by Gene Logsdon
In Chaska, a few miles from the seminary, Red Blake sat in the dugout after a game, swigging on a beer too, and gloating over the scorebook. His team, the Chaska Wildcats, had just trimmed Mankato by a score of 3 to 1, largely on the strength of his pitching and his homerun. He was well aware that were it not for his tremendous ability, Chaska would have been too small a town to sport a triple A, semi-professional baseball team and play against towns the size of Mankato. He could be playing in the minor leagues, might possibly even in the majors if he wanted to. But Red Blake much preferred lording it over players well beneath his skill level. He had, in fact, played a season in the minor leagues where he was reminded every day that he was no more a hotshot than the other minor leaguers. Accustomed to the adoring awe of the baseball crowd in Carver County, he did not appreciate being just another player in the minors. So he came back home. He understood the joy of finding a puddle small enough so that he could make a big splash.
“Twelve strikeouts,” he counted. “If that goddam ump wasn’t blind, there’d be fifteen.” The team’s manager, sitting beside him, nodded. He put up with Blake’s bragging because without him, the Wildcats couldn’t have beaten every team in the surrounding tri-county region for six years running.
Another voice interrupted Blake’s glowing reverie. It was the ubiquitous Kluntz, the bearer of all local gossip. Kluntz never missed a Wildcat game. He had helped buy the scoreboard, the only time anyone could remember that he donated to anything. He thought that gave him the right to sit in the dugout any time he wanted to, which was always.
“There’s one team in the area you haven’t beat,” he said, and there was something in his attitude that suggested maybe Blake was a yellow-bellied bully, which is exactly what Kluntz thought.
“Forget it, Kluntz,” Blake replied, knowing full well what team the weathered old farmer was referring to. “We’re not wasting our time on a bunch of monks. That would be slaughter. The fans wouldn’t like it.”
“’Specially if you lost,” Kluntz said.
“Oh, for Chrissake, Kluntz. I doubt we’d even be allowed to play a team so far beneath our division.”
“Yep, you can,” Kluntz said. “I checked it out. Besides those monks have beaten every other team around them. People already startin’ to talk, you know. Sayin’ you’re scared of them.”
“Well, goddam, Kluntz. Bring the lambs to slaughter.” Blake did not even bother conferring with the manager. He ran the team and everyone knew it.
“You gotta play on their diamond. They ain’t allowed to play elsewhere.”
“We’ll play ’em in your barnyard if you like.”
Next day, Kluntz showed up at Hasse’s barn, where Gabe, Fen and Blaze also waited for his report. The three seminarians had become almost like family on the Hasse farm, as he had on theirs. “It worked. It worked,” Kluntz said gleefully, dancing his little jig around the stanchion barn. “They’ve got an opening in their schedule next Sunday. Hee hee hee hee hee.” Then he paused, never sure of anything. “You really think you can beat them?”
“Of course,” Blaze said. “Take more than Chaska to beat Danny’s pitching.”
“What Kluntz means,” the glittery-eyed Hasse explained, “is can we bet on you and win? Think we can get ten to one odds?”
“Hasse, if they made you president, this country would be outta debt in three months,” Gabe remarked.
“I can tell you one thing,” Blaze said. “They won’t get many runs. Nobody can hit Danny Danauau when he’s on, except Banana. The whole thing’ll rest on whether we can get a run or two out of this Red Blake you keep talking about.”
“Red’s getting a gut on him,” Kluntz said. “He ain’t what he was five years ago. He’s thirty-five, his fast ball’s slower than Danny’s. Other night, that bunch from Hutchinson got him for eight runs but he turned around and hit three homers to beat ’em anyway.”
“Seems to me if you can get ten to one odds, you ought to take it,” Gabe said to Hasse, never letting really important aspects of a discussion languish. “You can split your winnings with us. Give us a little incentive.”
Hasse chuckled. If the Josephians didn’t make Gabe the head monk as soon as possible, they would prove they were just as dumb as he thought they were. “I just might do that,” he said.
“Put it in writing.”
