Bells Above Greens (17 page)

“Good.  I guess.  Great.”

“It’s strange how we go through college with big plans, spending all this time and money on education, preparing to conquer the world, and then we just sorta slide into what’s available after graduation.”

A student with a hairy back lumbered up to us, his face and shoulders red-splotched by the cold.  “Hey, Emery.”

“Oh Lord.”  Emery looked up and crossed himself.  “What’ll it be, James?  All the way across?”

“That’s right.  I’ll race you.”

“How about I just ride across on your back?  There’s plenty of mane to grab a hold of.”

James put his dukes up in play, and Emery went into the exaggerated boxing stance of the Notre Dame Leprechaun, his fists held high. 

The faculty member, wearing a coat and a hat, picked up the orange cone and read from a paper the annual address to the crowd of half-naked students, a crowd that had gathered large out of nowhere, fidgeting to find warmth.  He shouted the word, and the laughter and shrieks broke out as people ran into the freezing waters of St Joseph’s Lake.  Emery shucked his jeans and fought with hairy James to be the first in.  I followed them, long striding into the frothy melee. 

Father Donnelly was speaking at the altar about stewardship and the duties of a Catholic.  He always paced back forth as he spoke, his hands folded in front of him and his eyes on the ground, speaking loud enough to be heard in the back but never making eye contact, as if he were the only person in the church and you were listening in on a deeply personal conversation with himself. 

Faces around me blinked in mystical hypnosis, upright in the pews, caught on every thorny word of Father Donnelly’s monologue that struggled with good and evil in front of the pews.

When he was finished, he held his hands in the air and faced the crowd. 

“…but you don’t
go
to church to get something out of it,” he said with a clenched fist.  “That’s selfish baloney.  It’s not about
you
, or what
you
want.  When someone tells you they don’t go to church because they don’t get anything out of it, you call their bluff and tell them the truth!”

The air went of the church and every breath held. 

“You go to church because
you
want to worship the Lord.”

Elle had been in her usual place at the front.  I had come in late and sat behind the wall of tweed backs.  I stayed seated as parishioners filed out, still thinking about his words.  Why did I go to church?  I did not go for selfish reasons.  I did want to know God, and yet in confession to myself I would say I got nothing out of it. 

When I looked up I had forgotten to look for her and the church was nearly empty.  I was Father Donnelly’s last handshake at the door.

“Very nice homily today, Father.”

“Thank you, Sam.  I’m afraid I get a little riled up at times.  Sometimes I feel like a fire and brimstone preacher and not a priest.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Just the style, I suppose.”

“It made a point.  I liked it.”

“Good to hear.”

As I walked away, the sky behind me chimed with bells and I paused to watch the pigeons fly from the tower.  Father Donnelly was uncloaking himself, folding his green vestment as he marched around the corner of the church to the rectory, white sneakers on his feet.

Chapter Eighteen

The baseball field was ice-glazed and hard-packed.  The diamond sat in a shadowed corner of campus, collecting the funnel of blowing snow and freezing wind from the buildings.  It was a late winter, which meant when spring finally did arrive it would happen overnight.  Baseball season was a month away from officially starting, but a baseball team can only practice so much on an ice rink.  Just swinging the bat would send players home with twisted ankles.

Campus maintenance crews cleared the baselines away, making it possible to run the bases, but the outfielders were sliding on bruised knees too often, the shortstops pivoted on cold glass, and the pitcher made his windup on a mound of ice, pitching himself in a somersault with his follow-through. 

I cleared the rest of the field for forty dollars.  I hadn’t felt the ruffle of money in my pockets in a while, and I wouldn’t be on rooftops again for another few weeks.  This would hold me over until then, and the maintenance crew was all too happy to let my hands be the ones that froze to the end of the shovel. 

“The sun will come out and melt it soon enough,” a crewman told me.  “But if you want to take the time to clear away, be my guest.  It’ll get the coach off my back.”

It was morning when I started and night when I finished.  I cleared away the infield, scraping the crust of thin ice into piles of sheets, and then I decided to finish the outfield as well.  I hated to leave a job unfinished.  It was warm enough each day, even in the shadow, to melt away the frost that clung to grass blades each night.

