Chapter 8 – The Apology

It was during the 7^th grade. One night the phone rings. It’s Dave. Dispensing with any small talk, he gets right to the point: “My Dad says I gotta go to the rectory [the parish priests’ house] to apologize to Father T— . Will you go with me?”

I winced, suppressing a groan. I didn’t want Dave to know just how badly I didn’t want to go. I tried to act nonchalant, hoping and praying that I’d find a way to weasel out of Dave’s invitation.

“What’d you do?” I asked.

“I called T— a lying priest,” he replied so matter of factly his words hit me like a slap.

“You WHAT!?!” I heard myself squeak loudly, every trace of nonchalance gone.

“I called him a lying priest. On account of the Bulls tickets,” he explained, and I immediately understood. Father T— had been assigned to St. Clare parish several months earlier. He was kind of like a 1970’s version of Father Chuck O’Malley, Bing Crosby’s character in “Going My Way.” He was 30-ish and outgoing and did something we’d never seen any other priest do before. He played ball with us. Pick-up basketball. He was a decent player who did something else we’d never seen any other priest do before. He exerted himself. Now I’m not saying the other priests never exerted themselves just because they had a housekeeper and a cook and a handyman and a groundskeeper. I’m just saying that if they ever had exerted themselves, we didn’t happen to be around to see it when they did. Like us, he played to win. And we had a few other things in common with him, too – namely the White Sox, Bears, Bulls and Blackhawks.

We went to Comiskey Park for a couple Sox games every season, but only made it to Wrigley when the annual Cubs-Sox game was played there during the All-Star break. I’d never been to a Bears or Hawks game, but did see the Bulls once at the Chicago Stadium – on a Cub Scout outing. But we were way up in the nosebleeds.

Then one day, out of nowhere, Father T— casually says: “You guys wanna go to a Bulls game some time?” “Yeah!” we gushed, thrilled at the thought of seeing our heroes that included Chet “The Vet” Walker, “Stormin’ ” Norman Van Lier, Bob “Butterbean” Love and Jerry “Spider” Sloan from priest-provided, courtside seats. But after his generous offer, whenever Dave brought up the promised Bulls tickets, the good Father’s reply was always the same: “I’ll let you know.” After Dave’s fifth or sixth inquiry about the status of the tickets was met with the same pat answer, Dave shot from the hip with: “You’re not taking us to any Bulls game, you lying priest.”

Father T— had been so taken aback by the bold remark that he didn’t say a word to Dave about it. But he’d apparently said a lot more than a word to Dave’s Dad about it, and that’s why we were in such a pickle. It didn’t help matters that Dave’s dad happened to be an officer in the St. Clare Holy Name Society. In fact, that only made it worse.

“Do you have to go apologize?” I whined.

“If I don’t, I’ll be grounded,” Dave replied.

“For how long?” I asked, wondering if there was any chance I could convince Dave that being grounded for a couple of days might not be so bad.

“Until I apologize,” he explained.

In our experience, parents typically grounded their kids for a day or two for minor infractions, and for a week or two for more serious offenses. We had even once heard of a kid getting grounded for three weeks for stealing a car or robbing a bank, but we’d never been able to definitively substantiate that gross abuse of parental power. But this. This was unheard of! An open-ended grounding that could go on ad infinitum until Dave relented and repented – clearly a violation of the Fifth Amendment. But although the law was on Dave’s side, the court of parental public opinion was not, and any writ of habeas corpus, no matter how persuasively written, would surely fail to garner Dave’s release.

Ever the pragmatist, Dave decided to cut his losses and put that apology in his rearview mirror, pronto – but he needed back-up. That’s where I came in.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” I said, finally giving up on my misgivings, despite the fact that I was scared shitless about the fate that awaited us at the rectory.

So the next day I found myself standing at Dave’s shoulder as he rang the bell to the side door of the rectory. The housekeeper showed us in and had us wait in a library with rich, dark paneling.

Two minutes, which felt like an eternity, passed in silence. Then Father T—, minus his ever-present smile, appeared in the doorway and met Dave’s gaze. Dave looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber while I steeled myself for the ground to open up and swallow the both of us.

But as he approached Dave with his hand extended to shake, Father T— made his fatal mistake. He broke eye contact with Dave, glanced my way, and allowed the faintest “gotcha” smirk to flash across his face.

That’s when Dave the mongoose pounced, pumping Father T—‘s hand as he coldly spat these measured words: “My Dad told me I have to apologize, even though I don’t want to. Sorry. Let’s go, Jim.”

As Dave released the priest’s limp hand and turned towards the door, the color drained from T—‘s face. He stood there stock still and speechless, like one of the statues on the side altar. And when Dave led me from that dark room out into the bright sunshine, I felt as if I’d been plucked from the belly of the whale and safely deposited on Oak Street Beach.

We never heard a word about what had transpired that day in the rectory. And Father T— never joined us in a pick-up game again.

And a few years later, when Father T— decided to leave the priesthood, a number of theories were proffered about his motives for leaving. But I dismissed them all. Because I’d been there the day the Lord had forsaken him and his faith had been shaken to its foundation. The day the Lord had allowed young David to vanquish one of his own soldiers on the battlefield. The day that a few fearlessly uttered words had been slung at their target with such true aim, that they must have been guided by the hand of a righteous God.