CHAPTER 18
Blaze thought Sunday would never come. He and Danny spent most of the morning raking the ball diamond in preparation for the one o’clock game. Prior Robert dispensed the entire community from chanting breviary for the rest of the day so everyone could watch the game. The oblates lined the first base side of the playing field to cheer their comrades on. A relatively large group of visitors settled into lawn chairs along the third base line, some of them to root for Chaska, others out of disbelief that monks could play baseball well enough to attract the Wildcats. Melonhead got rid of every bottle of Ascension Water and Ascension Wart Remover he had displayed on the table. Gabe had tried to get Prior Robert to invest in a coin-operated portable toilet, seeing as how the sulfur water could sometimes act fairly fast, but the Prior did have his limits. The crowd could use the cornfield across the road as usual.
Red Blake arrived only minutes before the game, toting a large bag with his five expensive bats, his three special gloves, his two pairs of spikes, and a selection of sunglasses. Trailing him were three adoring females, two adoring teenage boys and the manager. He threw only a few warm-up pitches to show his utter disdain for monks.
On the diamond he glared at the first batter who was grinning toothily at him. What nerve! He’d just whiz a fastball straight down the middle so fast that the toothy grin wouldn’t even see it. That would wipe that goddam smile off his face in a hurry. He reared back and fired.
It seemed that he had barely released the ball when wood cracked against leather and the ball went whizzing back past his ear. Blake had the sickening realization that he would not have gotten his glove up in time if the ball had been coming straight at his head, and he might be dead now. His reflexes must be slowing a little. To add to his humiliation, the batter laughed gratingly all the way to first base.
All the SBDC Boys knew what was going to happen next. No signals necessary. In games they were not sure of winning, they always proceeded the same way if Blaze got on base. On Blake’s next pitch, Blaze stole second, laughing gratingly all the way. Gabe was taking the pitch all the way too. Standard procedure. The SBDC Boys had not yet met the catcher who could throw Blaze out. On the next pitch, Gabe bunted down the third base line, a skill he had mastered over many years. Blaze did not even pause with the pitch, knowing the bunt would be down on the ground, not popped up, knowing that the third baseman would never have time to field it, wheel and throw to the shortstop covering third to get him. Gabe was out at first, but Blaze was on third, and Danny at the plate. A sacrifice fly would bring Blaze in, and no one could remember if there had ever been a time when Danny could not hit a fly ball when he needed to. He lifted the first pitch to the center fielder and Blaze sauntered home. Blake had made four pitches and the monks already had a run.
That could be enough, Danny told everyone. He proceeded to retire the Wildcats for five innings. But then Blake finally caught up with one of his fastballs and sent it over the snowfence into the swamp behind the field. Score tied.
Tension mounted. Fen’s lips felt to him like ancient parchment. Gabe’s and Banana’s bravado disappeared. Even Blaze turned grim. “Baseball is life and life is baseball and he who remains in baseball remains in life and life in him,” he would write later in his journal. Only Danny remained unruffled. Blake, by now fully warmed up, methodically worked his way through the monk batters, allowing only two scattered hits by Danny and Banana. Top of the eighth. Blaze on short took his practice groundball from Fen at first and decided to toss it to Gabe at third instead of the usual routine back to Fen at first. In turning towards third base, his eye caught a face in the crowd that made him
stop dead in his tracks. Oh, wow. It was Marge Puckett and she was looking straight at him. Oh, wow. He grinned at her. She smiled back. Oh, wow.
Blaze’s rockets of emotion blasted off. He ascended into heaven. This was the first time in his life that he felt something really great was happening to him. Red Blake at the plate smashed a hot grounder over second, a sure single. But Blaze was after it with a speed that was now inspired by more than muscular quickness. He dove, the ball skipped up and slammed into his glove at the very last possible split second before it otherwise would have bounced on into centerfield. His momentum carried him head over heels behind second base but he came up on his feet firing to first to catch the slow-running Blake. One out. Everyone was screaming. Trotting back to his position, he stole a look. Sure enough she was clapping and smiling at him. Oh, wow.
