Good Friday,Hebrew Nationals, and The Church of Baseball

I’ve heard it said that while man created sports, God created baseball.

This makes sense to me as baseball is at the epicenter of my spiritual being. I can draw parallels between the organized religion in which I have been baptized (Catholicism) and the false idol to which I am admittedly more committed. (I feel guilty writing that so obviously The Catholics can claim some success with me.) I can find commonalities between baseball and Catholicism. Susan Sarandon’s character in Bull Durham pointed out: “There 108 beads in a Catholic Rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball.” Of course there are more overt examples. The stadiums and churches are breath taking cathedrals when they are at their best or, when designed and built between 1950 and 1970, bland and ugly. I give you Riverfront Stadium or my home Parish of St John Boscoe for perfect examples of the latter. (My cousin Doug accurately refers to St Johns as "The only ugly Catholic Church in the world.”) Even the traditional baseball meal of beer and hot dog takes on the communal feel of bread and wine.
Of course I only eat Hebrew National so who knows what the hell that means.
What can I say? The Jews make a tasty hot dog.

It's this last comparison that deepened one faith and forever altered the beloved ritual of the other.

My wife is a super-Catholic. The daughter of a devout Polish Catholic mother, she is the moral compass for our family. I am usually glad that I went to church while acknowledging that if left to me I would never go. I'm not exactly dragged to church but I confess to slipping off to the bathroom weekly and playing Angry Birds during Mass. My wife can recite all the necessary call and responses for any given feast on any given weekend. Like the other dedicated parishioners, the timing of her rote replies are in perfect unison while her idiot husband stands sheepishly next to her saying every fifth word aloud and clumsily mouthing the others in the hopes that his charade is known only to God and her.

I have never denied anything of which I write. She is more knowledgeable, more pious, more holy, better. In retrospect, that makes my decision to engage in a religious argument with her so stupefying. The reason is pretty simple.

I'm stupid.

Karen doesn't challenge me in a test of which '84 Tiger was used in situational relief (Doug Bair) or what utility infielder and all-purpose Tiger wore number 16 for said team. (Tom Brookens) The fact that I challenged her on the dictates of a Catholic mandate is so foolish that the truly amazing conclusion to this story can only be looked at as divine in nature.

A few years ago, the biggest weekend of our respective faiths crossed paths. Opening Day fell on a Friday, Good Friday as fate would have it. Per usual, I would be in attendance and decked out in my orange and blue, Olde English D's proudly displayed as to leave little doubt to which team I was devoted. I eagerly anticipated the game, the crowd, and everything John Fogerty sang about.
As much as anything, I couldn't wait for that first hot dog.

Like so many religious conflicts throughout history, this one started by chance and the flames quickly fanned into full blown war within a few days’ time.

I had wanted to go to Stations of the Cross, the service that detailed the final moments of Christ's life, and had mentioned that to my wife the previous year. As it turns out she listens when I mention things and she remembers it, often to my extreme detriment.

"Hey, I can't go but if you want to go to Stations of the Cross on Good Friday, I'm sure my mom will go."

I quickly and flatly rejected this suggestion with two words

"Opening Day."

"OK. You just said you would like to go."

"Yeah but not this Friday"

I'd like to think that to her credit, she understood and didn't push it and what followed was simply one of those twists of fate that led to something bigger. The cynic in me thinks she was lying in wait. Armed with righteous knowledge, she waged her very own crusade.

"What are you going to do about Good Friday?"
"Just let it happen. You know. Nothing I can do about it now."
"No smartass. What are you going to eat?"

I let this question ruminate. Why the hell is she asking this? She knows I'm going to eat a hot dog. I always eat a hot dog. Years of walking blindly into a trap had me proceeding with due care and caution. This was too important. With no worldly idea where the hell this was going, I proceeded, with extreme hesitation.
"A...Hot....Dog?"

It made no difference that my statement was more interrogative than declarative. I was still gazed upon like I was Linda Blair, molesting myself with that cross.

"YOU CAN’T DO THAT. IT'S GOOD FRIDAY?! YOU CAN'T EAT MEAT ON GOOD FRIDAY."

As I said earlier, This was serious. This was opening day. This was peanuts and cracker jacks. This was Hebrew National. It was fight or flight and damn it, some things are worth fighting for.

"Bullshit! I'm eating a fucking hot dog on Opening Day."
"It's Opening Day," I repeated, thinking it was a simple misunderstanding, a lack of clarity rather than 28 years of Catholic training that was hanging up my betrothed.

