Excerpt from All Saints Day
Week 9 (bye week)
Saints’ Record: 0 wins, 8 losses
“The Pope wants to do what?” Archbishop Frances Boudreaux shouted into the phone as though he were speaking to someone across the Atlantic Ocean, when, in reality, the person on the other end of the line was sitting just down the hall, inside the living quarters at the Archdiocese of New Orleans main offices.
“The Saints? I’m sorry, are you referring to the cemeteries, St. Louis No. 1 and No. 2? They are among the most popular tourist attractions in the city. Are you saying His Holiness would like to take a tour? We can certainly arrange that.”
Although language had posed only a minimal barrier between Boudreaux and Pope Pius XIII’s cadre of handlers in the two days since their arrival, these minor miscommunications were still inevitable. The aging Archbishop with the distinct Cajun accent chuckled at the request. Then he frowned upon hearing the response.
“Wait a second. You’re referring to the football team? You’re saying that the Pope would like to have an audience with the New Orleans Saints football team? He does understand that this is American football, not soccer, right?”
Boudreaux shook his head and then gazed down at his thick-soled black oxfords, simultaneously rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “Well, no, no, it’s not that. It’s just, well…it’s just that they’re not very good. To be frank, they’re terrible. I’m a little worried about how this might reflect on the church and…yes, yes sir. I understand. Certainly. Yes, I’ll call the team right away.”
Boudreaux’s concern was justifiable from a number of standpoints, especially that there might be better uses of the Holy Father’s time. By all estimations, given his failing health, this would likely mark his last trip to New Orleans. In recent weeks, the 94-year-old Pope had taken to blessing everything in sight. One day earlier, during mass at the Superdome with a crowd of 100,000 looking on, he had seen fit to bless a Zapp’s Cajun-Crawtator chip supposedly bearing the likeness of the Virgin Mary. Needless to say, though the Pope remained infallible, his decisions were still open to questioning.
But in light of the Pope’s gracious agreement to visit and give the financially strapped Archdiocese a much-needed shot in the arm, Boudreaux was obliged to acquiesce. Resigned to the task, he hung up the phone and reported the news to his trusted assistant, Monsignor Fitzpatrick.
“The Saints?” Fitzpatrick said, also incredulous. “Why on earth would the Pope want to have a private audience with the Saints?”
Boudreaux shrugged. “He says they do the Lord’s work…and that this city needs all the help it can get. Get me the phone number of Ron Beauchamp.”
***
“The Pope wants to do what?” Coach Jake “The Anvil” Radke snapped in his sharp Chicago accent, having been rousted from his mid-morning meditative ritual by the ringing phone.
The meditation, to be fair, had nothing to do with New Age mysticism or Eastern religion. Rather, it consisted of Radke’s staring at the bottom drawer of his desk, locked in a battle with his conscience to decide whether or not to uncork the magical elixir inside: a bottle of 12-year-old Jack Daniel’s Special Reserve. In the end, despite the struggle between his head and his heart, the gnawing ache in his gut would always win out, and Radke would find some small measure of relief from the torment of coaching one of the most hapless franchises in the history of the National Football League.
In this age of instant gratification, few fans would recall that the vaunted Pittsburgh Steelers had endured a staggering 40 years of futility before striking gold in the 1974 Super Bowl under the leadership of Terry Bradshaw, himself a Louisiana boy from Ruston. Or the Cincinnati Bengals, who, despite reaching two Super Bowls during the 1980s, had since gone 20 straight seasons without a winning record. Or the Seattle Seahawks, who had gone more than two decades without winning a playoff game.
No, for long-suffering fans of the New Orleans Saints, having tasted only sorrow and disappointment, heartbreak and bitterness, perspective such as this did little to soothe their ever-festering wounds.
But perhaps it was fitting for a city steeped in Catholicism, whose team’s very name evoked images of the men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice. Saints fans could perceive themselves as martyrs of a different sort, bearing the crucifix of gridiron defeat so that others might find Super Bowl salvation.