That play seemed to break the Wildcats’ spirit because it wasn’t likely that Blake would get to bat again. They went down lamely in that inning and in the next, last, inning. Now it was the bottom of the ninth and Blaze was leading off again. He’d bounced weakly to short his last two times up and Red Blake figured he had him in the palm of his hand, almost literally. But now Marge Puckett was in the picture, and Red Blake’s fastball was, whether Blake knew it or not, not quite as fast as in the middle innings. A less bullying pitcher might have tried some curve balls, but Blake wanted to crush this smiling smartass with fastball machismo. His first one brushed Blaze back from the plate. Prior Robert smiled. “Pride cometh before the fall, Mr. Pitcher,” he mumbled under his breath from behind the backstop. “I think if you put that fastball over the plate, it’s all over for you.”
Blake reared back again and in the ball came, not quite so lightning fast as five years ago and fat across the plate. Again there was the sweet sound of ash meeting leather and the ball whizzed past Blake almost in exactly the same spot as in the first inning. When Blaze stopped on first with a single he was cackling his irritating cackle. “You cocky sonovabitch,” Blake muttered, just loud enough for Blaze to hear. The remark of course delighted Blaze. “And I’m going to steal second and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Blake winked at the catcher, their sign for a pitch out. He stretched and threw, taking a split second longer than he usually would have in delivering the ball to tempt Blaze even more into stealing. But even as he released the ball, Blake knew he had done wrong. Because of his slight hesitation, Blaze had gotten a jump that even a pitchout was hardly going to work. Furthermore, rarely ever having to throw a pitchout, Blake threw a little too far out, and the catcher had to glove the ball off balance. Blaze streaked down the basepath, dove out towards the right of second base, throwing up a little duststorm in the middle of which his left hand snaked out and caught the corner of the bag. Safe.
Now it was up to Gabe to dump down his patented bunt. But this time Blake was ready. He gave Gabe a good pitch but just a tad slow so that Blake could be moving toward the third base line before the ball even reached Gabe. Gabe dropped down the bunt. Blake pounced on it like a cat on a mouse, grinning now because he had the smart sonavabitch going to third dead to rights. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw the smart sonuvabitch had never hesitated to make sure the bunt was down, and was streaking toward third a step farther along than Blake thought possible. Blake whirled and threw, too fast, to the shortstop covering third. The throw was high and Blaze came plowing through the dirt on his belly like a mole gone berserk, only his hand showing above ground, caressing the base. Safe. The monks were now all cheering in a very unmonklike way, even Very Reverend Lukey. The Prior was jumping up and down. Jesse was drooling while he shouted, “Jack, Jack, oh, pal Jack!” Through the dust, Blaze was squinting at Marge Puckett. She was on her feet screaming. Oh, wow, he thought. This was better than orgasm.
Now Danny Danauau had to at least hit a sacrifice fly. If Danny didn’t do it, surely Banana would. The monks were roaring now, remembering their old highschool cheer.
Oh wow, Oh wow
Danny Danauau.
Oh wow, O wow
Danny Danauau!
A double play would negate the chance of a sacrifice fly, Blake knew, but that sonuvabitch with jets in his heels on third would make it home. Only a couple infield pop-ups or a come-backer could get the Wildcats out of the jam. But that was not likely to happen, he knew. The next two players had been the only ones to get hits other than the smartass sonuvabitch standing on third, taunting him. He deliberately walked Danny to load the bases to make a force out on any base. Fr. Damien, beside Prior Robert behind the plate, lost his priestly cool and yelled ancient Hebrew curses at Blake that, had anybody known, translated roughly into “May you fry in hell, you fat-bellied, illegitmate son of Islam.”
Banana stepped to the plate. He believed that but for the hand of God, he might be stepping up to the plate for the Cincinnati Reds somewhere. Just as he knew the hand of God had steered him to the Josephians, he knew with absolute trust that God had foreseen this moment in the summer of 1955 and had willed that he would drive Blaze home and win another victory for Christianity. He let one good pitch go by. No matter. It was all pre-ordained. He could have closed his eyes and still hit the ball. Banana’s big rawboned body unwound on the next pitch, the bat blurred in the hot summer air, and the ball disappeared into the swamp over the right field fence.
