by Gene Logsdon
Gabe wanted to plant on the 20th too, for the same reason, but deliberately waited until the moon was between the last quarter and the new moon when the almanac specifically warned not to plant anything. He picked the 25th in the sign of Aries, which the almanac said was unfavorable for root crops. He spaced his hills 18 inches apart too, but only 30 inches between rows to get more hills to the acre, using the latest improved potato variety from the university, so new it did not yet have a name but only a number.
Since the soil did not warm up sufficiently to sprout potatoes until the 28th, both crops appeared above ground on the same day: May 10.
Hasse fertilized his potatoes with the richest, most well-composted manure in his barn and twice as much as he normally would have used. Gabe consulted his scientific oracles again, and applied nitrogen, phosphorus and potash exactly as the university agronomists recommended, and then added a little more just to make sure. He also primed the soil with additions of boron, manganese, iron chelates, sulfur, magnesium and other strange trace elements he knew little about, just as the sellers of these micronutrients instructed him to do, even though they knew little about them either. Hasse weeded his rows with horse cultivator and hand hoe, and manually knocked potato beetles into a can of kerosene with a stick. Gabe cultivated with rototiller and sprayed the most advanced insecticides, herbicides and fungicides known to the high priests of Dow and Dupont. Over both plots, Blaze sprayed the merry sound of laughter.
Plants grew on both acres with a lush vigor that no one could remember ever seeing matched before, not even Harriet Snod, whose memory stretched over nearly two centuries because she kept alive her mother’s and grandmother’s memories. “Land sakes, ’taters never grew that good even before the beetle came in eighteen and fifty-seven,” she marvelled.
As word got around, farmers, gardeners and university extension personnel started dropping by to see how the contest was going. Gabe put up two signs. The one in front of his plot read: “God’s Potatoes.” The one in front of Hasses’s plot read: “Mammon’s Potatoes.” Prompted by Blaze, Hasse made two more signs. The one in front of his patch read: “Profitable, practical, traditional potatoes.” And in front of Oblate Gabriel’s plot, Hasse’s sign read: “Bankrupting, suckerbait, agribusiness potatoes.”
CHAPTER 17
Life within the walls of Ascension Seminary had become placid, in fact boring, after Fen and Blaze decided to cool their budding religious reformation. But the year was now shaping up into what the SBDC Boys figured would be the very nearly perfect life. In addition to the Great Potato Race, and Gabe’s experimental tobacco patch, Melonhead’s Ascension Mineral Water and Ascension Wart Remover, not to mention his Ascension Blood Cleanser, were attracting local attention as Axel spread the word among his moonshine clients. People were stopping at the barn as if it were a drug store, leaving behind, if they were so moved, an offering of a dollar a bottle for the medicines.
More exciting was the prospect of working on the newly rented farm on Lake Wassermensch which was far enough away from the seminary to offer Blaze the chance to avoid the prayerful life all summer long. Moreover the farm was a kind of vacation paradise since it all but surrounded the sixty acre lake. The lake was full of fish and wonderful for swimming. There was even a farmhouse and set of farm buildings on the place. Perhaps, Blaze daydreamed, he and Gabe and Fen could just stay there all summer, sleeping in the house and living mostly on fresh bullheads, crappies, snapping turtles and cattail roots from the lake, plus deer, rabbits and squirrels from the woods. He planted a little vegetable garden by the lake too. Might come in handy.
“But you know, it’s kind of sad,” he said, standing on the porch of the old farmhouse and looking out toward the lake.
“What’s kind of sad?” Brother Walt asked.
“Not so long ago, a family lived and farmed here. Can you imagine how idyllic that must have been, on a lake like this? All to themselves?”
“Yeah. Why do you think they quit?” Walt asked.
Blaze snorted. He knew. “Just like my father, I’m sure. They couldn’t make enough money to expand, and if they didn’t expand they couldn’t make enough money.”
Half-way through the planting season, another electrifying event occurred, at least for the SBDC Boys.
