Wedding Bells and Groundballs

“I would love to get married at that church, Matt.”

“It will be a cold day in hell when I go back to church.”

They passed the Catholic Church in his new town. The church was a small, brick structure with some charm and crumbling front steps.

As he drove the BMW, Maddie usually navigated on their day trips. A soft rain tapped the windshield while the wipers beat a steady rhythm.

“Who said anything about marriage, Maddie?”

“Bastard!”

He ignored her face.

“I could move into your place,” she said.

“That would only upset our mothers.”

“We’ve been going out for four years. I’ve waited for three.”

“Maddie, I’m not ready.”

“You’re almost thirty. Will you be ready by forty?”

“No wedding. No live-in.”

She suppressed tears.

“Matt,” she said softly, “I want children.”

“We’ve never talked about kids.”

“We have. I’ve always wanted to be a mother. You pretended to not pay attention. I teach children. If I didn’t like them, why would I work as a teacher?”

The possibility of tears now was replaced by anger and hurt.

“Come with me to Mass tomorrow, Matt, please.”

Matt turned from the road toward her. “Sundays are sacred to me.”

“Right. Softball and football. Sports every Sunday.”

They pulled up to his condo. When he turned off the ignition, Maddie folded her arms and waited.

“Now what?”

“Three months, Matthew. Either propose, or impregnate me. Either option would please me.”

He nodded slowly. “So I have until May Day.”

“You have been served notice.”

* * * *

Two months later, Matthew Philip Druker roused slowly from the satin sheets. He preferred the company of his significant other, Madilyn Brooks, but she was in no mood to stay the night after reiterating her earlier ultimatum for a commitment.

“You have less than a month,” she said after supper. “Think for yourself. Maybe you should consider a life of celibacy.”

Tossing off the sheets, naked Matthew climbed out, walked to his closet, and found his velour maroon, monogrammed robe in the dark. He flicked a few lights in his home. In his kitchen, the black digital wall clock with blue metallic numbers read seven thirty-two in the morning.

Opening the curtain in the kitchen window, he gazed at the lake, a sheet of gray glass and a short throw from his third-floor perch.

This Sunday, the overcast sky gave Lake Glass its name. Short pine trees dotted the shoreline. A fisherman in his rowboat was the only occupant on the water. Matt ruffled his thick, neatly-trimmed black beard, staring at the angler. Fishing never appealed to him.

Next, he opened his kitchen door to find the Sunday newspaper on the welcome mat. He grabbed it and plopped it on the table. Although he owned a deluxe Braun coffeemaker, he brewed his French vanilla coffee from an old pot, a favorite of his father’s. Scarred from a thousand flames, this bronze pot stood as the only old appliance in the room. Love of coffee was inherited from his father. A mailman, Peter Druker, never said much. But he loved baseball, another love passed onto his son.

On the physical side, Matt was built like his father, just under six feet with broad shoulders, jet black hair, long dark eyebrows like a former Red Sox player Bill Buckner, and dark green eyes hooded by long lashes, unlined skin, and a florid complexion. Thoughts of his father vanished with the ring of the telephone.

“Don’t you call your mother anymore, Matthew?” asked his mother, Angela McCarty Druker.

He smiled. “Not if she calls before my coffee.”

“You’re a fuddyduddy, Matthew Druker. You move to a fancy condo and ignore your only relative. And don’t tell me you’re too busy.”

“I won’t.”

“How’s Madilyn? She there?”

“What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Matthew, I know that Maddie stays over.”

He poured his scalding-hot coffee into a Red Sox mug. He let the steam rush to his nostrils.

“What would you like to know, Mom?”

“How’s the ultimatum? You have less than a month.”

“I know. Did Maddie put you up to this?”

“Of course not. I was just hoping to start planning for a wedding.”

“Don’t rush me.”

“How do you ever publish your software on time?”

“That’s different. That’s a business deadline.”

“I would like to be looking for a wedding dress.”

“There will be no church.”

“Don’t be foolish, Matthew. There’s a beautiful little church in your town.”

He slurped the home brew.

“How did you know that, Mom?”

“A little birdie told me.”

“Sixteen years of priests and nuns were enough.”

Silence. He knew his mother was disappointed.

“Mom, I’ve got to get ready. We’ll have you out soon for Maddie’s Hawaiian chicken. Okay?”

His softball game didn’t start until noon. He felt a twinge of guilt for blowing off his mother, but she would have besieged her son until he broke.

For the next several hours and three cups of coffee, he read most of the Boston Globe, slaving over the sports pages first and eventually reading the news sections.