"It's LENT. You don't EAT MEAT on GOOD FRIDAY!"
She emphasized the important words to hammer home her point.

I scrambled together a sound and flawless argument.

"NO! NO! NO! Lent represents Jesus’ time in the dessert. He was dead on Good Friday. Lent: Over” I finished the argument with the universal symbol of dusting one's hand's off and added the safe sign for emphasis. I figured pulling baseball imagery into the argument was a nice touch.

My wife was clearly angry and took to the profane to aid her cause.

"NO. TOTAL BULLSHIT!"
"NO. It isn't. I'm having a fucking hot dog on opening day."
I said this last line in a low but steady, defiant tone and the argument was over. My wife silently stewing next to me, I knew the war wasn't over but I had won the initial volley.

Eventually, she just fucking wore me down.
Her plan of attack was brilliant. It was multi-faceted. It was sometimes full force anger. It was sometimes joking. It was sometimes appealing to human decency.
She brought it up several times a day over the next week. Knowing that above all things, including a hot dog with grilled onions, I value a quiet hassle free evening at home. She was bound and determined to win. The final straw came when, in a surprise attack, she brought in her mother, St Elizabeth of Livonia.

"Mom, Shane is going to eat a hot dog at the game on Friday."

My mouth fell open in utter shock. I was facing a force I knew I could not argue with. I had not anticipated this drastic step. My wife stood to the side with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Oh...Oh no" My mother-in-law voiced her disproval in a low, dramatic whisper. I'm sure she didn't actually make the sign of the cross but she wasn't far from that. I half-heartedly explained my logic, the disappointment registering on my mother in law's face throughout. I knew it was in vain before I even started

"OK. Fine" The defeat was unmistakable in my voice. I looked at Karen as Betty walked away.
"YOU ASSHOLE," I silently mouthed. She smiled wide, knowing she had won.

The big day came and my excitement was palpable. I bounded around the house alternating my songs between "Take Me out to the Ballgame" and "Centerfield." My day would not be ruined.

How the hell will she know if I have a hot dog?

She was not to be deterred. I kissed her goodbye and as I headed out the door she called after me.

"NO HOT DOGS."

How dare she? This is my day. My anger boiled over and with the door closed behind me my bravery surged. I turned and pointed emphatically at the door and said in a low growl. "I'm having a fucking hot dog."

And I did.
Two, in fact
They were delicious.
Sacrilicious.

"Did you have fun? Did you have a hot dog?" My wife followed up the first question quickly, betraying her true concern wasn't my enjoyment but my defeat.

"NO!" I sounded like a petulant indignant child.

Days passed and the issue died with my white lie. The next weekend I was having breakfast when an e-mail from my friend Drew popped in front of me. The message piqued my curiosity and I said aloud to Karen, "This is weird. Look at this."

She came over and looked. Drew's message was unusually cryptic

"Just past the half-way point" and a link. I clicked the link and a montage of opening day photos flashed across the screen. I said to Karen. "I wonder if I'm in here." My question was answered, as Drew promised, just after the half-way point.



My picture flashed onto the screen.
"Hey!" said Karen.

There I was in all my Olde English glory.
Sun shining brightly on my face
Spring in my step
Hebrew National Hot Dog in my hand


In a moment's time Karen turned from proud wife to Grand Inquisitor.
Arm extended and her finger pointing at me to emphasize my heresy

"THAT'S A HOT DOG! YOU ATE A HOT DOG! YOU SAID YOU DIDN'T! YOU LIED!"

I turned toward her, mouth agape, stunned.
"I...uhhh. I....uhhh." I stammered and stuttered.
I looked at her again. She stood there waiting.
My response was simultaneously wildly inappropriate yet totally appropriate.

"Holy Fuck"

"Yeah...I knew it." My wife turned and walked away, disgusted.

I sat there and stared at the picture of myself unbelieving yet at the same time, a true believer. Like any baseball fan I'm a superstitious guy. I don't use the words "no hitter" when a Tiger is throwing one. If the Tigers win a playoff game, I wear the exact same clothes until they lose. This was God telling me I was wrong and I knew it. My faith was deepened and it has altered my traditions. From that moment, I have and will never eat meat on Good Friday. I was wrong and Jesus was letting me know.

My friend Drew felt compelled to tie a bow on the gift he delivered to my door.

"You know, if you think about it, it's interesting that on Good Friday it was a Hebrew National hot dog that betrayed you."

Yeah, that is interesting Mel Gibson.

These are the kinds of people that I'm friends with.