by Randle, Ned;
Now, as an old priest in the rectory cellar with Theo staring at him blankly, he stood stock still, immobilized by his memory of the game and recalled exactly how he felt when he came up to bat in the bottom of the seventh, with two outs and the game still tied. He gripped the handles of the ice chest with the same intensity as he’d gripped the bat that night. In the quiet, interrupted only by the whisking of Theo’s broom against the concrete floor, he could hear the opposing players shouting, calling him foul names, whistling, booing, and cursing as he stepped into the batter’s box. His teammates were just as raucous, on their feet, shouting obscenities and threats at the players across the infield. In those days, he had a volatile temper, but he tried to shut out the voices, tried to calm himself, tried to concentrate only on his at bat. He stood motionless on home plate, leaned the knob of the bat against his left knee and slowly turned to the opponents’ bench, the middle finger of each hand raised in salute.
The umpire grabbed his bat, stuck it in his face, and told him to get in the box and bat, or he’d throw him out of the goddamned game. The umpire then told the players on both benches to pipe down, or he’d call the goddamned game right there and then, and no one would win. Tom dug in and watched the first pitch as it arced up into the yellow lights and floated down towards the plate like a big, white balloon. He leaned back and timed his swing, hitting the ball as hard as he’d ever hit a ball, sending it over the chain link fence in left field. As he rounded the bases feeling pretty damn good about himself, his teammates crowded around home plate cheering, waiting to mob him, but before he could get to them, the third baseman threw a hard elbow into his ribs and doubled him over. He paused on the third base line to catch his breath, straightened up and jogged home to score the winning run. Once he tagged home plate, he raced back toward third and tackled the third baseman from behind as he walked off the field. He rolled him over and bashed him in the face two or three times with each fist and it took four or five of his teammates to pull him off the guy. A melee broke out until cooler heads prevailed. Then he and his teammates repaired to a local bar to celebrate, and he never paid for a drink all night. But now, as a middle-aged priest standing dumbly in his cellar, holding an empty ice chest like it was the Ark of the Covenant, he remembered with embarrassment how good it felt to win, but more so, how good it felt to punch the guy in the face. And he recalled how, after he was ordained, the realization hit him he likely would never again engage in a good fistfight, and, at the time, the realization, in an odd way, disheartened him.
“I wasn’t good at baseball,” Theo finally said, ending the awkward silence. While Tom remained speechless, Theo walked over to store the broom and dustpan in the corner. “But I like the game, especially the cerebral aspects.”
“Cerebral? I doubt anyone ever called Ty Cobb cerebral,” Tom chuckled, breaking his long silence.
Theo blushed and turned his back to Tom and rearranged the broom in the corner. He was upset with himself. During the two-week hiatus between recent meetings of the St. Michael Poker & Drinking Club, he had immersed himself in the study of baseball, so he wouldn’t be either mute or ignorant if Tom wanted to discuss baseball as they straightened the cellar after the game. He’d put a lot of work into studying baseball, and although he’d learned a lot through his studies and had already impressed Tom with his grasp of statistics, he realized his last comment was a goofy cliché, making him sound callow and inexperienced about the game, and he felt as if his studies had been for naught.
He hadn’t started out his analysis totally ignorant about the game. As Tom said, everybody played organized baseball when they were kids, and he was no exception. However, after a few seasons, he was bored by the pace of the game, particularly as viewed from the bench, and when he noticed the talents of the boys around him blossoming as they got older, he accepted that his own ability to play, as well as his physical maturity, was stunted by comparison, and he promptly quit, rather than further embarrass himself.
Listening to Tom talk about baseball kindled interest in the game. The way Tom talked about the game made him think he’d done himself a disservice by dismissing the sport at an early age. Tom described the plays and statistics and other minutiae in rich and tasty tones, as if each baseball fact was a choice morsel he first rolled around in his mouth and savored before spitting it out. As a result, Theo hungered for more knowledge about the game. So, each morning after he read the news, he’d spread open the sports section on the kitchen table and go through the division standings to see how they were affected by the games of the day before. He then would look at the box scores. He focused on the local team, but to keep their accomplishments in context, he reviewed all the scores. The first morning he sat and memorized baseball statistics, his head ached, but it was a sweet sensation, like the ache one gets in his muscles when he strenuously works his body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d applied his formidable memory to such intense exercise, much less an exercise involving information from the secular world, but he enjoyed the challenge.