“Fr. Hildebrand is coming here to teach,” Danny excitedly announced in Melonhead’s lab where the gang had gathered as usual for a smoke and a wee sip of Ascension Blood Cleanser. He was waving a letter. Banana grabbed it and read. Both of them beamed. Hildebrand’s arrival would mean that there was a chance of playing baseball with outside teams as they had done in seminary high school.
Sports was the other reason why, after their high IQ scores, the Class of ’49, alias The SBDC Boys, had led charmed lives through the high school preparatory seminary near Paoli, Indiana. The prep seminary was the traditional place where candidates who lacked the proper attitude for celibate and obedient life were usually weeded out. But weeding the Class of ’49 presented certain difficulties. Except for Clutch, Melonhead and The Very Reverend Lukey, the members of this class were all good at sports, and some of them were exceptional. Danny and Banana had in fact attracted the attention of scouts from the Cincinnati Reds who came to watch them play when the boys were home during summer vacation. This attention had vexed Fr. Hildebrand when he found out. He had big plans. Seeing exceptional sports talent lying unmined in the Class of ’49, he had persuaded the Provincial and the Advisory Board, some of whom were sports fans as rabid as he, to allow St. Joseph’s prep-seminary to compete in baseball and basketball with regular southern Indiana high schools. The Cincinnati Reds could just stay the hell out of it. As a result, St. Joseph’s, the smallest school in the district, never lost a baseball game from 1947 through 1949, and won their sectional basketball tournament in 1948 against much larger schools. As long as Hildebrand held the high hand, there was little chance that anyone on the championship team would have been “weeded out,” even if caught off-property, in a bar, drinking beer with girls.
Now Danny and Banana, the two superstars, began plotting their return to baseball glory. First they had to discuss in minute detail who would play where, which was their favorite pastime. Danny would of course pitch, he said, and Banana would catch as they had all through high school and two-year college. Blaze would lead off and play short because of his speed and Gabe could play third and bat second, because of course Blaze and Gabe had to be back to back no matter what. Every time they got separated, things went bad for the SBDC Boys. Little Eddie would play second, Fen on first, and Mart left field. They would have to pick up two players from among the other seminarians.
“That’ll be Summerfeld and Algood for sure,” Banana said.
“And Nickles for a second pitcher,” said Danny. “He’s nearly as good as I am. What a dream team.”
“Better put Mart in right field. Summerfeld and Algood will bitch if either has to play right,” Banana suggested. “They think right field is beneath their dignity.”
“Well, that’s pretty stupid, because if any righthanders are lucky enough to hit my fast ball, it will be only to right field so that’s where we need the best fielder,” Danny said.
“Your humility is most admirable,” Blaze replied, unable to resist getting into the planning process himself. “But that’s not your best team. Let Gabe pitch and you play short and put Mart in left field and I’ll play center and then you got yourself a real outfield.”
“You out-humble me,” Danny said. “But who’s going to play third then?”
“Put Fen on third,” Blaze said.
“But Fen can’t throw to first.”
Fen rolled his eyes but said nothing. He knew that what was transpiring was as much fun for his classmates as actually playing the game. It reminded him of when, as a kid, he and his brothers spent their entire play time pretending to be cowboys by arguing over who got to be Gene Autry.
“Well, then, put Fen on first, yeah, that’s good and Al
good on third. Nobody hits it to third much on Gabe’s curve ball.”
And so they went, on and on, until Gabe said if they didn’t shut up he’d refuse to play at all. “Jeez, you haven’t even found out if Hildy is in favor of the idea,” he said.
“Oh, he’ll be in favor unless he’s had some out-of-life religious experience during the last three years,” Danny said.
As a matter of fact, Fr. Hildebrand had had a sort of out-of-life experience ever since he had found out that the Provincial was appointing him to teach at Ascension Seminary. Never had he thought that knowing a little about scriptural theology would work towards his true interests. He would be back with the Class of ’49, who by now would surely have matured into real ballplayers. He dreamed grand dreams. He would take his boys to the big time. He would pit them against the University of Minnesota and beat the asses off the Gophers. Oh, how good God was, to allow him a chance to further His honor and glory. Hildebrand could see the headlines in the paper: “Tiny Seminary Whips Big University.”
