Conceived Without Sin (3 page)

"Best friends?" Sam stifled a laugh.
This guy is a nutcase.
He began to get up to leave.

"Where you goin'?"

"Home," Sam said.

"See you on the courts tomorrow?" Buzz said, a trace of humor in his voice.

"I might not go. I don't
care
if the Man likes you. Geeze, you're a piece of work."
Sam finished, exasperated, satisfied that he had gotten out the words.

"You make snap judgments," Buzz replied, looking up, unperturbed. He looked past Sam toward the waitress stand. No luck. "Look, sorry. I am what I am. Obviously, you're not Catholic–"

"What do you mean by that? What does that have to do with anything? You're the one who ran into me on the court, pal…" Sam rolled his eyes. "Why
am I even talking to you?"

"Because we're going to be friends."

"Hmmn. In case you haven't noticed, I'm getting up to leave."

"In that case, okay, you win. I'll buy the drinks
and
the burgers. Sit down." Buzz was smiling.

Something kept Sam from turning and walking away. Maybe it was the obvious mirth in this jerk's eyes.
What's so funny?

"Just tell me one thing before I go, Buzz. How come you
think we're going to be friends?"

Buzz gestured to Sam's seat. Sam found himself sitting down lightly, just as the waitress came. Buzz ordered a Pepsi and two bacon cheeseburgers. Sam ordered a Bud Light to be polite, but was still planning to leave as soon as he heard Buzz's answer.

After the waitress left, Buzz seemed to take a long time to take his knife and fork out of the napkin. He pulled
out a pack of smokes, and lit up, taking a long drag. Sam held back an urge to leave the table again.

"Thanks for waiting. Look, to answer your question, I just know. I have one other friend in the world, and he lives in New Jersey, and because he can't stop drinking, I don't get to hang out with him very much. I just know. I knew it the minute you tried to hit me. I just know a lot of things.
Like I know you went to college in the Midwest."

"So what? The Man told you."

"He didn't tell me. Let me prove it to you. I'll guess several things about you right now."

Sam said nothing. Buzz took it as a signal to start guessing. He was enjoying himself.

"First, I know you're probably an only child, or at least don't come from a big family. You grew up around here. I know you played hoops in
high school but not in college. I know you don't like to have fun–probably you're a workaholic." Buzz noticed that this last guess caused something to happen behind Sam's eyes. He plowed on. "I know you don't hang out with many girls. I know, even if all my other guesses are wrong, that you're not Catholic and that you're one lonely sonufabitch. You reek loneliness. Sorry, you asked me to guess."

Sam looked down. He felt strange, almost like crying. He was a grown man, so tears were out of the question.

"How do you know all these things?" he asked in a melancholy tone. "Are you a mentalist or something?"

"No. Just lucky guesses. I may be a UPS driver now, but mostly I'm a drifter. I watch people. My father said I have a gift, that I should be a writer or something, but I don't know. It's
not psychic, though, just guesses. I just watch people and find them fascinating and study human nature. I could do the same thing with our waitress. I'll tell you how I do it."

Sam wasn't buying any of this, but he was curious, and there was something about this guy that he liked. He no longer wanted to leave.
Amazing.

"Tell me."

"Your accent gave away where you grew up. You talk like a college
grad, it's in your vocabulary, your sentence structure. How many people know the word 'mentalist,' for cripes sake? The hoop thing was obvious–I got a chance to watch you play today. You're too smart and have too good a vocabulary to have wasted your time playing in college. You don't play like you were coached all that much, but like you taught yourself to be as good as you are. For example, you
don't set good picks or come off them closely–self-taught all the way. It's obvious that you're shy, and since you fall into the great ninety-percent of us in the world who are either a little bald, a little fat, a little ugly or whatever, I guessed that you're not a lady's man. Most guys aren't. As for the loneliness stuff, well, I've sung my own version of Old Man River a few times, and to tell
you the truth, I can just feel it. Not Catholic? Pure guess. My odds were four to one, given the population of the U.S., a bit lower in this part of the country." Buzz finished with a big breath, propping his eyebrows up while keeping his mouth in a bit of a frown.

