April
22, 2019
Greetings from
the rookie,
It was about
half a mile from the church to Hall Flats, the nearest green space to us where
we could practice the various school sports.
Hall Flats became either a football field or a baseball field, depending
on the season. It was a low place that
often flooded, and the houses on the few streets that bordered it were occupied
by people who had no other choice.
I was in grade
school at St. Matthews Catholic school, a cluster of a few buildings wedged
into the downtown city streets where I grew up.
There was the church, still a beautiful creation of its sort, now over
100 years old, the rectory, a convent, and the school and gymnasium. What little space was left over on the block
it occupied was left as a playground for the students to skin their knees on.
I can still
see the high school football players making their way to scrimmage, walking
through the busy streets in helmets and pads, clacking their cleats on the
sidewalks as Coach Pratt herded them across intersections and past the flower
store and the liquor store and down the steps from the bridge into the low
field that waited for their blood and sweat.
I know very
little about Father J.J. O’Malley. The
priests that staffed our church were enigmas, set aside from the daily
activities of the school and the cafeteria.
They were specters that would be referred to occasionally by Sister Mary
Edwin, usually as she administered some corrective advice. We would see them at church services and at
sporting events.
Father
O’Malley was a compact man, older, whose cleric robes seemed out of place, as
if he were a short order cook disguising himself as a priest. His hair was white and stuck out from under
the ball cap he preferred, and tufts of it sprung out from the edge of his
t-shirt and at his ears. He was irascible,
or at least that was his temperment when he coached the younger teams in
basketball and baseball. He was known
for his direct language, delivered in short barks, usually seasoned with
phrases unlikely common among the clergy.
In church he
was a priest, performed his mass with perfunctory form, delivering communion
like a blackjack dealer at the edge of the altar. He heard our confessions, (sighing at our
lack of inspired transgressions, I think) and prescribed our penance with the
same lack of inspiration.
Sometimes I
would see him behind the rectory, smoking, in his dingy white t shirt, ill
fitting trousers, scuffed shoes, hunched against a wind, or leaning under the
small roof out of the rain, a man waiting for his shift to begin.
Occasionally
after basketball practice, he would take a few of us stragglers a couple blocks
over to Kewpies where in those days there was a ‘Day Old’ bakery, and we would
be treated to a donut. It was a gentle gesture
in contrast to his impatience with us running ‘lines’ in the gym, or our
failure to do the three-man-weave effectively.
It was hard to believe it was the same man who would rage at us if we
dared walk in street shoes onto the sacred maple court of the St. Matthew’s
Panthers.
Nearly all of
my time spent in the company of Father O’Malley was disappointing him, as I was
an athlete who did not live up to my potential. In truth I was comfortable with the
arrangement, since in addition to being a lackadaisical competitor, I was a
sinner with little success toward redemption.
And yet, the one most lasting memory of him was an act of kindness and
encouragement. And a lesson in
profanity.
We were at
Hall Flats practicing baseball. If we
ever competed, I don’t remember, it seemed all we did was make our way to the
Flats, frustrate poor J.J. O’Malley, and then walk back, dirty and discouraged,
which quickly led to horseplay in the streets, further raising the ire of the
priest.
I was up to
bat. I was told to get the bat off my
shoulder, to stand in the correct crouch, to keep my eye on the ball. The players in the outfield all moved in,
knowing my lack of batting prowess shouting ‘Easy out!’ and less complimentary
commentary about my abilities.
Father
O’Malley, pitching at the moment, turned and roared at the outfield, told them
they should be ashamed, that this man was a member of their team, and he was
going to shear the leather off the ball and they would be looking for it for a
week. He told them to get to their
positions and shut their pie holes. And
then he turned to me. If I could have
read his mind, I think I would have seen that this is not what he signed up for
when he took his vows. If he prayed, it
would be for reassignment.
I remember
feeling encouraged but still wondering what the hell he was thinking, since I
was more likely to hit myself than the ball.
When Father O’Malley delivered the pitch I swung as hard, and wildly, as
my disinterested body would allow.
There are few
things as satisfying as the crack of a wooden bat against a baseball, the solid
feeling that the connection just made was as God would have wanted it, if He
cared about sports. I did not watch the
ball for long because my pitcher was telling me to run, Smith, run, and so I
did and before the outfield could recover from watching the ball arc over them,
I was on third base. As it happens, I
can run.
Father
O’Malley walked to third base and clapped me on the shoulder and offer me a
word of congratulations. I don’t
remember what he said exactly because what happened next was more unforgettable. Someone in the outfield had sent the ball
back, an impressive throw from right field, perhaps thinking that the third
baseman should be in on the play. Which
he might have been, had the ball not hit Father J.J. O’Malley squarely in the
head, instead.
And that’s how
I learned the F-word.
If I were
writing a screenplay instead of my version of truth, this vignette might be the
turning point for our hero. Where,
perhaps, because someone saw the natural talent hidden in the young athlete, he
gains the confidence to go on to great success in sports, perhaps one day
dedicating a home run at Yankee Stadium to the priest who had faith in
him. But no. My trajectory in organized sports continued
the same uninspired arc downward until I was old enough for people to stop
expecting me to play for any other reason than play.
I am grateful
to have been involved as I was, and for the enthusiastic, (and futile) coaching
of people like Father O’Malley. When he
finally left our church, for wherever old coach-clerics go when they are put
out to pasture, I missed him. I imagine when J.J. made it to his ultimate
reward, there was a small celebration for moments like that day on Hall
Flats. When I see him again, I’m going
to thank him, and let him know I learned more from him than just cussing.
Hope this finds you with your head in the game,
David
Copyright
© 2019 David Smith
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