Each day thereafter, he memorized the lineups listed in the box scores. He committed team and individual batting averages to memory. He accumulated a good working knowledge of pitchers’ ERAs, noting which pitchers were starters and which were relievers. He faithfully watched the team standings and, as the regular season was coming to an end, had familiarized himself with the plethora of possibilities that could result in the Cardinals making the playoffs. The bottomless well of statistics fascinated him. To keep them in historical perspective, he visited the public library and had the librarian order in The Baseball Encyclopedia: The Complete and Definitive Record of Major League Baseball through interlibrary loan. He kept the book, innocuous enough, on a shelf in his office at home. There was almost nothing in the game that couldn’t be reduced to a numerical expression, he reasoned, much like physics or geometry. He watched as many games on television as he could, discreetly, so as to not make Naomi curious about his behavior. He particularly enjoyed watching games played in stadiums he wasn’t familiar with. He’d researched all the big-league ballparks and compared their geometries and the distances from home plate to the outfield walls. He had a pretty good idea which parks favored right-handed batters and which favored left-handed batters. He accumulated all of this data in a scant two weeks. Yes, baseball is a cerebral game, he said to himself as he fiddled with the broom, but he recognized his awkward attempt to impress Tom turned out to be rubbish.
Theo enjoyed the mental stimulation of studying baseball so much that he decided to master the subtleties of poker, a game he knew had its own applications of arithmetic and arcana. He again visited the public library and researched the subject and ordered The Theory of Poker: A Professional Poker Player Teaches You How to Think Like One by David Slansky. When this book came in, he hid it along with a deck of cards under an outdated copy of The Lutheran Hymnal inside a bottom drawer in his desk in the church office. He began by studying the book when Naomi thought he was at church working on his sermon. He quickly understood that by comparison, learning baseball was a walk in the park and chuckled at his droll play on words, thinking Father Tom himself might find it clever. Mastering baseball as an aficionado was pure memorization; to master poker, he would have to learn poker theory, as well as more subjective concepts such as deception, bluffing, when to raise, when to fold. He would need to memorize the estimated numerical odds of winning implied by each hand he was dealt.
His study of poker was both practical and esoteric in form. He would lock the office door and deal four hands, face-up on his desktop, to himself and to imaginary players. He then would consider his hand, quickly calculate the odds, decide whether to fold or take cards. He would do the same for each imaginary player, and then assess his decisions based upon the outcome. He’d then consult Slansky’s book for tips or to confirm the soundness of his play. He had fun with the game, even assigning names—Tom, Brian, and Billy—to each imaginary player. An
d when he dealt, he practiced a good-natured patter as Tom did when he dealt, speaking quietly, however, in the event someone with church business might be lurking outside his office door.
As he studied baseball each morning at the kitchen table and poker in the privacy of his church office in the afternoons, Theo found himself enthused about subjects well outside the realm of theology for the first time in a very long time. He recognized by the stupid comment he’d made to Tom, however, that he may have mastered the numerical underpinnings of baseball but not the spirit of the game. Still, he was heartened by the fact he’d learned his poker lessons well, to the point where Tom complimented him on his finely played hands as they walked to the front door of the rectory after cleaning up after the last game. Theo accepted the compliment, despite the leaden tone in which it was offered. He’d noticed all evening Tom seemed to be in an irritable mood. The priest glowered at Metzger’s opening joke and was testy and impatient with the deals. And when he dealt, Tom himself skipped the good-natured jabber and shuffled and divvied cards in an abrupt and businesslike manner.
Theo dismissed Tom’s mood. Men such as Tom and himself often had matters of great consequence on their minds, he knew, and it wasn’t uncommon for such matters to weigh heavily and affect the spirit. So, despite Tom’s demeanor, Theo considered the compliment about his poker playing high praise and looked forward to the next card game. He concluded, on his way back to the parsonage, that it was a grand idea Father Tom had to bring the men together for a few drinks and a few hands of poker. He knew at the next meeting of the St. Michael Poker & Drinking Club, he’d be able to hold his own with Father Tom and the other men around the poker table and afterward, while the two of them tidied up the cellar, alone.
Chapter Ten
After watching Naomi grimace in pain and occasionally hearing her vomit in the bathroom for over a month, Theo had gently insisted she call the doctor. Uncharacteristic of her stubborn independence, she readily placed the call and then asked him to go along to the appointment, making him concerned she was concerned.
When the nausea first presented, Theo secretly prayed it was a sign of pregnancy. However, as the weeks went by, other signs indicated she wasn’t pregnant. Nevertheless, as they sat in the doctor’s waiting room, he suggested she ask the doctor to run a definitive pregnancy test, just to be sure. Theo stayed in the waiting room when Naomi was called into the inner office. He busied himself by making notes for his sermon, and he was reading the designated Gospel from Luke when the receptionist summoned him. He met Naomi in the doctor’s private office, where she sat in front of the desk while the doctor sat going over her chart. She gave Theo a wan smile when he walked in.
The doctor mouthed a greeting, but Theo, distracted by Naomi’s paleness, merely mumbled a pleasantry. The doctor proceeded to tell them in a perfunctory manner that he would order a battery of tests to rule out any serious problems. It was his preliminary opinion Naomi was suffering from cholecystitis, or inflammation of the gallbladder, perhaps the result of stones, he explained, which could be confirmed by an ultrasound. Because of her age and her generally good physical condition, and also because of Theo’s station in life, he tip-toed around the classic description of one prone to gallbladder disease as “fat, fair, forty, and flatulent.”