The waitress came with the beer and Pepsi. Buzz drank half his down in one big gulp and took another toke on his cigarette, looking
at Sam. That self-satisfied expression was still on Buzz's face.

"I am Catholic," Sam lied, testing this strange companion.

"Then say the Hail Mary."

"Right. Hail Mary…full of grace…" Sam started to falter. "Okay, I was testing you."

"So, did I guess right? It's a gift. But it's really just guesses. Anyone could do it if they paid attention."

"Sure. I suppose you're a Catholic."

"My day rises
and sets on it. Hey! Let's skip religion and move right on into politics…"

"You're dodging me. How come you start something like saying 'My day rises and sets on' being Catholic and then stop right there? You can't start the conversation by telling me I'm not a Catholic and just drop it."

Sam took his first swig of beer. He closed his eyes.
Nothing like a beer after a workout.
His father's words
echoed on his mind's speaker system:
Beer was invented before civilization…

"Good question, and you're right," Buzz replied. "Maybe it's because I'm a conversational bully, used to getting my way. Arrogant. Either way, you've already got a keen insight into my personality. I would say you're getting to know me pretty well."

"That doesn't mean we'll be best friends, or even friends," Sam replied,
a bit exasperated. "You're strange."

"Does that disqualify friendship? And who isn't strange?"

Sam chewed on this for several seconds, and said nothing.

"You want to know why Catholicism has to be true compared to Protestantism?" Buzz asked, as if they had known each other all their lives, and that all the previous conversation had gone in some other direction–as if they had been discussing philosophy
and religion for a couple of hours.

"Let me guess. Because
you're
a Catholic," Sam answered sarcastically.

"Hmmn. Interesting answer, but no." Buzz smiled, excitement growing in his voice, his eyes quickly checking to see if the food was coming. No luck. "Because the answers that devout Catholic pro quarterbacks give during post-game interviews conform to reality more than the answers devout Protestants
give."

Buzz paused, waiting for Sam to take the bait.

"Huh?"

"Look, last year, that guy on the Colts," Buzz looked up as he spoke, trying to remember the name, "the one who everybody likes, led his team to victory in the playoffs. He's a very serious Christian, a non-Catholic. After the game, he says something along the lines of, 'I want to thank Jesus Christ, my personal Lord and Savior, for
helping me win this game.'"

"Yeah," Sam interrupted, "like God had somehow helped the other team lose the game. I hate when they say things like that."

Sam was surprised to find himself sucked into the topic. A few minutes earlier, he had been ready to leave. It was as if Buzz had forgotten that already.

Buzz, already absorbed by a favorite topic, had indeed forgotten.

"Good, you follow it so
far. Now here's the key. When the quarterback for the Steelers, Tommy O'Connor–"

"The Notre Dame grad," Sam interjected.

"Yeah, he was in my class; that's how I know he is a devout Catholic, even though I wasn't at the time. Well, when Tommy helps the Steelers win a game, he talks about the game, not God."

"But so would an atheist, or an agnostic."

"Let me finish?" Buzz asked, not unkindly. After
a pause, he continued. "First of all, you're right. But Tommy always thanks his linemen–and you can tell he's sincere, not just saying what's expected of him by the press–and even goes into the actual inner-workings of the game. You know, stuff like what the linebackers were doing and the defensive schemes and stuff. All very oriented toward direct reality."

"What do you mean by 'direct reality?'"
Sam interjected quickly.

"Just what the words mean. Reality. I threw in the word
direct
to add emphasis. I'm not a philosophy major or anything. But I'm assuming that Catholicism is true, for the sake of conversation, and therefore conforms to reality, stuff that truly is, as it is. Linemen, game plans, and defensive schemes are real things–"

"And God is not real, so the Protestant is not in tune
with reality," Sam finished.

"Hmmn," Buzz seemed to process Sam's interruption quickly. "Interesting, but not really. You see, even though God does exist–this conversation assumes He does in order to discuss the topic, although you might not believe in God, which is fine for now–the Protestant's answer jumps
over
all the reality between the game and God, Who, as the creator of much of that reality,
was in the reality."

"You're losing me, Buzz. In the reality? Sounds like nonsense," Sam said honestly.