I stood at the fence and watched the team drills the next day.  The players were able to run without incident and the pitcher gave a confident windup. 

The batter was cranking the pitches all over the field, sending the fielders left and right, sprawling for catches.  He never hit one over the fence, but he had a great swing, his fundamentals were perfect, and he rarely missed a pitch.  When he removed his helmet I saw it was Father Donnelly.  He looked young and athletic enough to be a player.

He blew a whistle that hung around his neck and sent the team around the bases a few times, and then to the far fence in sprints.  He popped the button on his batting glove as he approached me.

“Baseball is a pure sport, isn’t it?”  He said it more as a statement than a question.

“You’re pulling double duty,” I said.  “A priest and a coach.”

“What’s the difference?”

I laughed.  “Just the style, I suppose.”

“It’s almost the same.  I pass along the teachings of God and baseball without a word changed.  They are both pure traditions.”

“Did you play?”

He nodded.  “I was a first baseman and lead hitter.  I led the minors in RBI’s and was second in batting average to only Ted Williams.  That was a long time ago.”

“The Red Sox’s Ted Williams?”

“Yep.  He played in the minors before he was the Ted Williams that you know him as.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“It wasn’t that long ago.  You look twenty-nine.”

“Well then it’s all a failure because I was trying to look nineteen.”  He laughed.  “It keeps me young.  I played in the minors as soon as I graduated.  Back then you could just show up and they’d give you a glove.  I played for a few years and came back to the seminary.  I had a different calling.”

He turned to the field and clapped his hands, urging his players into another sprint to the backline.

“I heard stories about you,” I said.  “Red Chips, the barber.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“He said you were a gentleman to the ladies.”

Father Donnelly laughed.  “Well, what else can you be?  I spent every cent I had on dating.  I’ll have to tell Red to forget those stories.  Things change.  Priesthood was the last thing on my mind back then.”

“What changed it?”

He looked at me and pointed to his ear.  “I listened and heard the call.  It was simple.  When you open your ears to God, He speaks.”

“I wish He did.”  I said it, forgetting that I was talking to a teacher, a priest.

“He does.  What does He tell you?”

“I can’t hear Him.”

There was a brief pause.  “Just keep listening, Sam.”  Then he jerked his head to the field.  “Can you hit?”

“A little.”

He gave me the bat and ran to the outfield, blowing his whistle and gathering his fielders.  He gave them a quick demonstration of footwork.  They watched him, young boys with their gloves tucked under their armpits like wings, listening the way a child minds his father.  Father Donnelly called out to his pitcher to send the ball across the plate. 

I gripped the bat easily, the familiar weight balanced in my hands, and stepped up to the plate.  The pitcher mumbled something on the mound and then called out to me.

“Can you hit?”

“A little,” I said.

“I’ll gift wrap this first one.”

Father Donnelly was crouched in the outfield, his hands on his knees, his fielders to the left and right of him, crouched and ready.  The pitcher wound up and tossed a slow ball that floated by me.  I swung and twisted all the way around, hitting nothing.

“They don’t get easier than that,” the pitcher said.

“Throw it harder,” I said.  “Give me something I can hit.”

He mumbled again, almost laughing to himself, and he shook his head.  He wound up again, a much tighter, much more powerful release, and threw a ball that came at the plate as if it had gunpowder behind it. 

I swung and heard the crack of the bat.  The ball flew straight back at the pitcher, who had to duck to keep his head attached, and bounced into the outfield where a fielder scooped it up with almost pure footwork.  Father Donnelly watched and then gave a quick word of instruction to correct his player’s technique.  He clapped and shouted.

“Just like that, Sam.  Keep them coming.”

I gave him four more hits, one right after the other, and the pitcher was becoming frustrated.  His pitches kept changing in speed and curve, trying to get one by me.  He was not in the drills.  He was on the mound in the World Series, bases loaded. 