“Once we confirm gallbladder disease, I’ll send her to see a surgeon. Nowadays, the procedure is quick and simple. The surgeon goes in with a laparoscope,” he went on to say, “and removes the diseased organ, and she’ll be laid up only a short time, not like the old days when they cut you open neck to navel.” Naomi smiled at Theo’s audible sigh of relief and patted his knee.
Theo was so relieved by the doctor’s dispassionate recitation of his wife’s preliminary diagnosis, he suggested he and Naomi stop for lunch on their way home, a frivolity they didn’t often allow themselves. And as they lunched, Theo was unusually talkative. He told Naomi details about the poker club. She knew he’d joined a men’s club of some sort, but she knew nothing of the card games or of the men who played. He mentioned Brian Metzger, the Methodist minister, but could think of nothing particularly interesting about the man to share with his wife, other than he wasn’t into poker and he golfed a lot. He tried to describe Billy Crump, whom he referred to as the oddest man of God he’d ever met, because other words failed him. He mostly talked about Father Tom, about his banter and his jokes, how he laughed at his own jokes, and how his gregariousness set the tone for each gathering. He even told her how Tom tipped him off to his “tell” after the first card game so he could win a few hands.
Naomi smiled as Theo babbled on; she’d not seen him so animated in a long time. It was, to her, a charming trait he’d mostly kept hidden throughout their years of marriage. “So your priest friend is a big joker?” she said, picking at her food. She had little appetite, but feigned enjoyment so as to not spoil Theo’s mood.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Theo replied through a mouthful of salad. “Brian Metzger, you know, the Methodist pastor I just mentioned? He knows Father Tom pretty well, says he’s more pious than he lets on. He likes to laugh; and it’s not a prayer group anyway, Naomi.”
Naomi moved the food around on her plate and smiled at Theo’s strict adherence to protocol and dogma, an adherence that for her had become tiring of late. There would be no illicit prayer group for the right Reverend Theo Swindberg. Nevertheless, she was happy Theo had found something to keep his mind off her, something to avert his attention and constant worry about her, her health, and their relationship.
For some time, she’d been thinking Theo needed something else in his life other than her and his duties as principal pastor at St. Paul’s. Despite her recent ailments, she’d always been the stronger one in their relationship. Theo, she realized shortly after they were married, was physically and emotionally frail, and he relied on her too much for support. Sometimes he exhibited debilitating bouts of anxiety during which he’d sit in the parlor and tremble, holding her hand like it was a lifeline to his sanity. He was too intense, too studious, too prim for his own good, she tried to tell him. Or for the good of their marriage, she told herself.
She never doubted the depth of her husband’s love for her; she only lamented he knew no good way to express it. Relatedly, he didn’t seem to enjoy their life together, although she knew the stolid clergyman would say married life was not meant to be enjoyed, as much as endured, and as properly as possible. So, she was left to repent and pray fervently for forgiveness each time she’d considered shucking her role as the dutiful parson’s wife and hitting the road.
“He likes baseball?” she asked, hoping to dispel the gray brume that had settled over her side of the table.
“How’d you know?”
“I see the newspaper on the kitchen table some mornings. You leave it open to the baseball scores. Did you know that? I’ve also seen some of your notes and squiggles and underlines. And that big book on the bookshelf? I know when you’re studying, Theo.”
Theo blushed and looked down at his plate.
“I’m happy you’ve found a friend, Theo. I think it’s cute.”
She herself felt a sharp pang of jealousy immingle with the chronic pain in her gut. Not of Father Tom, but of Theo’s new situation. Although she was cordial with the ladies of the congregation, she had no real friend among them. The times she’d thought about running away from Theo and the church were the times the loneliness was oppressive. But at those times, she reminded herself there was always a loneliness associated with being a pastor’s wife, and she had known it when she married Theo. She’d seen the loneliness in her own mother’s life. But her mother had her children. So each night of her married life, Naomi prayed for the strength to stay in her marriage and for the companionship of a child. So far, having a child was not to be. Yet, she couldn’t help but hope and pray.
As she watched Theo finish his sandwich, she counted the twinges of pain in her belly and was sil
ently conflicted. She’d not wanted gallbladder problems to be the genesis of her recent sickness. She was, of course, relieved the doctor thought her problem was not serious, but she was also bitter about the latest disappointment when she determined she could not be pregnant. Still, she was not one to wallow in self-pity, and she pulled herself out of her reverie and stared across the table at her husband who, by now, had finished his lunch and was summoning the server for the check. She looked him over from the motes of food on his chin to the fresh spot of mustard on his shirt. She concluded, at that point, that God really did work his plans in mysterious ways. God may well have decided, in his infinite wisdom, that she could never raise children and still be the wife that Theo needed to take care of him.