Wearing his knit white pants and sweat shirt, he stretched out on his shag carpet to prepare for his game.

Before leaving, he started to throw the newspapers on top of his refrigerator. The lead story in the metro section featured the headline: “Cardinal to use Irish priests here.” He read the lead quickly and kept it on the top of the pile.

Donning his purple and gold uniform, he locked up and headed for his first game for his new team in his black Beamer. He left to do battle on the softball diamond.

* * * *

Five minutes from Druker’s condo, Monsignor Pierre Leclerc sat down with the Catholic Sentinel and his tea. He loved his Irish Breakfast tea prepared by his housekeeper Mrs. Emma Clancy. The prelate already had said two Masses. It was only eleven o’clock, and fatigue crept into his bones and muscles. The twelve-fifteen Mass was his last celebration of the day.

His breakfast was sparse: two pieces of Mrs. Clancy’s soda bread doused in butter. His doctor had warned him to cut out heavy morning meals. The cholesterol would kill him. Since that diagnosis four years ago, butter served as his only breakfast concession to weakness.

He always devoured the Catholic Sentinel, the diocese’s official newspaper, whether it was an editorial or small clerical news about his friends. In the upper left hand was the headline: “Cardinal Laverty welcomes Irish priests.” The byline read: Keith Monahan, staff reporter.

BOSTON—Because of the dire shortage of parish priests, His Eminence William Francis Cardinal Laverty has welcomed the addition of thirty-five Irish priests trained at Maynooth Seminary in Ireland.
In a press conference yesterday, the Cardinal announced that the priests, which include several Americans trained at Maynooth, will be assigned for a year’s duty in the Greater Boston Archdiocese.
“I am a realist,” said His Eminence. “The decline in priestly vocations has decimated our ranks. The clergy abuse scandals did nothing to improve this deficit. The Emerald Isle stands as the Gibraltar of Catholicism in this fast-paced world. I thank heartfully the rector of Maynooth and Archbishop Robert V. Keohane of Dublin for this divine and providential offer.”

The story jumped to another page. Leclerc sipped his tea, laden with two sugars, another weakness.

“Thanks be to God,” said the priest, who rarely commented while reading. “Praise be to your native land, Mrs. Clancy. They love their religion.”

“What is it, Monsignor?” asked Mrs. Clancy, waddling in from the kitchen into the dining room.

“We’re getting priests, holy reinforcements.” He pointed to the article. She scanned it. Father daubed his chin and lips for crumbs and grease. A smidge of butter moistened the Sentinel’s masthead. He smiled.

“We’re getting a priest?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Clancy. But I’m going to call the cardinal’s top assistant right now. I’ll ask if St. Theresa’s could get one of them. I would take two, if they let me.”

Mrs. Clancy detected dust on the large, simple crucifix on the wall behind her boss. She pulled a rag from her apron and shined the crown of thorns on Christ’s head. Leclerc closed his eyes and uttered a brief prayer to St. Theresa to help him and the parish.

“It will be a prayer answered, Monsignor.”

Leclerc opened his heavy-lidded eyes. There were sincere, weary brown eyes, soulful windows.

“I’m no one special,” he said, “but if our Lord fulfilled ten percent of my prayers I could die peacefully. A new priest and an expansion of our church would fall into that ten percent category.”

“Father,” she said as she placed a strong hand on his shoulder, “you’re on my ten percent prayer list.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clancy.”

His small body rose from the table. Another swipe at his mouth with his napkin and he was ready for the rest of the morning.

“Another Mass. Today my weariness has left me. Now for the first time since the priest troubles, I have hope.”

He nodded his head repeatedly as he shuffled out of the rectory across the driveway to the church.

* * * *

Thirty-five miles from the good Monsignor, his boss Cardinal William Francis Laverty walked the grounds of his palatial residence with his golden retriever, Teddy, named after his favorite ballplayer, Ted Williams. The gray of the morning matched his mood.

The clergy sex abuse lawsuits were finally settled for many millions of dollars. Church budget cutbacks hit hard Catholic human services and parochial education. Parishes throughout eastern Massachusetts were going to be closed and consolidated with neighboring parishes. Many of the faithful treasured their longtime broken down churches. Despite the decline of the number of priests and the lack of the money to maintain these parishes, Laverty felt badly for those who loved their parishes, practically second homes for some. He knew when he became the archbishop of the Boston diocese that bad news would follow bad news. The cardinal felt like Churchill when he became the prime minister in 1940 amidst defeat and defeatism. Laverty even told the press that he could only “offer blood, toil, tears, sweat, and prayer.”