"That's because I got caught up in describing it. You see, if the reporter asks the Catholic quarterback more detailed questions, the Catholic still won't give the 'Personal Lord and Savior' answer, which we'll call the PSL answer, or, it should be PLS," Buzz looked up at the ceiling while he
sorted out the first letters of the phrase. "Yeah that's right. Now, where was I?"

"The Catholic gives different answers…"

"Right. O'Connor, and I've heard him say stuff like this, would answer along the lines of, 'That's how we practiced it. That's how the coaches taught me since high school. That's how my dad taught me to play.' In short, reality-based answers. If the reporter were to ask him
something about God in the game, I'm sure O'Connor or any reflective Catholic would be confused.

"You can hear it now. Reporter asks, 'Tommy, how did God affect your game today?'

"Tommy gives the reporter a funny look, then answers, in this hypothetical world of VSPN, Vatican Sports Network, 'Well, I prayed for the Blessed Mother to watch over me before the game, to keep me from getting injured,
stuff like that.' But the reporter presses him, 'Give me the deeper answer, Tommy; you can speak freely; nuns and high level Vatican officials are watching.'"

Sam laughed. "I still have no idea what you're talking about, but I don't think that will stop you."

"Thank you," Buzz said happily before continuing. "Suppose Tommy thought deeply and then gave the real Catholic answer, along the lines
of, 'Well, God created me through the sacramental love of my mom and dad, who sacrificed for twenty-five years to raise me. Recognizing and supporting my gift of athletic ability, they made sure I had every opportunity to play and learn the game from good coaches. By choosing Notre Dame and working hard, I increased my chances of being drafted in the third round by the Steelers, who continued to teach
me until I could play with the skills I demonstrated today. In terms of morals, which relate to my belief in being a good sport and trying my best to win within the rules using such virtues as prudence, courage, and humility, I would like to thank the Pope for being Christ's visible guide on earth, who in an apostolic line that extends in history back to Jesus, ensured that the Church would not
err in teaching me faith and morals. I would like to thank God the Father, by the way, for being the source of Being Itself, and preventing the universe from ceasing to exist during the game today.'"

Buzz almost seemed out of breath at the end of his monologue. "But of course, that answer is too long and too preachy, and too philosophical and theological, and so the Catholic quarterback doesn't
say it. Besides, he's just a football player, not a lecturer. He skipped half his classes while majoring in phys-ed. He just talks about reality, which assumes all these things. Call it the NFL Proof of the Superiority of Catholicism."

"But then how come most professional athletes are black, and are therefore probably not Catholic?"

"I never said that you had to be a Catholic to be a pro ballplayer,
just that Catholics give better answers than Protestants. How come most pros are blacks? I don't know. Probably cultural reasons. Even so, the Catholic's answer is just as true for all the other players in terms of their parent's love, good coaches, etcetera. God doesn't make pro quarterbacks. Pro quarterbacks develop because of experience and talent–and luck, or fortune–and are the result
of a civilization that began with the Catholic Church."

"It's funny, Buzz, but my dad, who is a very strong atheist, would agree with you on that," Sam said somewhat pensively.

"With what?" Buzz smiled as the burgers were set on the table.

"That western civilization comes largely from the Christian culture. Schools, hospitals, social norms. Those kinds of things. He doesn't like the Catholic Church,
but loves what it gave civilization. He always talks about it, but he doesn't put it that way. He also thinks the Catholic Church gave us a bunch of superstitions and rules that were pure horse manure, and is glad that it doesn't run the show any more, civilization-wise."

"Civilization-wise?" Buzz raised his eyebrow.

"Sorry, bad diction. I can't talk as glibly as you about these things. I don't
think I've ever talked about these things, at least not over beers with guys I play hoops with."

"You're right, nobody has as far as I know," Buzz concurred. "I thought of the NFL Proof today while I was driving back to the UPS center. Just thought I'd try out a funky idea. What about you? What do you think of the Catholic Church? Do you agree with your dad?" His tone was light.

"Buzz, sorry to
shatter your world, but I rarely even think about religion. I guess my dad is right, but I'm more interested in computers, my business, and getting on with my life."