All of Danny and Banana’s plotting about who should play where on the team was therefore unnecessary. Hildy was way ahead of them. He had the lineup already set and there was no question but what Danny would pitch. He waited only for an opportune moment to win over Prior Robert. The Prior was not too swift, everyone said, or at least was easily manipulated. Robert should never have been appointed Prior, the other priests said, but they all supported the decision because under Robert they could get permission to do almost anything they pleased.
On a weekend in late April shortly after Hildy arrived at Ascension, he found himself accompanying the Prior to one of the large parishes in Minneapolis to hear confessions, say Mass and preach over the weekend. After confessions on Saturday night, the two relaxed in the priest’s residence next to the church. Hildy mixed the two of them drinks—seven-year-old Jim Beam, Hildy’s favorite. Only he slipped a third shot into Robert’s glass. He tried to get a ballgame on television, but the screen remained snowy no matter how he jiggled and wiggled the antenna on top of the set.
“Damn television,” he muttered. He turned it off and tuned in the radio to the Cleveland-Chicago game. Chicago was winning, which pleased Robert, an ex-Chicagoan.
“Did you ever stop to think how intellectual and uplifting the game of baseball is?” Hildebrand said, sipping.
Robert eyed him, slightly surprised. He had never before noticed any philosophical turn of mind in Hildy. “What do you mean? You just hit a ball with a stick and somebody else tries to catch it.”
Hildy acted as if he had just heard rank heresy. “Swinging that stick properly is a great gift from God,” he said soberly. “It is a high form of art, as much so as Da Vinci wielding a painter’s brush.” He sipped again, quite surprised at what had just issued from his mouth. He made a mental note to remember to use it in a sermon.
“I suppose so,” Robert replied rather absently, trying to listen to the game.
Hildy waited for Robert to take a few more sips before he continued. “It has always seemed a shame to me that the gifts that these professional players possess could not be used more for the honor and glory of God,” he intoned. “Sports stars are society’s heroes. What if we could use their great physical gifts for more spiritual purposes?”
Robert frowned into his whiskey. He had no idea what Hildy was up to, but up to something he surely must be. “The way some of them chase women, I don’t think that idea would bear much spiritual fruit,” he remarked drily.
Hildy’s left eyebrow arched. “Well, ahem, I suppose not. But you have to admit that if Babe Ruth had been a priest, think how many more Catholics there would be today.”
That amused Prior Robert exceedingly, knowing something about Ruth’s private life. But he only nodded. He thought he had figured out where Hildy was headed.
“As you know, Robert, when our prep-seminary team that I coached won the Paoli sectional basketball tournament in ’48, it was a great public relations breakthrough for us. It opened lots of doors in that largely non-Catholic area of southern Indiana. It actually brought us priesthood candidates from all over the Louisville-New Albany area.”
“So now that you are back together with your players, you’re wondering if you can do that again here.”
“Well, ah, well, as a matter of fact, yes,” Hildy said, taken aback slightly. Whoever said Robert was a little slow?
Prior Robert was inclined to refuse the request, since he had grave concern about what mischief the SBDC Boys might get into while playing baseball with outside teams, but he remembered his promise to God not to be mean to Oblate Blaise whom, he knew, would be one of the most eager players. Also, it appeared that the number of seminarians seeking advice on sexual matters had increased lately—in fact ever since they had been focusing on the sixth and ninth commandments in moral theology. Perhaps sports would take their minds off darker subjects in this season when young men’s fancies supposedly turned to thoughts of sex more than at other times—a stupid notion if there ever was one, he thought. Besides, Prior Robert loved baseball himself and wished that in his younger days, he had had the chance to play on a real team. “Okay, but all our games will be at the seminary, not off somewhere else.”
Hildy nodded as if humbly. When the time came to play elsewhere, he’d figure out a way.