Proceeds from selling the Lake Street property would go back into the diocesan treasury. He wasn’t sure where he would live after the sale of this land. Maybe he would return to St. Augustine’s in South Boston where he first served as an altar boy. Unfortunately, his home parish was scheduled for closing. Several of his predecessors had lived comfortably at the cardinal’s residence in Brighton. Although he had no problem with its symbolism, the cardinal’s residence was too expensive to maintain. Laverty may have been a prince of the church, but he still knew he was a son of South Boston.

Teddy walked ahead of his master sniffing the ground and wagging his tail. Laverty sometimes felt like he was Rudolf Hess in Spandau Prison. His Lake Street home sat near Boston College on prime real estate, and part of this parcel probably would be sold soon to B.C. The site also housed St. John’s Seminary where he himself had trained during a different time, a different era. The seminary would survive the sale of the church land. This foreboding complex was established many years ago by Cardinal William O’Connell who ruled the diocese with a heavy hand. Laverty preferred a simple rectory to his current castle. He felt cut off from parishioners, cut off from life.

Perhaps, Laverty would move to the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, the beautiful basilica built by Irish immigrants in 1875. The cathedral was located in the South End, a neighborhood of poor minorities and comfortable gays and yuppies.

I might like it there in the South End, he thought. It’s next to South Boston and next to the Cathedral housing project. The Boston Medical Center, once the city hospital, is found a few blocks down the street from Holy Cross.

He loved people. Even as a parish priest, he mingled in the community. He wouldn’t be caught dead skulking around the rectory like some of the priests he disliked. When Laverty was off duty, he drank coffee in doughnut shops, ate at McDonald’s, attended local youth sports games, and played golf at public golf courses.

Teddy returned with a stick in his mouth.

“Good boy, old Ted,” said Laverty. “Being cardinal is a blessing and a curse. I’m not just Father Laverty anymore.”

Laverty threw the stick and Teddy flew after it.

His Eminence prayed three Hail Marys, asking the Blessed Mother for guidance during the darkest days of his home, the Catholic Church. He had been installed as archbishop only eighteen months ago in the wake of priest sex abuse scandals that rocked the foundation of the diocese and the foundation of many people’s faith. William Francis Laverty vowed to himself and to the pope that he would dedicate his newest ministry to the renewal of faith and trust in the church that he loved. Collections in most parishes had dropped sharply.

Disenfranchised Catholics protested against the clergy scandal by not giving to the weekly collection box and to the annual major fundraiser, the cardinal’s annual appeal, which was earmarked to fund the many good works of the archdiocese. The last cardinal’s appeal showed a thirty-three percent drop from the previous year.

Although, in the 60s, 70s, and 80s, he had heard whispers about priests who had been pulled from the ranks, assigned to other parishes or placed on medical leave. He had prayed that his fellow priests were striving to maintain celibacy and standing by their vows.

Laverty always suspected that certain men had dangerous and sinful habits, but he hoped to God that they weren’t abusing children and adult parishioners.

The eruption of the abuse scandals almost shattered the Catholic Church and almost bankrupted it at the same time from the flood of civil suits. Most of the faithful never lost their faith in their faith, but their trust of the church’s hierarchy was obliterated. Laverty didn’t blame them. His job was to restore at least a tender balance between the church leadership and the scandal-battered laity.

Teddy barked at his master. Laverty ruffled the dog’s back. “Teddy, people have lost their faith in the church, but not in their God.”

He found a twig and tossed it about fifty feet. Teddy chased it down and dropped it at his master’s feet.

“The Red Sox could use you in centerfield, boy.” He patted the dog’s head. “Well, God has given us the gift of those Irish priests. Granted, it’s only a year, but we can use this gift to our advantage.”

Good thing because there was another cost from the abuse horrors. Innocent priests were hurt by baseless accusations. A wave of terror swept through all the good priests. People of all faiths painted the clergy with the same brush and forgot how most of the priests remained good and faithful.

The cardinal knew this was the challenge of his mortal life, even more than that of his mortal soul. Laverty dedicated his ministry to the restoration of the church that he loved and the good name of his brothers in Christ. Although Laverty served as Christ’s instrument on earth, he knew he was a sinner just like everyone else. To fight for his church, he may sin again. He prayed his sins would be minor. He never forgot that.

* * * *

Matthew Druker took grounders from the first baseman. He always loved the start of a new softball season. He wanted to impress his new teammates in this opener.

In the cold practices in March and April, he stood out as a hitter and as a fielder. He thought he was the best player on the team, but he knew he had to prove himself in game situations. He brought his new three hundred dollar aluminum bat in his bat bag and his new Wilson A-2000 infielder’s glove.

