William Kienzle: The Greatest Evil

Koesler threw an arm over Delvecchio’s shoulder. “Congratulations! The way I hear it, that’s pretty much how we’re expected to function once we’re ordained.”

“What?”

“Ex officio,” Koesler explained. “From what I’ve heard, we’ll find little use for a lot of what we learn in the seminary. I mean, we’re not expected to put down Manichaeanism or refute Jansenism. We’re supposed to count and bank the weekly collection. And teach catechism-even though we’re not qualified as teachers. Everything is ex officio.

“But boxing: That’s an entirely different can of worms. You could get killed!”

“That thought crossed my mind.” Delvecchio stopped walking, turned to Koesler, and grinned. “Some of those guys are bigger than I am.”

“You’ve got something going for you.”

“I’d really appreciate knowing what.”

“The kids probably think you’re an expert at the manly art of self-defense.”

“Excuse me, but how does that help me not get my block knocked off?”

“You must’ve seen some amateur or professional boxing matches someplace down the line.”

“A few.”

“A few,” Koesler repeated. “Just enough to carry this off, I think.”

“You think!”

“Show the kids footwork. That’s a big part of boxing … at least I seem to have read that. You know how to dance?”

“I’m a seminarian.”

“I know. But you have a sister, don’t you?”

“Yeah. But I never danced with her. And they’re sure as hell not teaching it in the seminary. Unless … at St. John’s …?”

“No, no. I’ve got only one more year at St. John’s-and I’m pretty sure the record of keeping seminarians away from girls will remain unblemished.

“Okay …” Koesler thought for a moment. “Here’s what you do: You ask the kids if anybody knows anything about footwork in the ring-”

“And if somebody volunteers, I let him teach everybody whatever he knows.”

“Exactly.”

“And if there aren’t any volunteers?”

“You’re still in business. If nobody knows anything, make it up as you go along. Just keep moving. Try like hell to remember what you’ve seen in the movies or whatever.”

“And after footwork?”

“Try to make it last.”

“For an hour and a half?”

Koesler tended to agree that might be stretching things. “Maybe then you could do a little shtick on the role of hands and arms as instruments of self-protection.”

“You mean, put the gloves on?”

Koesler shook his head decisively. “No! Under no circumstances do you get in the ring with anyone. Some of our darlings may be itching to take out their frustrations on the staff. Not necessarily you … but you would make an interesting target in a boxing ring with the gloves on. Just offhand, who do you think the kids would be rooting for?”

Without answering, Delvecchio turned and headed on. Koesler walked along with him.

“So,” Delvecchio said finally, “what I do is I fake it for as long as possible. And if, after I do everything I can, there’s still time to kill …”

Koesler pulled at his lower lip. “You might match the kids according to height and weight and let ‘em go at each other for a minute or two.”

“Yeah, but given that I haven’t actually taught them a damn thing, isn’t it likely they could hurt each other?”

“Haven’t you seen the gloves we use?”

“No. I didn’t have any reason to look for them.”

“Well, when you go to the property room, I guarantee you’ll be impressed with the gloves. I think the camp got them brand-new about thirty or forty years ago. Unless you know how to tuck the excess padding under your fingers and make the surface taut, it’s like having a pillow fight.”

“Okay. Thanks, Bob.” Delvecchio stopped and lifted his eyes heavenward. “I’ll let you know how it all comes out,” he said as he turned back to Koesler. “But if something goes wrong with the advice you so generously gave me, look me up in the infirmary.”

Koesler chuckled. He took a fresh look at Delvecchio. Vince resembled Murphy’s Law animated. If something could go wrong with him in a boxing ring, it would. At six foot two or three, he had plenty of height, but he was rail-thin. In a year, when he would graduate from Sacred Heart to St. John’s Seminary, the food would take a sharp turn for the better and he probably would fill out. Meanwhile, height alone would not help him survive in the ring.

Delvecchio needed prayer.

And this reminded Koesler of the reason he wanted to talk with Vince. It had nothing whatever to do with the squared circle. “But teaching boxing isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I was wondering …” Delvecchio’s look was open but puzzled.

“It was about Mass this morning.”

“Really? Was I bad? I’m still trying to master a legato touch. You don’t have to worry very much with the piano.”

“No, it isn’t the legato; you’re doing all right with that.”

“I’m just lucky I don’t have to mess with pedals. I don’t think I could coordinate the whole thing … not unless I had a lot more time to practice.”

“It’s not the organ work,” Koesler said. “Or, well, actually, it’s the amount of organ work.”

“Huh?”

“This morning we had a Requiem Mass.”

“Yeah, I know. Are you upset ’cause I put half the Dies Irae in a monosyllabic monotone? If the whole thing is chanted the way it’s written, it takes all day.”

“No, it isn’t that. This is your first Requiem. You probably aren’t aware of the rubric for a Requiem High Mass. The organist is allowed to play only- only- to accompany the singing. You’re strictly limited to accompaniment alone. This is only a word for the future. I’m sure you didn’t know that rule; very few people do.”

“I knew it.”

“It’s probably one of the least known rubrics in-What?”

“I know you’re not supposed to play the organ except to accompany the singing. In a Requiem High Mass.”

For a few seconds, Koesler was speechless.

“You knew?” he asked finally.

“Yeah, I knew. I pay attention in Father Flynn’s chant class. I thought he knew what he was talking about from the first day. One of the first things he told us was that if we got ordained, and, inevitably, we were to sing a high Mass-starting with our first Solemn High Mass the day after we are ordained-the rubric in the missal is not going to read, ‘Can the priest sing?’ or, ‘Is it safe to let the priest sing?’; it just says, ‘The priest sings.’”

“But”-Koesler’s tone was one of disbelief-”you knew about playing the organ during a Requiem Mass …”

“Uh-huh. Just like I said. I knew.”

“Then why, if I may ask, were you playing it when there wasn’t any singing?”

Delvecchio shrugged. “But I only played it during Communion time.”

“The rubric doesn’t say, ‘The organ may be played for accompaniment only-with the exception of Communion time.’”

Delvecchio was beginning to be ambivalent. He did not appreciate being quizzed as if he were a child. On the other hand, he admired Bob Koesler in many ways.

“Look, Bob: For a lot of these kids the novelty of going to Mass every day wears off pretty quick. They pay better attention to what’s going on as long as there’s something going on. Even in a Requiem Mass there’s something to focus on most of the time. Except for Communion-it takes one priest a long time to give Communion to roughly two hundred people. And while that’s going on, the only sound is feet shuffling down the aisle. It’s tough for the counselors to keep the kids in line. I think it helps if the organ is going … don’t you? I mean, don’t you, really?”