Oh, the bittersweet tragedy of life and the blessedness of not knowing the future. Banana, dancing around the bases, shouting in joy, was living the last truly happy moment of his life. Blaze, skipping home from third, looking at Marge cheering for him, was living the first truly happy moment of his. It was a good thing he had to go on to home plate to make the score legitimate or he just might have run instead deliriously into her arms.
After the cheers died down, and the fans had gone home, and the crazy story settled into local history of how a bunch of monks had beaten a Class triple A, semi-pro baseball team, Hasse was methodically counting up his winnings. Even if God did not exist, it paid to be on His side, he was thinking, just as Kluntz always maintained. “Hunderd twenty, hunderd thirty, hunderd eighty, two hunderd,” he counted, collecting the fruit of his ten-to-one bet from the hapless Blake. He then started rather suddenly for his car. But the way was shortly blocked.
“Pay up.” It was Gabe, covered with ball diamond dust, extending his hand. “You really ought to give it all to us so that God has mercy on your impenitent soul.” Then, to his surprise, Hasse did exactly that. Gabe smiled. And so did Hasse.
CHAPTER 19
The baseball game eventually faded into memory, and the realities of life, however unreal they might be in this case, returned. Blaze began to fantasize about Marge Puckett again. Had she come to the game to see him? Should he have talked to her? Was that her boyfriend with her? Maybe it was her brother.
Meanwhile, the rumors about seminarians going to universities to complete their priestly studies were heard more frequently in the halls of the seminary. Gabe began to worry seriously. One scuttlebutt had him going to Rome. If that summons came as a direct order, he didn’t know how he was going to avoid it. He could not violate his vow of obedience. But he had no intention of abandoning his “projects.” His tobacco patch and potatoes were growing wonderfully. He and Clutch had almost figured out how to automate the packaging of watercress for sales to grocery stores. Sales of Melonhead’s herbal remedies at the barn had picked up since the ball game. Their new product, Road Tar Honey Toothpaste, was almost ready for distribution. There had to be a way out of this stupid Rome dilemma, a way to be disobedient without being disobedient.
An idea finally came to him. He would demonstrate that he was not intelligent enough for the brainy education his superiors had in store for him. Screw Rome.
Fen was being overwhelmed again by dreams of sexual behavior so lewd that even to recall them in the morning ran the risk of committing the sin of impure thoughts. His wayward subconscious had returned to its insidious attack on his chastity. At least now
he knew he wasn’t gay. Couldn’t be. Girls had come to the games almost from the start, and, studying them out of the corner of his eye, he was fascinated. His world had been almost exclusively male even before he went into the seminary at age 14. Blaze had grown up with a house full of sisters, which, he liked to say, was the reason he had gone to the seminary. But the only female that Fen had known well was his mother and she died of cancer when he was in the eighth grade. The only women he had become familiar with since then were the misty and voluptuous nymphs of his dreams. The dreams convinced him that he was not meant to be a priest, but it was too late for that. He had already taken vows, which meant that God hath spoken, Amen. He was trapped. But if he didn’t find a way out of the trap, he would go crazy.
What to do? After he had reached the age of so-called reason, seven years old, he had trained himself, as the Church taught he must, to reject any direct complicity with sexual pleasure outside of marriage. Because of his iron will, he had seemingly succeeded. So strong had been his resolve that for a while even in his sleep, he seldom did anything actively to reach orgasm. His conscious mind could almost always stab down into his subconscious and stop the completion of any action that might result in sexual release. But nature eventually caught up. The more resolutely he tried to stop orgasm, the more strongly his libido asserted itself. His nightly dream of coupling with an endless line of supplicant women took a new turn. The women no longer remained passive. They came after him. They kissed him. They wrapped their legs around him. They did awful, loathesome things to him. And until he awakened fully and clamped his iron will down hard against his dreams, he knew he loved every bit of it and could hardly wait to go to sleep again.