The rector set his already firm jaw. “I’m afraid we’ll have to disappoint Mr. Delvecchio.” The statement was emotionless, a simple declaration of fact. While the rector might feel himself on shaky ground when it came to practical hands-on parochial experience, he was more than sure of himself when seminary training was the issue.
“It’s just a prayer,” Koesler stated.
“Oh, we will pray. Not for a. miracle, but that God’s holy will be done.”
“Then you agree with Father Walsh that if there is no miracle, the faith of the seminarians will be shaken?”
Finn hesitated only a few seconds. Had Koesler been a student, he would have received no explanation. But since Finn was discussing this matter with a fellow priest, he would amplify his statement. “My thinking has something-but very little-to do with Father’s Walsh’s reason. But I must admit this is the best of times for a future priest to learn that he cannot-cannot-rely in any way on miraculous intervention.
“As a priest, he will have to deal many times over with people who have nothing left to turn to but a miracle. The seminarian learns that God does not multiply miracles. Now-before ordination-is the time to learn this. And if it must be learned in the school of hard knocks, all the better. It will save him from supporting the plea for God to change the course of nature.”
He paused, then continued, with emphasis. “But I am much more concerned with the impact such a singular campaign would have on the student body. We, in these final four years of the theologate, are a community. We cannot permit a student or group of students to fragment this community.
“Do you remember, Bob, when, after you were here a short while, your class wanted to continue your custom from the minor seminary of reciting the Rosary together as a group each Saturday evening?”
At first Koesler recalled the request only vaguely, and that only because Finn had brought it up. Then, memory jogged, he recollected clearly the custom, the request, and the rector’s rejection. “Now that, you mention it, I do remember: You refused our request. But I’ll bet you never heard the rest of the story.”
“Oh?”
“Patrick McNiff was the one who acted as spokesman for our class. When you turned him down, he came to the rest of us and announced, ‘The old man hates the Blessed Mother.’”
Finn did not find this humorous. “That of course is not true. I gave my reason, and it had nothing to do with rosary devotion. I did not want any one of our four classes to set itself apart from the rest of the student body. And for the same reason: I do not think it wise to set a precedent in singling out one student’s petition from the rest. Soon we could be dealing with petitions for miraculous cures from all parts of the prayer hall. I think Father Walsh was wise in not involving his parishioners in a cause that is more or less doomed to frustration. That, as well as not allowing a divisive element in this community, will prompt me to refuse Mr. Delvecchio’s request-if and when he presents it.”
Koesler could recognize a blind alley when he was trapped in one. “Well …” He thought better than to light another cigarette with this visit obviously concluding. “… there is one more request that Vinnie will make, I’m pretty sure.”
Finn waited without comment.
“Any chance,” Koesler said, “that Vincent can be granted extra time at home with his mother?” Koesler sailed on through a possible but premature reply from Finn. “I know that these will be the last couple of months before ordination and they’re important. But we both know that Vincent is close to being a genius. He can absorb these courses with no sweat. And it would be such a great comfort to his mother. I would wager that, to a man, everyone-students and faculty-would not begrudge him extra time at home.”
No response. Finn was loath to set any sort of precedent. He well knew how students could and usually did take advantage of exceptions to the rule. But what Koesler said carried a lot of truth. Probably no one-at least very few among either faculty or students-would object to a modest latitude in home visitation for Delvecchio. And how many students would have a terminally ill parent … especially as ordination approached?
“I think we might be able to reach some sort of accommodation in this matter,” Finn said finally. “If Mr. Delvecchio wants to talk to me about it, we’ll … talk.”
The meeting was concluded. Finn would not steer his visitor to the door, but Koesler sensed that this impromptu chat had disrupted the rector’s schedule. With a handshake, they parted.
Koesler slid into his black Chevy, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette.
As he drove away from the seminary, he assessed what, if anything, he had accomplished. It was mid-afternoon, yet it seemed as if he’d been up and about for more than a day. He’d gotten nowhere with Father Walsh. Koesler knew that the pastor’s decision on a parishwide prayer crusade for a medical miracle was written in stone. No matter how Lucy might plead the case, there would be no change in the course Walsh had set. And, in his heart, Koesler didn’t believe that Lucy was 100 percent in agreement with Vincent’s plan of prayer.
Further, Father Finn would disappoint Vinnie in not. committing the student body to a radical form of prayer. On the other hand, Koesler felt confident that Finn would cut Vinnie some slack on the matter of home visits. Koesler figured that was one round he’d won. The young man would have to be satisfied with that.
Next, Koesler would see how his present pastor felt about the miracle prayers. Actually, he anticipated a charitable veto. After all, the sick person had no remote connection with St. Norbert’s parish.
Funny, this morning, when an enthusiastic Vincent had proposed this program, Koesler had caught the fire and was confident they could pull it together. Now, he felt like a deflated balloon. Things did not look as hopeful as earlier they had.
15
Tony Delvecchio had two things going against him.
One: As a WMU student, he did not represent one of the “biggies.” Though Western was not a small college by anyone’s standards, neither was it Michigan, Notre Dame, Florida, or Texas. The professionals would take this into account.
Two: He didn’t have the height the pros preferred in a quarterback. Granted Eddie LeBaron at only five feet seven in his heyday had managed to reach his receivers with consistency; still the defensive linemen were getting bigger by the year. Nowadays Tony would nearly have to stand on tiptoe to see the pass patterns his receivers ran. Other young men had made it without topping six feet. Still it was definitely a consideration.
Of course, there was the possibility that he might be shifted to another position-cornerback, say, or safety. That was an additional consideration.
The problem with these options was that lots of eager young graduates automatically qualified. There were plenty of big quarterbacks. There were even more young athletes who had played in the defensive backfield from high school through college. Their talent didn’t have to be enhanced; they were the proper size and speed with plenty of invaluable experience at their positions.
In his favor, Tony was extremely strong and fast. He could meet almost any physical demand made of him. And, a not inconsiderable bonus, he was highly intelligent.
Surely he was smart enough to know that, as qualified as he might be, there was no certainty that he would be taken on by any pro team, let alone enjoy a reasonably long pro career.
And, should football fail him …? What if the hitherto unthinkable did happen?
He would teach. All along, he had favored math. There was something so satisfying about the product of math-absolute answers.