Word processors were ubiquitous. Long ago, they had put the final nail into the coffin of that noble instrument, the Linotype machine. And now so many children had computers that these electronic wonders had replaced books, comic books, Big-Little Books, television, and, of course, outdoor exercise. The nuclear club had grown by the year. So much so that most first-world countries as well as some second-world countries had the capability to at least initiate the final holocaust. And in all this technological race there was no semblance of a contemplative balance. Reflecting on the present state of affairs, Koesler concluded that the seven last words of Western Civilization might well be, We Have the Technology to Do It.
Finally, as far as Koesler was concerned, the day of “Father”—in the sense of the good old parish priest—knowing best was irretrievably gone. There had been a time, spanning centuries, when the local priest had been the best—, sometimes the only, educated person in an area. The serfs worked while the monks studied. Ethnic immigrants to the USA clustered in their ghettos around their priests. Even in the 1950s, the parish priest had been the general practitioner who instructed, counseled, mediated, arbitrated, processed, and at times acted as an employment agent. Now, in this age of specialization, Catholics, like nearly everyone else, took their problems to specialists. The priest as amateur marriage counselor and seat-of-the-pants psychologist gave way to the professional.
Koesler stabbed a piece of lettuce and dabbed it in the house dressing. “As far as our time being overscheduled with meetings and Masses, I’ll give you that one. God knows, between parochial and diocesan meetings, there’s not an awful lot of time left over. And with the priest shortage, each of us has more Masses to say than ever before. We used to be able to at least take turns with all the weddings and funerals. Now, there’s hardly anyone around to take a turn.
“But the other thing you mentioned, Pat, the paperwork, the administration; I think we can get rid of a hell of a lot of that.”
Finished with his salad, McNiff cracked a bread stick. “Oh, you do, do you? Well, it’s not going to go away. So who’s going to do it? Who’s going to be around running the plant? Who’s on duty at the door? Who’s available in case of emergency? Who’s there when the parishioners need somebody?”
“The ultimate answer to most of those questions is, our business manager.”
“Business manager! You got a business manager? When did you get a business manager? Where did you get a business manager?”
“About, let’s see, maybe six months ago.” Koesler sensed McNiff s pique over not having been told. “It just never came up in any of our discussions.”
Koesler waited while this new information was assimilated. McNiff did not adjust easily to surprises. “It’s one of the men from the parish,” Koesler explained. “Ed Dorsey. I don’t think you’ve met him. A little while back, he retired from Ford. He was an executive there. It was his idea; he didn’t know what to do with all that time. He suggested he take over the office. So now, between him and our secretary, Mary O’Connor, the parish is doing better than ever. We give him a little stipend. It isn’t much . . . but then, he doesn’t need much. We just wanted to show him our gratitude.”
McNiff was not at all sure he liked the idea. But then, he seldom liked any new idea at first blush. “But who takes care of the parishioners, their spiritual needs? Neither what’s-his-name—Mr. Dorsey—nor Mary can confer sacraments. Neither of them is trained to give spiritual advice.”
Koesler chuckled. “I didn’t abdicate, Pat; I just hired a business manager. I’m around much of the time, catching up on odds and ends, preparing homilies . . . like that. And if I’m not at the rectory, I call in periodically to get any messages. And if someone wants to see me, he or she makes an appointment. Just as they do with their doctors, dentists, and lawyers.
“You ought to try it, Pat. In a parish like yours, you’ve got to have a number of retirees who could step in and help. They’d probably be grateful to be asked. It would free you up. All those Masses and meetings make demands on us that we can’t escape. But there’s no reason we have to add to the burnout the rest of the time.”
The waitress cleared away the salad dishes—my, that was a décolletage!—and served the pièces de résistance. McNiff was still digesting the business manager concept. “Okay, so the business manager relieves you from hours of answering phones, taking care of the books, managing the janitor, ordering supplies, making sure equipment is kept in good repair”—McNiff was unaware that he was enumerating tasks he would be relieved of if he had a business manager—“but what do you do with the time you’ve saved? What do you do, Father, all day ... I mean, after you’ve said Mass?”