Worst of all, despite being the purported leader of this outfit, Radke had all but given up faith and was seeking refuge in the bottom of a bottle when the Divine intervened.
“Aw, heck, Ron, you know I was raised a Lutheran,” Radke said to the team’s owner, whose response he found a pleasant surprise. “Well, if the Pope himself doesn’t care, bring him over. We could use a miracle around here.”
The last detail caught Radke off guard and caused him to sit upright in his chair. “What? He’s already here? Yes, yes sir. I’m on my way.”
Radke hung up the phone and instinctively reached into his shirt pocket for the breath spray that would cover his tracks, even though he had not walked down Whiskey Road on this particular morn’. Limping out to the practice field — his bum knee acting up again — Radke stopped still when he saw the congregation huddled around what almost looked like a clear glass football helmet on wheels.
The PopeMobile was an engineering marvel in itself. Having been created after the failed 1983 assassination attempt in Vatican Square, the vehicle featured an exterior shell of molded, bullet-proof plexiglass mounted on the chassis of a Rolls-Royce.
It included a throne for the Pontiff to sit and a dais with cushioned armrests should he opt to stand. And it was equipped with all sorts of James Bond-ian gadgetry such as the automated holy water sprinkler, the holographic image projector (nothing more impressive than seeing the Pope’s 40-foot-tall likeness splashed across the side of a building), the 14-speaker Bose Surround Sound PA system, and, of course, tear-gas dispensers just in case the adoring throngs of worshippers ever became a little too overzealous in attempting to demonstrate their love.
With the sound of a hydraulic seal being released, the PopeMobile’s door slowly swung open, allowing an attendant to enter the cabin and assist the feeble man down the retractible steps and onto the cushioned ProTurf, where he was quickly surrounded by hulking players more than three times his size.
Pushing through to the front of the crowd, a diminutive bowling ball of a man with thinning hair and an expensive suit stepped before the Pope, while TV cameras recorded the scene.
“Your Holiness, it’s truly an honor that you have graced us with your presence,” he said, dropping to one knee and trying to kiss the Pope’s hand. Rather than offering the hand, Pope Pius XIII looked quizzically at his lieutenants before patting the little munchkin atop his bald-ing pate and muttering something indecipherable.
“Your Holiness,” said Archbishop Boudreaux, “this is Mister Ron Beauchamp, the owner of the New Orleans Saints football team.”
The Pope frowned and gestured for Beauchamp to rise to his feet. Having been briefed on the team’s ignominious history, including the most recent controversy stemming from Beauchamp’s threat to move the team to Los Angeles, the Pope’s visit had taken on missionary-sized proportions.
Speaking in a barely audible voice, His Holiness motioned for a pigskin. Gripping the ball in his shriveled hands, he held it close to his nose so that he could take in the rich smell of genuine leather. He closed his eyes and smiled, then removed one hand to make the sign of the cross over the ball and mutter yet another blessing in a foreign tongue.
“His Holiness was quite a football player in his younger years back in Italy,” Boudreaux said.
The Pope nodded, then lifted the ball with both hands and bounced it lightly off his forehead, giving a playful smile that showed the child inside of him was still alive and well.
“Football is life, yes?” he said to Beauchamp, growing solemn in his tone.
The gravity of the Pope’s words caught the savvy team owner off guard, and he chuckled nervously. “Well, of course it is, Your Holiness, especially the way our fans react. It sure as heck isn’t a business, at least a profitable one.”
Beauchamp alone found this humorous, for, amid the debate over the team, the Daily Doubloon had published an investigative exposé revealing that the Saints organization had not only reaped $30 million in profit over the last fiscal year, but more importantly, since Beauchamp purchased the franchise in the mid-80’s for upwards of $65 million, the team’s market value had grown tenfold.
The Pope looked deep into Beauchamp’s eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Football…is like….religion,” he said, choosing his words with utmost care. “It helps bring mankind together. It is not a business.”
Beauchamp snickered. “Well, as my friends in the nonprofit world say, ‘If there’s no margin, there’s no mission.'”
