It was in the summer of 1963 that I pulled off my novitiate caper. We were in the midst of our summer holiday. The novice master, Fr. Len Fischer–who would later work with me in Northern Ontario–was away for his holiday too.

I approached the prison chaplain, Fr. Charlie Carroll, and suggested that we could field a ball team and challenge the inmates to a game–on their turf of course.

And so it happened that one evening a paddy wagon arrived at our door and whisked our makeshift team to prison. The stands surrounding the prison ball field were packed with their fellow-prisoners. We had two fans—Fr. Redden a former lawyer, and the prison chaplain.

The prisoners had a league of their own, and also fielded a team to play outsiders; a formidable opponent for a few novices that rarely played together–and never against any one else.

It started badly for us. Our first pitcher, Brother Horan, got bombed and we were soon down six nothing. Then we brought in a reliever, Mike Parent–presently a missionary in Tibet! He was a strapping guy from Kingston–not the pen–and he began to strike out many of them with his windmill delivery.

Eventually we took the lead and by the bottom of the ninth it was 12 to 10 for the Jesuit novices. Things were tense. I remember the prison pitchers slinking off the field in disgrace when they couldn't get out these pesky novices. I thought then they probably feared being lynched by their own fans behind the stands.

Then came the bottom of the ninth with the home team at bat. I believe to this day the umpire engineered a 13-12 victory for the inmates who, needless to say, went to their cells jubilant.  While I am extremely competitive in sports and hate to lose, I have–with time–managed to see this outcome as the only fitting and providential ending. I hit three for five that night and definitely played to win.

We left as we came–in the paddy wagon. But Fr. Redden surprised all by taking us to the Dairy Queen. And so we arrived. The jaws of the summer patrons dropped when this rag tag bunch of novice ball players piled out of the paddy wagon and headed for the dairy bar.

I only played one more serious soft ball game. It was in Northern Ontario with the Longlac Indian band in my first summer after ordination. We lost then too. 

Baseball is far behind me now, but until moving west I played hockey with the Espanola Goodtymers, and like St. Paul, I still play “to win.”(1 Cor  9: 24-27)