Koesler smiled. “There’s lots of things, Pat. I go back to the seminary, audit some classes. Bone up on some of the new theological trends. Spend a bit more time visiting ill parishioners. There’s a nursing home in our parish. I go there every once in a while. Those folks really need company. We’ve started a few prayer groups in the parish. And,” he paused and chuckled, “then there’s the Bible discussion group . . . how’s the fish?”
In response, McNiff freed a segment of scrod, dabbed his fork in tartar sauce, speared the morsel, introduced it to his mouth, and chewed, a smile indicating approval. “How’s the hamburger?”
“Fine.”
“How does it stack up against the hamburger in every other eatery in town?”
Koesler grinned. Of course, being together as much as they were, McNiff would be well aware of Koesler’s penchant for ordering ground beef.
“I would say”—hamburger was one of the very few secular subjects about which Koesler felt qualified to expertly pontificate—“this is only slightly lower in quality than that of the London Chop House. And considerably lower in quantity than that of Carl’s Chop House, but then, Carl’s is especially appropriate just before or after famine.”
McNiff sipped his wine. “Nice.” He knew as little about wine as did Koesler. “So,” McNiff returned to the previous topic, “you joined a Bible discussion group. As the leader, I suppose.”
“Nope; just a member. Not even first among equals.”
“Not the leader! Then why in God’s green world would a priest join a Bible discussion group? The other members can’t all be priests!”
Koesler smiled as he swallowed a morsel of potato. “No, they are by no means priests. As a matter of fact, they all belong, in one way or another, to that team we saw get beat this afternoon. As for the reason I joined, it probably has a great deal to do with my inability to say no.
“All Cougars!” Three surprises in one mealtime were not good for McNiff s digestion. “Come on! Come on!” he gestured, fingers curling into his palm, “let it all out. You’ll feel better for it.”
Koesler touched a napkin to his lips. “As I said, my parishioner, Kit Hoffer, asked me to join this discussion group. I’m not sure why. But I’ve got a hunch he feels a little insecure in that group for one reason or another. So he wants his friendly parish priest along.”
“Well, one incredibility after another. Who’da thought that a pro football team would have a Bible group?”
“Not that surprising when you get into it. It’s kind of an offshoot of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes . . . you’ve heard of them?”
McNiff nodded.
“They sponsor prayer meetings, especially on the mornings of game days. It’s a very active, nondenominational organization. Actually, there are three discussion groups among the Cougar personnel. But ours—we call ourselves the God Squad—is the only one of the three that has allowed in an outsider.” He paused. “I guess that’s not so odd when you look at the disparity of our members.”
McNiff s expression invited amplification.
“There’s Kit—and me, of course—Jay Galloway, Dave Whitman, Jack Brown, Bobby Cobb, Niall Murray, and Hank Hunsinger.”
McNiff whistled softly. “What a conglomeration! The owner, the general manager, the trainer, a priest
, and four players. How did—”
“I’m not sure. I think it was organized by Brown, the trainer. As for his motive, I can only guess at it. For one thing, I think he wanted to bring management and player personnel together. Management is certainly represented by Galloway and Whitman. But why he singled out the players he did is beyond me. Come to think of it, he may have invited other players to join. In any event, I assume he picked Cobb because he’s the hub of the team. And Hunsinger is the most notorious—or should I say he seems to be most in demand as far as publicity is concerned. Murray, as an immigrant and rookie, and Hoffer, as a rookie and backup to Hunsinger, would have to be about the least secure members of the team.” He stopped, then added, “I’m not claiming that these were Brownie’s reasons. But it’s the best scenario I can come up with.”