He looked to the Archbishop to help defuse the situation. “Archbishop, did you put him up to this? You did, didn’t you.” Beauchamp turned back to the Pope. “That Archbishop, he’s a real kidder, that one, and quite a big football fan, I might add.” The Pope glared. “Look, you want a donation for the Archdiocese? I’m sure we can arrange something.”
Ignoring Beauchamp’s blather, the Pope leveled a piercing gaze at him and spoke in barely a whisper. “For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?”
The brash businessman in Beauchamp reared his ugly head, and he laughed again, this time in defiance. “You came all this way just to tell me not to move my football team? With all due respect, Your Holiness, let’s make a deal: you don’t tell me how to run my football team, and I won’t tell you how to run the Church.”
Despite being raised in a devout Catholic family and having graduated from St. Aloysius in 1945, Ron Beauchamp had fallen from the church and chosen not to get up. He’d raised himself out of poverty to become the wealthiest man in all of New Orleans on the success of his manufactured home business, Beau Maison Homes, and related housing developments. He’d been blessed with a talent for making money. He’d contributed millions to countless charitable causes. But he’d be damned if he was going to let anyone, even Pope Pius XIII himself, strong-arm him in his business affairs.
The gasps of shock were understandable, but Beauchamp’s behavior was not without precedent. In recent weeks, amid his tussle to negotiate a new stadium deal, he had managed to hack off the governor, the mayor, the entire state legislature, the city council, the editorial board of the Daily Doubloon and, worst of all, the people of New Orleans.
Sensing things tumbling downhill, Jake Radke stepped into the fray and slapped Beauchamp on the back like they were the best of friends, even though they were blood enemies. The last thing Radke needed, with his team on the verge of yet another disastrous season, was the most revered religious leader in the world cursing their collective fate and condemning them all to hell.
“You’ll have to forgive ol’ Beach here, Your Holiness,” Radke said. “Sometimes he gets to drinkin’ his own bathwater and thinkin’ it’s champagne. What’s say we introduce you to the team?”
“Yes, let’s,” Boudreaux said, also wanting to move the proceedings along. “We have to get His Holiness over to the casino by noon.”
Radke lined up the team and introduced them one by one. Many players matched the Pope’s distinct gestures with their own public displays of piety, which had become commonplace after sacks, interceptions, touchdowns, and other big plays.
“This here is Ezekiel Robinson,” Radke said. Despite dwarfing the Pope at 6-foot-2 and 315 pounds, the third-year defensive tackle out of Notre Dame was genuinely awestruck at being in the presence of the Pope. With trembling hands, Zeke held out his trusted knee brace.
“In nominè Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancto, Amen,” the Pope said, bowing to kiss the brace.
“And this here is Rahim,” Radke said. “He’s one of those Muslims…but he’s okay.”
“Rahim Muhammed Al Rashid,” the man formerly known as Jermaine Cooper said, bowing before the Pope. “Asa lama lakum.”
The procession arrived at a beefy young man still wearing his football helmet. The dreadlocks flowing from beneath the helmet and and his mirrored face shield created a menacing effect.
“And this here is…Cedric would you take that damn helmet off,” Radke said.
From behind the plastic shield a soft, high-pitched voice replied, “I’d prefer to leave it on if you don’t mind. I’m feeling a bit sensitive today.”
Radke turned to his guests to explain. “Boy’s been sulking since draft day. If you ask me, he’s off his meds again.” He waved everyone along.
“This is our quarterback, Robbie Gauthier,” Radke said, coming upon the strapping, 6-foot-4 Cajun from nearby Terrebonne Parish. Before the Pope could issue his blessing, a portly woman popped out from behind Gauthier and practically gave him a bear hug.
“Aw cher, soon as my Robbie call to tell me he was meetin’ da Pope, I hop inna’ caw and make a bee line for dis place,” the woman said.
“Pope, dis is my momma, Miss Sandy Gauthier,” the quarterback explained. “She’s a real big fan.”
