The Apostles

When Roland Armstrong was in seventh grade, his dad, Ted, decided that he should join The New Millennium Universal Church Little League Baseball Team. The team was known as “The Apostles.”  Their opponents in the season opener were “The Jesuits” from Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception.  A rumor was circulating around the snack booth that the Jesuit’s ace pitcher, Michael Kirpatrick, had a nasty inside slider.

         “last season he zipped an 85 mph fastball right into a kid’s  helmet –  he was out cold for ten minutes” one parent reported with concern.

              “he hit three kids in the City League last summer is what I heard” another lamented.

          A tall man wearing a Jesuit T-shirt had just finished buying a corndog at the stand. He had a fierce face: tiny hawk nose, bright eyes, thick red hair that stuck out in wild tufts:

“ maybe they were all crowding the plate, ever think of that?”

          “our team don’t crowd the plate!!”  Ted Armstrong informed him

           The red-headed man just smiled and held out his hand:

            “I’m Father Kirpatrick – father of the pitcher and father of the church”

            Ted shook his hand: “ good luck, Father.  you’re gonna need it when my boy comes to the plate.”

        “ just tell your little Apostle not to crowd the plate.”

         By the third inning, it was painfully clear to all the New Millennium parents that the Jesuit pitcher was truly inspired.  No one could hit him. They swung late, they popped up, they watched the ball dance and weave.  Father Kirpatrick shared his observation loudly with the crowd that the pitching was “immaculate.”  A few of the nuns giggled. Ted was not laughing. Roland crouched over the plate and looked up at his dad. 

          “its gonna be the fastball !!”  Ted yelled.

            “can’t hit what you can’t see”  the fat Jesuit catcher taunted Roland.

            “keep your eyes on it, son!” Ted screamed.

            “ go Jesuits!” the nuns yelled in unison.

            “ go Apostles!” the New Millennium gospel choir responded.

            “ come on  come on – big swing, big miss, batter batter” the infield chattered in a haunting Gregorian chant.

Roland watched the tall, skinny kid on the mound. No expression.  Cap pulled down low. Eyes hidden in the shadows. The pitcher stared down into the strike zone and then at the heathen batter that must be defeated. It was like Mordred about to destroy King Arthur.

  Kirpatrick stood up in the stands:

            “ smoke ‘em,  Michael!”

            “ focus, Roland!”  yelled Ted.

            “ its like lightning”  the catcher advised: “if you don't hear the thunder, 

            it means you got struck.”

              The first pitch started out slow and straight for the sweet spot. Roland swung at the ball like he was trying to kill all the ghosts of childhood in a single blow. He missed. The ball took an uncanny dive about 6 ft before it reached the plate. 

            Kirpatrick was standing: “ beautiful! did you see that thing sink?”

            Ted stood up: “ check the seams, ump – that ball ain’t right!”

            “nothing's wrong with the ball,  Mr. Millennium”  Kirpatrick barked.

            “ how you know? get a message from the Pope?”

            “ I know what Michael can do with the ball”

              “ look at the baseball, umpire!”  The umpire rolled the ball around in his hands.  He shook his head at Ted and threw it back to the pitcher:

              “ play ball!”

              “ better start prayin’ to one of your saints, father, cause its about to be hammer time for the Apostles!!”  Ted made a series of complex gestures toward the dugout:  chin scratch, cap pull, nose pull, chin scratch, two pats on the head.  At this signal, the Apostlettes emerged from behind a crumpled tarp. The six young ladies were wearing shockingly tight Apostle T-shirts, featuring a young bearded Brad-Pitt-looking Jesus clutching an enormous baseball bat.  Underneath this emblem, the shirt read:  “Apostles – batting for Jesus!”

  The Apostlettes  jumped in front of the dugout and broke into a cheer, complete with synchronized leg kicks: 

                     

                          “ Matthew  John, Luke and Mark

                        one of ‘ems gonna knock it  outta the park

                        Peter, Thomas, Judas and Paul 

                          they’re  gonna show you how to play ball

                        and if these guys can’t  pull the team through

                            Jesus gonna put the whammy on you

                            Jesus gonna put the whammy on you!”



        The nuns managed to calm Kirpatrick by reminding him that the theme of his next homily was : “The Inner Peace  of the Blessed Virgin.”  He slowly sat down and began roughly gnawing his corn dog.  All eyes went back to the tragic duel, the light saber showdown between the pitcher and the batter. Young Kirpatrick’s eyes glinted from the depths of the cap’s shadows. Roland glared back at him with a smirk of confidence and contempt. The second pitch started wide and then whipped back to the plate and up and up until it whacked into Roland’s helmet with a sickening pop that sounded like a gunshot. Roland remained still for a few seconds, but he did not fall to the ground.  He slowly removed the helmet and took out a special piece of shock absorbent foam Ted had designed and threw it in the dirt.  He ran at full sprint toward the mound and dove at the pitcher, punching short fast stabs into his abdomen.  They rolled in the rising dust behind the pitcher’s mound.  Both dugouts emptied into the field in a Holy War. Kirpatrick bolted into action heading for the field but a very large man stood at the gate blocking him. 

            “ get out of my way, Sutterfield, that’s my son out there.”  Sutterfield was the pastor of the The New Millennium Universal Church.  He weighed 270 lbs.

            “let the coaches break up the fight, Father”

              One of the nuns handed Kirpatrick an aluminum bat.  He took a wild swing at the gate blocker.  Sutterfield easily dodged the attack, then leaned over and punched the reverend sharply in the nose. Father Kirpatrick  fell down like a rag doll.  A sharp cry arose from the nuns.  One of the Jesuit sisters raised her voice above the chaos on the field: “ know what happens when you hit a reverend, Sutterfield?  you spend your eternity  in the lowest regions of Hell – you know, the hottest, most painful places – with people like Adolph Hitler,  Atilla the Hun, Judas Iscariot and Elvis”   

          “what did Elvis do that was so bad ?” 

          “ somebody call the paramedics”  one of the nuns wailed.

          “anybody else want to go out to the field?”  The nuns said nothing now – just stared at Sutterfield as if he were the anti-Christ.  Out around the pitcher’s mound, the fight was over.  A distant siren was getting louder and louder.  Michael Kirpatrick’s  left eye was swollen nearly shut and ugly purple bruising had already spread down his cheek. The siren was getting louder. Roland had a fat lip and a smile that didn’t go away for three days.