McNiff finished his entrée and was sipping coffee while being very thoughtful. “The one who seems most to stick out like a sore thumb in that group is Hunsinger. If you can believe what you read in the papers, the guy’s an out-and-out hedonist. And, on top of it all, I think I read that he’s a Catholic!”
“Right on both counts. He is a Catholic, though certainly not a practicing one. He alone of the group always seems rather cynical. I’m only guessing, but I think the reason he’s in this bunch is that he wants as few things as possible going on behind his back. I think he knows he’s nearing the end of his career. So any meeting that Kit Hoffer attends, Hunsinger is probably sure to be found there.
“As for the rumors about his private life, I guess there must be some truth to them. Our meeting last Tuesday evening was at his apartment. Talk about a swinging bachelor’s pad! Until I saw the Hun’s place, I’d only read about things like that. Mirrors everywhere, especially in the bedroom—even a mirror on the ceiling above a bed that’s set up on a platform.”
“What for—the mirrors, I mean?”
“It enhances the sexual experience for some people. Or so I’ve been told.”
McNiff pondered that for a moment. “You met on Tuesday. Do you always meet on Tuesdays? Weekly? Monthly?”
“Weekly. And, yes, always on Tuesday evenings. Tuesday is sort of the football players’ day off. Next Tuesday we meet at Galloway’s home.”
“Any chance they would allow another member?” McNiff would be so proud to tell his parishioners that he was rubbing elbows with and dispensing theological opinions to real professional football players. “After all, if I get myself a business manager, I’ll have a little extra time on my hands.”
Inwardly, Koesler winced. He wished McNiff had not asked that favor. The group was already of a size where it was difficult for each one to fully express himself. And then, too, it was just not the sort of group wherein McNiff would be comfortable. With a lay bunch such as the God Squad, McNiff would inevitably attempt to enforce his interpretation of Scripture. Except that it wouldn’t work with these men.
“Tell you what, Pat. The first time there’s a chance to bring this up with the group, I’ll do it. But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. I don’t get the impression they would let anybody else into the group. As it is, it’s a bit unwieldy. But I will give it a try.”
Koesler meant what he said. McNiff seemed satisfied with the promise.
Meal completed, they settled the bill, going Dutch.
McNiff had met Koesler in the restaurant parking lot before the game. Koesler had driven them to the stadium and back. They now parted, each taking his own car.
En route back to St. Anselm’s, Koesler thought about this odd Bible group. It certainly was composed of provocative but strikingly different personalities. He had gleaned a few new insights about the Bible from the group’s discussions. But, being a student of human behavior, he had learned a great deal more about the men who participated. Each was interesting in his own way. Especially interesting was their interrelationship.
It was Koesler’s understanding that Galloway and Whitman had grown up together in Minnesota. He would have expected theirs to be a more fraternal relationship. It didn’t appear to be. Neither seemed to hold the other in much respect.
Kit Hoffer was, of course, Koesler’s parishioner. But he was surprised at Hoffer’s attitude during the meetings. He seemed to resent Hunsinger, which, given Hoffer’s position on the bench behind the Hun, was natural enough. But Hoffer’s resentment appeared to spread to both Galloway and Whitman, as if it were their fault he spent so much time on the bench.
Niall Murray, fresh from Ireland, was obviously not entirely at ease in a strange land and in a mostly foreign game. Outside of kicking a ball, he knew little of the refinements of pro football. And he seemed somehow oddly dependent upon Hunsinger.
Just from his interpretations of Scripture, it was clear that Bobby Cobb needed to control any situation in which he found himself. A practical attitude for a quarterback. The fly in Cobb’s ointment was Hunsinger, who was not one to be heavily influenced, let alone controlled.
The trainer, Brownie, seemed the catalyst. Frequently, he bridged the gap between management and employees as well as between the players. This did not surprise Koesler, since it was Brownie who had initiated the group.