Before Robbie could get his words out, Sandy had thrust a rosary into the Pope’s hands. “If ya could bless dat, it would mean da world to my NèNè,” she said. “She’s on her deathbed now back in Cocodrie. Oh, and if ya could say a prayer for my husband, Benny. Dat would be good, too. His gout’s been flarin’ up somethin’ bad, yeah.”
Though impressed by Sandy’s devotion, Archbishop Boudreaux recognized the need to pick up the pace. He gave the Pope a gentle nudge just as he wrapped up his blessing, before Sandy could pull out her digital camera for a souvenir photo.
Backup quarterback Kirk Wharton stood next in line holding a Bible. Since kicking cocaine, alcohol, painkillers, and sex addiction five years ago, the 12-year veteran had found salvation by taking up with an obscure fundamentalist Pentacostal sect that worshipped out of an abandoned bowling alley on Airline Highway.
He handed the Bible to the Pope as though the holy man had never seen the book. “You know, sir, it’s not too late,” Wharton said.
“Excusè?” the Pope said.
“To be saved,” Wharton said. “John, chapter three, verse seven…’Ye must be born again.'”
“Come again?” Archbishop Boudreaux said.
“To become reborn, in Christ,” Wharton said. “There’s still time. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Radke screamed. “Wharton, will you shut the hell up for once? You’re talkin’ to the goddamn Pope here, not some Bourbon Street crack whore.”
Catching himself, Radke offered a quick apology. “Sorry about the foul language, Your Holiness. I kinda’ lose my head sometimes. You can see what I gotta’ put up with.”
“It is okay, my son,” the Pope said to Radke. He then turned to Wharton, laying a hand on the Bible. “We all walk a different path but reach the same destination.”
“Well, let’s find our path to the end of the line,” Boudreaux said. “The casino awaits.”
At long last, the entourage arrived at the final player, a skinny, dissheveled young man who looked more like a street urchin than a professional athlete. His long brown hair and scruffy beard spilled out over an elaborate neck brace. He sported two black eyes and seemed barely cognizant of his surroundings. The sunlight peeking through the clouds created an eery backlighting, and just as the Pope met eyes with him, a single, radiant beam of light shone down on the man, illuminating his entire being in golden hues. The Pope’s eyes grew wide, and he raised a trembling hand to his gaping mouth.
Fearing his esteemed guest was having some sort of cardiac episode, Archbishop Boudreaux rushed to his aid. His entire career flashed before his eyes. How humiliating to have the Pontiff drop dead while under his watch.
“What, Your Holiness? What is it?”
Radke also tried to assist. “This here is Oleg Adamowicz. He’s our new kicker, from Poland. We like to call him ‘The Leg.'”
The additional information did little to roust the Pope from his rapture. Radke turned to Boudreaux. “You said the Pope was a soccer fan, right? Maybe he recognizes Oleg from his professional soccer days. They say he was a pretty big star in Europe.” Radke turned back to the Pope. “Would you like an autograph?”
Oleg stood unfazed by the incident, his eyes but tiny slits. His head hadn’t stopped throbbing since being waylaid on the Dome turf several days earlier. But by all accounts, he had been fortunate. According to the team doctors, it was a small miracle that he was even standing, considering they’d lost a pulse at one point while treating him on the field, thus prompting use of the defibrilator. The two black eyes, a result of the vicious hit, were the least of his worries. Oleg’s biggest concern at the moment was when the Vicodin he’d popped a few minutes earlier was going to kick in.
Using his escorts for support, the Pope slowly dropped to both knees, and tears began to run down his cheeks.
“Iesu,” he whispered, his lip quivering.
“Is he not feeling well?” Radke said. “We can bring him a chair.” He yelled to no one in particular. “Somebody get a chair or something.”
Archbishop Boudreaux raised his hand for quiet, and he leaned closer to listen. The Pope had reached out with both hands and begun peppering Oleg’s hand with kisses, while the kicker remained detached and impassive.
“Iesu,” the Pope said.
“What?” Radke said.
Archbishop Boudreaux turned to the coach, equally bewildered by the display.
“Iesu,” Boudreaux said. “It’s Latin for Jesus.”