Batting Cages

“You wanna do something fun?”

Sandra had barely approached the table outside the cafe when the words tumbled out of Max’s mouth. Father Max, Sandra reminded herself, glancing at the white square adorning his neck.

“You’re not dragging me to Mass are you?” Sandra asked with a smirk. “And you can’t lie and tell me you’re not, then be all ‘Surprise, it’s church time!’. That’s a sin,” she added teasingly.

Father Max laughed and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Come on, don’t you know me better than that by now?” He stood, chugging the last of the coffee he’d been sipping while he waited for her, and gestured towards the far end of the shopping center they always met at. “Shall we?”

Sandra hesitantly gripped the helmet in her hands as Father Max chatted with the cashier. The batting cages? Really? She hadn’t been here since she played middle school softball. It didn’t exactly feel like the place for a meeting like this.

“Ready?” Father Max asked with a boyish grin. Sometimes Sandra could hardly believe she was only three years older than the priest; some days, his wisdom and insights made him feel decades older than his thirties; other days, his tinkling laugh and optimism made him seem like the schoolboys who altar served in the school masses he celebrated each week.

“I guess,” Sandra mumbled. She followed Father Max to the rows and rows of baseball bats. Father Max had been ready; he had his own bat in the trunk of the car he borrowed from St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. He slung his blue and orange bat over his shoulder and busied himself with finding one for Sandra. He furrowed his brow, then selected a black one with green writing.

“Try this one,” he offered. Sandra grabbed the handle, and the bat immediately drooped. Father Max chuckled. “Maybe one of those?” He pointed at the tiny bats, the ones with pink flowers or red flames; obviously t-ball bats. Sandra scowled at him. “Joking!” he assured her.

After trying out a few others, Sandra was carrying a lighter bat to the far end of the cages. She stared at Father Max as he got their machine started. What is he doing? she wondered to herself. She knew Father Max could be really unorthodox (Sandra congratulated herself on the pun), but this was just… bizarre. 

Father Max glanced at her while he rolled up his black sleeves. “So… do you want to go first? Or should I?”

Sandra shrugged and sat on the bench behind their cage. “You can start,” she offered. Father Max nodded and pulled his helmet snugly over his head. He stepped into the cage, gently closed the door behind him, and stepped up to the plate. He smacked about twenty balls back towards the machine cleanly; Sandra wondered how often he came here.

After his turn, Father Max came out of the cage and approached Sandra. “You ready?” There was that childish smirk again. Sandra wondered briefly if it would make him look this youthful when he was an old priest, like the ones she remembered from her childhood.

A quizzical look spread across Father Max’s face now. “Sandra? Everything okay?”

Surprising herself, Sandra shook her head. “What are we doing here?” she blurted out. “I’m sorry Max- er, Father- but I just, I don’t get why-” Sandra sighed, throwing her hands up in the air.

Father Max nodded. He was always good at making Sandra feel listened to. “No, you’re right. I…” He chuckled. “I dunno, the last time we talked you were pretty upset…” He raised his eyebrows. He didn’t need to clarify what Sandra had been upset over; they both knew. “So I thought you could use something fun.” Father Max sat down next to Sandra. “When I was in seminary, there was a night where a bunch of my buddies decided to hang out and share a bottle of tequila. It wasn’t anything crazy, nothing wrong with friends enjoying themselves, but I already knew I couldn’t handle that. And I felt panicked. So I lied to them and said I had a meeting with my spiritual director. I gave him a call so he could cover for me and he was like ‘Maximilian, I’m not going to lie for you!’” Father Max laughed, his eyes twinkling the way he always did when he spoke about Father Sylvester, his spiritual director and mentor. “So he picked me up and drove me to the batting cages. And we didn’t talk. We just… hit baseballs. It became my way to clear my head when things were tough.”

Sandra offered him an awkward smile. “I don’t know if hitting baseballs will make my daughter talk to me again.”

“I know.” Father Max twisted his hands around his baseball bat. “But it might help you clear your head.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Listen, I’m not a parent. But I know what it’s like when you let someone down. And I also know that people may surprise you.” He opened his eyes and looked Sandra straight in the eye. “Let’s be real. You messed up. Big time. Jen’s not coming back til she knows she can trust you again. But I think you’re capable. And your husband thinks so too, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Sandra answered quietly, unable to help the small smile on her face. “He’s been great.”

“You’re tough, Sandra. You really are. But quitting is also tough. So I wanted to remind you of how tough you are. That’s why we’re here.” Father Max shrugged. “Maybe it’s dumb. Maybe it’s cheesy. But it’s what my sponsor did for me, so I thought it might work for you. So whaddaya say?”

Sandra stared at the bat up against the wall. She thought of her daughter’s face the night she’d come home and smashed up the house. The night she destroyed the dollhouse Jen had bought with her birthday money five years ago. The night she screamed at Jen for not opening the door fast enough. The night her husband had to hold Sandra down to keep her away from the knives. The night Jen packed a bag and went to stay with Sandra’s parents. That night was three months ago now, and Jen was still with her grandparents, not taking Sandra’s calls. Sandra thought of all this- and suddenly she needed a drink. Badly.

“Yeah,” Sandra finally said. “Gimme that bat. I need to hit something.”