Finally, there was Hunsinger. One of the more interesting and flamboyant characters Koesler had ever met. It seemed likely that the Hun was doing his best to negate his Catholic upbringing. Koesler had known a few people like that, but none to compare with Hunsinger. He seemed the least likely of any of the members to be part of a Bible study group. Why had he accepted Brownie’s invitation to join?
As he had explained to McNiff, Koesler believed that the Hun realized he was nearing the end of his physical ability to compete and couldn’t afford to have anything going on behind his back. Especially anything that he might even remotely construe as potentially threatening to his position. Particularly with a group that included his employers, his quarterback, and his probable replacement. In this, the Hun resembled the slow-witted person whose eyes are in constant motion because he cannot afford to miss anything.
If there was a common denominator to this group, it was that the feelings of everyone, with perhaps the exception of Brownie, toward the Hun ranged from dislike to contempt. This negative atmosphere bothered Koesler greatly. He had the premonition that something evil would come of it.
The black Continental glided almost silently through the dark, narrow maze of streets. It was almost as if whoever had laid out the city of Grosse Pointe Farms had wanted to make it difficult for a stranger to find anything. Perhaps that had been the intent.
Bobby Cobb, however, knew where he was going. He’d been there many times. Usually, as was the case now, for a postgame party. It didn’t much matter whether the Cougars won or lost; there were postgame parties virtually all over the Detroit area. The prestige of these parties could be measured by the quantity and quality of real-life football players in attendance. Obviously, it was the fate of most parties, given the relative paucity of players, to remain plebeian.
The Continental began encountering a solid series of parked, mostly luxury cars. He was nearing his destination.
Several attendants blocked the semicircular driveway at the Lake Shore address. They were there to block entry to anyone but the arriving Cougars and to park their cars. Nonplayer guests might have to park quite a distance away. But the players had run as far as they would be required to for this day.
Cobb slid gracefully from his car, leaving the motor purring. A young attendant, newly hired for this job, held the door for him. Admiration was evident in the attendant’s eyes. Quickly, he studied Cobb as thoroughly as possible. It would be his responsibility to describe the famous quarterback to his fellow students at the University of Detroit Dental School tomorrow. They would want to know all about Cobb. And the attendant would tell them. About Cobb’s sharply chiseled features; his chocolate-colored face and hands; his closely cropped, kinky black hair with the trace of gray at the temples; the blue turtleneck, maroon blazer, and gray slacks, none of which
could hide the rippling muscles beneath; and those huge hands, which, when wrapped around a football, made it appear to be no larger than a grapefruit.
Cobb was aware in general of what the attendant was thinking. It was not an uncommon reaction to his presence. In a few moments, the same sort of phenomenon would occur at the party inside this mansion.
Cobb understood the phenomenon. He not only understood it, he utilized it. As he did with almost everything else that suited his purpose.
Professional football players, particularly the stars, or, as they were more commonly called in the game, pheenoms, were celebrities. Their photos appeared in the newspapers. They were interviewed on television. Stories were written about them in magazines. Most important, on Sundays, occasionally on the other days of the week they performed.
Detractors tried to disparage their work by claiming they were paid extremely well simply to play a child’s game. Further, that their IQs qualified them for little more than children’s games.
There was no denying that some, the pheenoms, were paid exceedingly well. But their profession had developed into a science of precision and perfection, with physical and mental rigors that few with smug intellects could have met.
In any case, they were certified celebrities. Their fame was equaled by few aficionados of their sport. And those few fans who could match the players press clipping for press clipping nearly always lacked the players’ physical presence. The players, almost all of them, lived up to the description “bigger than life.”
All of this subliminal self-awareness accompanied Bobby Cobb as he entered the mansion.
“Hey! Hi, Bobby! What’s happenin’?”
Damn! He couldn’t see who had greeted him. He couldn’t see a thing. Long ago someone had decreed that to be intimate, luxurious and stylishly pretentious rooms had to be kept so dark that it required half an evening for one’s eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness.
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