His team took the field first. His doubleplay partner at second was Walter Batts who briefed him about certain hitters while their pitcher warmed up.

Druker’s team, Manny’s Mavericks, sported shiny purple and gold uniforms; their foe, Hank’s Hellcats, wore red, black and white clothing. A black pitchfork was planted on the front of their red caps.

“Matt, watch their cleanup guy, Hank Kazeniac. He’ll slide hard at second and will bump you on the basepaths. He’s a great player and a major league asshole. He owns a body shop, and he’s the sponsor. The Hellcats have won the championship four years in a row. All teams fear them and hate them.”

“Thanks, Walter. I’ll watch my step.”

“Kazeniac, despite this supposedly friendly Sunday league, is not afraid to pick a fight.”

Batts looked like a second baseman, good glove, decent bat. He stood about five-nine with pale skin and thinning light red hair. He wore the protective sports glasses pioneered by basketball’s Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

For the first four innings, the game, played in damp and cool weather, started as a pitchers’ duel. Matt was busy throwing three runners out on easy grounders and catching a routine popup.

When he stepped up in the fifth, he noticed that the Hellcat rightfielder played him to pull, leaving a big gap down the right field line.

Nestling his cleats into the batter’s box, he thought to himself: no glory, dummy, just get a hit. Digging his cleats into the soft dirt, he waved his bat back and forth. The potbellied pitcher lofted a marshmallow on the outside. Matt pinged a liner that hit the chalk fair and whizzed past the right fielder all the way to the two hundred seventy-five marker. No speed merchant, Druker cut the inside corner of first three bases. The third base coach waved him home. Standing up, he scored easily.

The 1-0 lead held to the top of the seventh. Kazeniac, who snarled at Matt earlier when he rounded first heading for a score, singled sharply to left center with two outs to keep his team alive in the inning. The runner’s nostrils flared as he leaned away from first base looking toward second. The next batter hit a hard grounder to Batts’ right. He dove, snared the ball on a bounce, and from his knees whipped it to Matt covering second.

Kazeniac didn’t slide. He rammed into the shortstop, trying to knock him down.

Druker held on. The ump yelled, “Out!”

Kazeniac fell on top of Matt, who caught the runner’s breath, a tell-tale sign of Saturday night’s activities.

“You, shithead!” he screamed. He gave Matt a short jab to the forehead.

“Hey, what is this?” Matt rolled to his side and got on his feet. His attacker was up and ready for more.

Batts stepped into the middle of them. Both teams hovered around them.

“Butt out, shorty. You’re next after this dirtbag.”

“Any time, buffalo breath,” said Matt, who couldn’t remember his last fight and whether he won it.

They stood glaring for a minute. One of the Hellcats walked up to Kazeniac and said, “Kaz, cool it. Too early in the season for this.”

Kazeniac and Druker huffed. Finally, Kazeniac dropped his fists. “You’re right, this puke isn’t worth it. I don’t forget a face or a puke.”

“Neither do I.”

Kazeniac pointed at him. “Don’t worry. There will come another time.”

The Mavs hung on for a rare 1-0 win. After the game Walter Batts brought Druker a Budweiser. Matt gulped half of it down.

“Welcome to our fun, no-pressure league, Matt.”

“Nothing like some fun on a quiet Sunday.”

Matt tossed his cleats, hat, glove, and bat bag into his BMW. He stood in his sanitary socks and stirrups gazing into the gray sky.

“Nice car,” said Batts. “It would take me awhile to afford this baby. The cardinal doesn’t pay me that well.”

“The cardinal?”

“Cardinal William Francis Laverty. He’s my boss. And me a lapsed Lutheran.”

“Really?”

“I’m the accountant for the archdiocese. If you don’t mind me asking, what do you for work?”

“I design software.”

“Like Quicken or Excel?”

“A few spreadsheet titles, but mostly games.”

“Any possibility of your doubleplay partner getting a few titles? Sports?”

Matt grinned and took a sip.

“No bootlegs, I’ll get you a few of my titles. Illegal bootlegging kills companies and designers like myself.”

“Great, I’m pysched. If you need your taxes done or some accounting let me know.”

“That’s okay. Thanks, I have someone.”

Batts’ face glowed in anticipation.

“By the way, you’re a marked man with Kaz now.”

“I’m scared.”

“His bite is worse than his bark.”

“I’ll get a tetanus shot just in case.”

“Kaz makes a lasting impression, Matt. He has a long memory. Keep your eyes peeled when we play him next.”

As Matt drove away, he thought, we won, I played well, and almost got killed on opening day.