I should lobby for a space to replace them. But I have to say, a man closet just doesn’t have the same cache.