Once More Into The Breach, Dear Friends.
By Tom Danehy
I HAVE A friend named Phil. As in most cases in my narrowly
defined life, we became friends because of basketball. But we
soon hit it off and our shared interests expanded to include other
things, like summer-league basketball.
He's the varsity girls' coach at Amphi. I started helping out
with open gym and summer leagues and eventually applied for the
vacant freshman girls' coaching job. He was reluctant to hire
me, but he kinda had to when the only other applicant for the
job, Carla Faye Tucker, became, well, permanently unavailable.
Phil's from Oklahoma, which ought to be worth a whole bunch of
easy jokes for me. But I've got to be careful. Apparently, he's
got a squadron of siblings all over the Southwest, all connected
by that pesky internet thing, on which The Weekly floats
freely.
One time I wrote that in Oklahoma, organized crime goes by the
name of football practice. Two days later, there was a knock on
my door. When I opened it, on the doorstep was a rolled-up newspaper
on which was written, "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes."
Inside the newspaper was a can of tuna. I guess it's hard to find
fresh fish in the desert.
I was gonna show my contempt for my tormentors and make tuna
salad out of it, but I kept thinking about Luca and didn't want
to bite into a toe or something. Even with mayonnaise on it, that
would be disgusting.
So, right now I'm going to say that Oklahoma is great. Hey, Will
Rogers escaped from Oklahoma and brought all kinds of funny stories
with him. The musical Oklahoma! is based in Oklahoma, I
think. I'm not real big on show tunes.
Oklahoma's even a state; I checked. Of course, it was forever
supposed to be Indian Territory, but how could the people who
wrote that treaty possibly know that down the road they were going
to discover oil there? I especially like Oklahoma's state motto:
"We're Not Texas!" That automatically endears Oklahoma
to the other 48 states.
Just kidding. I like Oklahoma. I like Phil's family. I got to
hang out with his mom and dad when they visited recently. His
dad even went with us on the Death Trip down to Sierra Vista to
play Buena High. He got a big kick out of the police escort we
got on the way out of town.
Anyway, Phil got married a couple years ago to a wonderful woman
named Gloria, who happens to be from Colombia. Gloria has some
executive position with the UA, which means she wields enormous
power over all of our lives, yet walks among us as a normal human
being.
Late last spring, Phil and Gloria learned they were going to
have a baby. Everyone congratulated them, and then I added, "Hey,
why don't you give the kid a traditional Colombian name, like
'Cartel?' "
I figured people from Colombia can't be all that sensitive about
that stuff. I'm giving her one more year to laugh at that joke
and then I'm rescinding it.
I pressed on with Phil. Just imagine: Cartel Reynolds. Everybody
will read the name in the sports page and imagine the kid is black,
like they used to do with New York Giants running back Tucker
Fredrickson.
Oh, I forgot to mention. Phil is chronically Caucasian. The dude
would get a sunburn if you turned the three-way lamp bulb up to
"medium." And Gloria's got some serious freckles. The
kid's guaranteed to do some industrial-strength SPF-ing in his
life.
I kept pushing for Cartel, or even better, Car-Tel, but they
decided on Leo. Which brings me to the point of all this. They
called the other day and said they were going to baptize Baby
Leo in a few weeks. When I asked him where the ceremony would
be held, he answered, "The Newman Center on the UA campus."
A sense of dread washed over me. I had told myself I'd never
go in there again. Actually, I had told myself that several times,
and each time I went back I remembered why I kept telling myself
that first thing.
For the uninitiated, the Newman Center is a Catholic Church on
campus. Lots of colleges have Newman Centers, which is a truly
chilling thought.
Back when I was in college, I used to attend Mass every Sunday
at the Newman Center. It was like Hippies Throw A Catholic Shindig.
Hey, I'm old-fashioned. Catholic Mass is supposed to be predictable,
dependable, perhaps even a little boring. At the Newman Center,
it was like, "Hey, let's try this new thing!"
Every week, it was something else. Banjo music. Giant hunks of
bread instead of the predictable, dissolvable host. Dancing.
After my wife and I got married, we started going to St. Frances
Cabrini, and slowly the nightmares of priests in tie-dyed albs
began to fade. Occasionally, we'd find ourselves back at the Newman
Center, but it always made me nervous.
So when Phil said the baptism was going to be at the Newman Center,
I said, "I'll bring the tambourine."
As a matter of fact, the last time we went, it was the music
that ruined the day. My infant son was looking at the instruments
during the Mass and this woman snapped at him, "Don't bother
those things! It'll mess up my rhythm."
As the Mass progressed, I realized that with rhythm like that,
this woman probably thinks Mick Jagger is a good dancer. And then
she sang! It sounded like Harvey Fierstein was gargling rocks.
I know it's a Catholic Church and I'm supposed to respect it,
but gee whiz. After the Mass was over, they had everybody give
the musicians a hand. I hate clapping in church. It's like, hey,
I stood up and knelt down at the right times, my kids served Mass
without dropping anything. We don't expect applause. We were doing
our part, just like the musicians.
I'm going to the baptism, and I'm sure it'll be a beautiful ceremony.
But if they start chanting, I'm gone.
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