He gave me a staredown and I waited for his pitch, balanced on my back leg, the bat held high over my shoulders.  He gave me a fastball, an asteroid burning up in the atmosphere.  I swung hard and showered the infield with splinters.  It felt good.  A feeling I had not had in a long time.  I saw the fielders’ eyes follow the ball over the back fence where it disappeared in the grass.  The pitcher slapped his glove on the mound and kicked it away, his hands going to his hips, facing away from me.

Father Donnelly clapped and smiled, shaking his head, impressed.  He gave his pitcher an encouraging word and trotted over to me. 

“That was the only bat I brought today.  You put an end to my field drills.”

“I didn’t expect that.  What is this made of?”  I held out the splintered stub.

“That’s a regulation outfield,” he said, putting a thumb over his shoulder, still smiling.  “Three hundred and seventy feet from home plate to the fence.”

“The wind took it.”

“My pitcher was top five in the conference in strikeouts.”

“He made it an easy hit for me.”

He looked at me and shook his head again.  “A few guys play both, you know?”

“Both?”

“Football and baseball.”  He patted my shoulder without another word and ran back across the diamond, gathering his players for ball drills. The pitcher tipped his hat to me, giving me a sporting recognition, his expression still filled with personal disappointment.

Elle was standing behind the fence as I walked off the field, a notebook in her gloved hands and a scarf around her neck, prepared to spend an afternoon in the ignored shadows where Irish baseball grew unnoticed, where the coach was turning weeds into plants.  She looked professional and smart.  I felt my breath stop in mid-exhale and a smile leap across my lips when I saw her. 

“Are you the baseball writer too?”

“Sportswriter,” she said.  She was particularly beautiful in winter wear, her smile beaming and her eyes moist from the chill.  It brought out a brighter shade.  “I cover it all.”

“I didn’t know our baseball coach was our priest.”

“Clergymen are many things, especially at a Catholic university.”

“Are you here to gather quotes from the team?”

“I was.  Now I think I should write about the player who knocked it out of the park.”

“Oh.  No, I was just filling in for Father.  It was a lucky hit.”

“I’ve been covering the teams for four years and I’ve never seen anyone hit it that far over the fence.  I don’t know if I’ve ever seen it hit over the fence at all.”

“The wind funnels in right here behind the plate,” I said.  “A big gust must have taken it.”

She held her look on me, not giving in.  “I was standing right behind home plate.  It was calm.  You can’t make up stories for it.”

As I walked up to her it was natural to open my arms and hug her.  I only noticed the ease with which it came about because of the awkward fitting of our two very different heights, an obstacle I found myself happy to overcome.  She gave a sincere squeeze back, lifting her chin to rest on my shoulder.

“How have you been?” she asked.

“Fine.  I earned forty dollars last night.  Let’s get lunch.”

“I have to get a story written.  I’ve been so busy lately.  Maybe tomorrow.”

“Sounds great.”  We looked at each other, unmoving, with friendly smiles.  Hers was a smile from deep within, behind layers.  Was it worry that hid it?  I wondered what she was thinking.  “Do you need a line for your article?”

“I need several.”

“How about this: Team in shock at mystery homerun slugger.  Man retires after fluke hit.”

“Sounds suspenseful.  A bit long for a headline.”

“Alright then:  For Sale.  Broken Bat.  Used Once.”

“Actually, I do have a project coming up that I could use your help on.”

“Okay.  What is it?”

“It’s for the
Chicago Tribune
.  I’ll need you to drive me next month.”

“Elle, that’s great.  Congratulations.  Are you a reporter there now?”

“No, no, but I’m hoping this will change that.  It’s a tryout.  A portfolio.  If I knock it out of the park they might consider me.”

“And I am to be your chauffeur?”

She gave a hopeful nod.

“Very well, but my services come at a price.”

“What price?”

I waited for a moment, enjoying the innocent smile that my words put on her face.  “A car,” I said.  “I don’t have one.”

“I’m borrowing my professor’s car.  I’ve already talked with her about it and she’ll have it ready with a full tank of gas.  She believes I have what it takes.”

“Then it’s a date.”  I said the word lightly.  “And best of luck to you knocking it out of the park.”