Blaze forgot about solving the great train robbery mystery, about nailing his theses to the chapel door, even about Marge Puckett. Gabe forgot about making a fortune with potatoes and watercress. Fen forgot about worrying over whether he was straight or gay. The SBDC Boys quit roaming the swamps. They laid out and landscaped a ball diamond, which Blaze insisted on calling “Real World.” Danny’s muscles had filled out and hardened in construction work and now he could smoke the ball so hard into Banana’s mitt that the latter begged for mercy. Blaze and Gabe, perhaps from the exercise of milking cows by hand, swung the bat with a crisp quickness in their wrists that they had not exhibited in earlier years. Banana, also strong from construction work, regularly pounded the ball into the swamps over the right field fence, even occasionally against Danny’s best pitches. Hildy squirmed with delight as he watched. By May 20, they were ready for their first game.
Nearly every town in the surrounding area had its own, village-sponsored team. Baseball was serious business in rural Minnesota and when Ascension beat Chanhassen by the score of 18 to 1, the news travelled swiftly. Every village team wanted a crack at the “monks.” The monks systematically mowed down Carver, Victoria, Savage, Waconia, Pryor Lake, even Shakopee. Danny and Banana became household, or rather barnyard, names throughout Carver County. An increasing number of people came to the seminary to watch. Melonhead set up a table behind home plate where he dispensed bottles of his potions and collected donations in a cigar box. He explained to prospective customers that the mineral water from the “springs of Ascension” was good for “cleansing the bowels and general health benefits.” Occasionally a customer from a preceding Sunday actually came back for more. Prior Robert worried exceedingly about Ascension Mineral Water, but knowing that it was dear to Oblate Blaise’s heart, and remembering his promise to God, he allowed the seminarians to continue in business. He also had a premonition that allowing his oblates to play so many games with outside teams was going to get him in deep trouble, but he loved what was happening so much that he could not bring himself to stop it. Even among the oblates who thought baseball inappropriate for Josephians, the games aroused a certain pride. Who after all, can resist the ardors of rooting for the home team?
Blaze lived in utter euphoria, hardly able to believe he was batting so well. After he stole home to win the game against Shakopee, he abandoned his ideas of taking over the Catholic Church and began to plot how he might possibly get himself sent to the University of Minnesota to finish his priestly education. He would join the baseball team as a walk-on. Move over, Lou Boudreau, here I come.
Never before had life at Ascension proceeded so smoothly. There were no
complaints about the food. Scores in class tests rose. No more arguments erupted over moral theology. No reports of possible homosexual activities whispered their gossipy way into Prior Robert’s ear. The SBDC Boys quit playing dirty tricks on their fellow seminarians. Work on the building and in the gardens proceeded with much less complaining. Brother Walt claimed the farm was showing a profit. The only negative was that a whole case of beer had on several occasions disappeared from the priests’ recreation room whereas previously only one or two at a time had been missed. But, all things considered, a little stolen beer might be good for team morale, opined the majority of the faculty, caught up in support of the home team.
Hildy was quick to point all this out to Prior Robert. “These guys are actually passing even Biblical Hebrew,” he said. “Can you believe it?”
“Well,” said Robert, unimpressed. “All they have to do is memorize the Our Father and Hail Mary in Arabic letters.”
To which Hildebrand replied: “You can bet that not even the Pope can do that.”
Fr. Abelard knew exactly where the beer had gone. The damned SBDC Boys had thrown a couple of victory parties in the slaughterhouse. But since he was himself under considerable scrutiny because of his drinking problem, he took great pains only to prove to the Prior that he had not taken the beer to his room. He was terrified that if he squealed on the SBDC Boys, somehow it would lead to the revelation that he had been in the slaughterhouse that fateful night. Or, if he hadn’t been there, it might become evident that he had fantasized the episode, which to his alcohol-numbed mind, meant that his true awful self and his nagging sexual attraction to males would be found out. It might even unfold, horrors of horrors, that his former habit of standing naked in front of his mirror and masturbating might somehow become known. He became more convinced every day that it was his loathesome private habits that had led to his imagining the naked satyr floating around in the slaughterhouse. So guilt-driven had he become that he could no longer stand to look at himself in the mirror even fully clothed, nor feel drawn sexually to anyone, including himself. He decided that it was alcohol that had rid him of sexual desire, and so he drank even more to keep himself chaste. He was thankful that the focus was on the missing cases of beer and that no one realized that a case of whiskey had also disappeared from the liquor cabinet.