Scenes from Downtown

Noon Mass at St. Mary’s begins each day at 12:10 and lasts until approximately 12:45. It’s short as those attending are often business professionals who work downtown. I work on the third floor of a building a little over five blocks away. I choose today to walk to St. Mary’s by walking through the skywalks for three of the blocks. I am limping slightly from the deep cut about an inch or two below the third toe on the bottom of my left foot. It’s not going to be an easy walk, but I decide to offer my suffering up to God on this the day of the Feast of St. Patrick for all those souls who are already in the pubs, completely ignorant of the man who’s work in the 5^th century helped shape our world today. He has been reduced to a cartoon character in funny hats. Sad.

 

St. Mary’s is a large church a few blocks from the state capital. It used to be the seat of the bishop of the Diocese of Lincoln and is a cathedral. I arrive too late for confession. It is offered every day for 30 minutes prior to Mass and for another 20-30 afterwards. There are four confessionals, two on each side, and every day there is a line of penitents. I arrive today just as the opening hymn is being sung. I find a pew on the far left side near the back having arrived late and find myself behind a pillar. At Mass I see the usual eclectic noontime grouping of the poor and the affluent. I recognize a state senator, a prominent and devout Catholic man, who has not given up his Daily Communion since being elected a few years ago. I see business men and women in suits. College students. The elderly. The very poor. Many a time I have sat near those who have not bathed in weeks and smell of their own urine. Yet they are here and I rejoice in that. All of us on our knees with heads bowed in prayer and worship. We are the Church Militant on earth.

 

Today is the Feast of St. Patrick. The opening and closing prayers reflect this, as does the short homily given by the young priest. We are called, as Patrick was called. Today’s responsorial psalm is “Remember your mercies, O Lord.” I ask humbly of this favor of God for myself as well while on my knees.

 

Mass over, I begin the walk back. It is a gorgeous March day in Lincoln. Nearly 80 degrees and sunny with a slight breeze. I notice my foot has gotten worse while at Mass and decide to walk slower. Before Mass I had sent a text message to Sally, a former co-worker asking her if she had plans for the day.  She had replied while I was in church: “Luv this weather-i m runnin a 5k 2nite in Omaha-pizza & beer afterwards.” I laugh at her message while I cross the street at because this is vintage Sally. As I’m calling to leave her a voicemail I hear my name shouted out. “Jay Dub!” I look to see Dick, a member of my men’s rosary group and an architect with an office downtown go flying by on his bicycle. He was just leaving St. Mary’s as well, but we had missed each other. I smile and wave as I begin my message for Sally. “Woman, you are nuts! Running a 5K and then off for beer and pizza. I am in awe. I’m five years younger than you and you continue to make me look bad. (laughing) Tell me about it tomorrow. God bless.”

 

While continuing my walk north I notice that N Street is closed off from 15^th to 16^th for a block party. I begin to see signs that the “celebration” has begun. Once on O Street I pass by bars and restaurants whose windows swell with people in green with beads around their necks and silly hats on their heads. I’m not against it. I just am wincing due to this stupid cut in my foot. And I limp by.

 

I pass three young shabbily dressed men on a bench, one of them holding a cardboard sign containing writing about needing money. They are all laughing and I overhear him say that at 2pm the manager at Subway is giving him a bunch of sandwiches. I bristle as I think of the poor I’ve just encountered at Mass who sustain themselves on Manna from Heaven in the Holy Eucharist. I recall the two older homeless people I saw huddled against the building last week when the temperature was sixteen with a subzero windchill and contrast them with these three. And I limp by.

 

I enter Subway to grab a sandwich to take back to my desk. Behind the counter is a man with a long black ponytail, golden small hoop earring and crooked smile. His nametag says Bob. I call him Bobby. His accent is as thick as dirty water as he greets me. I am not wearing any green and he chastises me. He’s 25% Irish. It’s always St. Patrick’s Day for him, he says. We talk about our Red Sox. He tells me as he does every day “you need to get to the cathedral on Landsdowne.” Fenway Park.

 

“I just came from the Cathedral,” I reply. He smiles. Bobby knows.

 

Finally I turn west and cross 13^th street. I enter the Union Bank building and return to my third floor desk. My foot throbs. I take off my shoe to see that my foot has bled through both bandaid and sock. I put my shoe back on gently and turn to eat my sub.

 

I’m just fine. It’s a beautiful day. And I will limp by.

Pepto-Pink

Our two young sons are very athletic and among their favorite sports, naturally, is baseball. Both boys had little gloves by the time they were 2 or 3. What I’m most proud of is that despite the fact that their mom and dad were athletes (I played college baseball and my wife went to state in high school track) we have never pushed them in this direction. They seemed to just picked up a ball on their own and ran with it.

It’s way too early yet to know which way Sophie will go, but Janell and I promised ourselves that if she does want to pursue softball (or baseball..why not?) we are going to try to steer her clear of what we call the Pepto-glove. Honestly…PINK softball gloves? Did we really need this? I guess it’s cute and all but when our niece recently had her 4th birthday we were asked to purchase a pink glove for her because her older sister also had one. These aren’t just pink. They are coat-your-aching-stomach-with-soothing-pepto-bismol pink. I see these things and all I can think of is diarrhea. NOT what I want to think about while playing catch. Last week a friend of ours whose young daughter is playing t-ball told us that the entire team of girls were out in the field with pink gloves. And not just any old pink glove…but one that LIGHTS UP! Yes! Now you too can “flash your leather”. I didn’t believe her when she told us, but I looked it up. Yep…they’re real.

The Rawlings LS85P Lightning Series 8.5-in youth baseball glove features Lightning Technology with embedded sensors that are triggered upon impact. The web lights up every time you make a catch.

Scroll halfway down this page to find the glove. But take a gander all the other pink things available! Not just bats, cleats, gloves and helmets. You can outfit your softball diamond princess in pink knee wraps, catcher’s gear, duffel bags, and of course, pink softball thongs. Thongs? Damn…I grew up watching the wrong sport I guess.

My personal favorite though are the pink eye black strips. Who’s the genius that came up with this moneymaker? Did it ever occur to them that it’s called eye “black” for a reason? The black is what absorbs the light and helps with your vision in bright sunlight. This “genius” truly is one because he/she is getting parents to part with $6.95 for something non-functional.

I haven’t checked, but I’m pretty sure there’s probably also pink basketball gear and pink soccer gear. Sigh…I thought I was making a major concession by agreeing to get her a little pink Red Sox cap even though I don’t really like them. Apparently many others don’t like them either. And it’s even spawned a gender-specific fanbase: Girlsox Nation. The battle of the pink may just be beginning.