Young blood and I attended an NFL game recently. Prior to the kickoff, an assemblage of players kneeled in one of the end zones in unison prayer. I looked and looked, but I couldn’t spot an offensive lineman who I know has Catholic roots and is furthermore a practicing one. There could be a perfect secular explanation for it, like he was getting his ankles taped up or getting that hump pad he attaches behind his neck positioned just right. It could also be religious and that’s why we didn’t see him out there in prayer with the others.
Six foot something giant mass, Abe Lucas, is that practicing Catholic. Young blood and I had the privilege of listening to him speak at a Catholics Men’s Conference not so very long ago. He was quiet even when he spoke. We’d have never known about his chosen way of celebrating his faith had we not attended that conference. Certainly not on that afternoon when several of his teammates assembled on the field to pray as one.
On that same afternoon, on the opposite sideline, was another practicing Catholic. Prospective Hall of Fame QB, Philip Rivers, had recently come out of retirement to help boost the Indianapolis Colts after their starter, Daniel Jones, suffered a season-ending injury. If there’s any doubt about this guy, Rivers, well, he’s got ten kids. He’s openly Catholic in his interviews. Point is, in the four quarters of football that I watched from the stands, a game that was stupid close, I didn’t see any showy displays of his faith. Granted, I broke my seal around the second quarter and I couldn’t stop pissing every five minutes after that, so maybe while I was taking a leak Rivers was crossing himself, genuflecting, something demonstrative. Given everything I know about how Catholicism and those who practice it work, I doubt it. And if he did, it was fleeting, bet on it.
In sharp contrast were the players who assembled in prolonged prayer for the game.
“That’s coooool,” young blood tells me. He has a tattoo of the cross on his forearm and wears these Essentials sweatshirts a lot. The ones that say Fear of God on them.
“Very,” I tell him. I don’t bother to point out to him my observation that Lucas is not among them or for that matter launch into any long speech about how Catholics are just not a showy faith, and how virtuous dad thinks that is and look at how Abe isn’t out there–now that’s cool. Young blood’s working out his own faith and expression. It’s all that matters.
In sharp sharp contrast was Troy Polamalu, a former, I swear preternatural safety for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Polamalu before every play would bless himself before going on to hospitalize a receiver in midfield or sail over offensive lines at just the right millisecond without getting called for off sides. He’d stop numerous plays from ever realizing that way. Not my place really to say whether what he did was somehow divinely backed or not. It was ridiculous, though, this ability of his.
These days I find myself making the sign of the cross before and after a lot of my plays. On the way to the can. (In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit)
Up a treacherous ladder at work to an operator’s nest. (In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit)
Of course after young blood gets home safely from college. (In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit).
And the almost header I took at work. Shit, that was close. (In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit).
The light would almost extinguish a few times last year on me finding work. Do I have to sell the house; over and over this pain in the ass question inside my tortured head. How in the hell was I going to pay for a college tuition without a damn job?
And then? In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
In traffic.
I did it all discreetly. Between Him and I and whatever fly may have been on the wall that day. But not today. Today I sing, In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Today I seek celebration. In Him, His Coming, His Life.
Today, there’s nothing to be discreet about.
Merry Christmas from Things Men Carry.
Things Men Carry 