The Parlous Pastors Mud-Wrestling Match

Being a minister in a small town has its rewards, but there are challenges, too.  Everyone knows you and somehow sees the ministers as interchangeable.  More than once, I've found myself providing pastoral care for parishioners of different denominations because I happened to be handy.  Another challenge is the freedom with which people from all over town share their opinions of what you and your colleagues ought to do.  Mud-wrestling is just one of those ideas shared over time.

In the end, nobody would admit to dreaming up the The Parlous Pastors’ Mud-Wrestling Match, but everyone liked it at the time.  Everyone except the pastors. 

Or at least two of them.  The Reverend Kevin Baker, rector of St. Claire’s Episcopal Church and the Reverend Dirk Wibrant, pastor at the Parlous Reformed Church hated the idea. 

“Come on, Father,” insisted Parlous town supervisor Fred Warner when he cornered the Episcopalian, “it’ll be fun.  Besides, it’s for the poor.”  As newest pastor in town, Kevin felt he could not refuse to at least entertain the supervisor’s pleas.  Still, he frowned throughout the conversation.  

Kevin Baker stood barely five foot five, but he had wrestled in college and worked out daily.  He knew that Dirk Wibrant’s idea of exercise was standing in the middle of a river and casting a fly rod, but the Reformed pastor was tall and beefy and outweighed Kevin by at least sixty pounds.  Kevin would be squished.  

When he expressed this concern to the town supervisor, Fred brushed it off.  “Roll around a bit, get some mud on your face, make everyone laugh.  When it’s over, we’ll go get a beer.”  Kevin did not laugh.  

Dirk Wibrant also felt he had little choice.  After all, as the supervisor reminded him over coffee at Catherine’s Cafe, “You need a good will gesture, Dirk.  You’ve got the whole town riled up with that ‘Stop the War' banner you hung up on the steeple.  And that sermon last month.  I mean, ‘Perhaps God can forgive the evil our government has perpetuated, but I can't.’  What were you thinking?”  

“Oh, I don’t know, Fred.  Maybe, Thou shalt not kill, or, They will beat their swords into plowshares, or possibly, Turn the other cheek.  Take your pick.”  Dirk smiled, but his breathing was shallow and rapid.  Fred Warner patted him on the shoulder.

“You preach what you need to, Dirk, but I’m telling you, do the mud-wrestling, and all of Parlous will forgive every word of it.”

Kevin and Dirk met at Catherine’s the day after the supervisor’s assault.   “Let’s just let them talk it out of their systems,” Kevin suggested.  

“I agree,” said Dirk.   He turned to Catherine, who was offering coffee refills, and held out his cup for a warmer upper.  “I mean, nobody at PRC or St. Claires’ would be stupid enough to let us mud-wrestle in front of the entire town.  And that PAPA endorsement was a joke.  After all, I didn’t see any other pastors volunteering to jump into the ring.”

Kevin laughed at the memory of the last Parlous Area Pastors Associaltion meeting when Fred Warner presented the idea.  “Danny Ferguson almost made me wet my pants with his, ‘No, no, no, no.  I’m too old to have fun.’”

Dirk smiled but said, “Now don’t make fun of him.  He’s been at Parlous Presbyterian for twenty-five years.  Same with Pat ‘if-I-were-just-a-wee-bit-younger’ Kearny over at Our Lady of Fatigue.  They’ve paid their dues.”  

They stared at their paper coffee cups until Kevin chuckled.  “I don’t think I'll ever forget the daggers Kate Dempsy's eyes shot at Fred when he turned to her.  I didn’t know Methodists could be so fierce.”

Dirk laughed.  “What was Fred thinking?  ‘Your participation will be good for women’s rights.’”

Kevin took a thoughtful sip of his coffee, then broke off a piece of his chocolate chip cookie and popped it into his mouth.  “I guess we were the obvious choices for human sacrifice.  We’re the only ones still in our thirties.  Still, since this thing will never happen, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”  

“Here, here,” said Dirk.  They clicked paper cups in a toast to a mud-free future. Why worry about an event that church leadership would never go along with?

* * *

They went along with it.  St. Claire’s Senior Warden Amy Jones spent much of the next Vestry meeting taking bets on the winner.  “I gave very good odds to Mary Sweet at the Reformed Church,” she told the rector at the end of the meeting.

“Gambling is a sin,” Kevin started, but Amy waved off the objection with a loud snort.

“You’re funny, Kevin, you know?”  She took his hand, her wrinkled claw giving a squeeze.

“Well, anyway, there won’t be a winner,” said Kevin, “because it’s not going to happen.  This whole stupid idea will just go away if we keep our mouths shut.”

“Are you scared?” teased the Senior Warden.  She sat down and motioned for Kevin to do the same while the rest of the room cleared out, Vestry members wishing him good luck as they went.  “Listen,” said Amy, fixing him with a steely gaze.  “I’ve attended St. Claire’s for fifty-five years.  Most of the time, it’s been adequate but that’s all.  Most of our rectors have been dignified, kind, and old.  Just like this town.  Now we have some new blood, and someone suggests something a little different, and I say why not?  Make an old lady happy and play in the mud.” 

Kevin looked at his hands resting on the table.  He heaved a sigh and said, “I’ll think about it.  But why take bets?  Even if it happens -- and I’m not saying it will -- it’s not real.  It’s just a show.  Just for fun.”

“Yeah, right,” snorted Amy.  “And if Pastor Dirk flattens you, what do you think the Reformed Church is going to be doing?  Singing hymns?  They’re going to rub that mud in all our faces.  Good thing you’re in good shape and know how to throw bodies around, because we’re all counting on you.”

Kevin stepped out the door into the night’s enveloping darkness, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.  Paul Ringer, a former tight end for the Buffalo Bills, smiled down at the priest.  “I’ve got your back, Father,” he said.  “We’ll get a training program going that will send those Reformers back to Calvin.”

* * *

That night Kevin Baker tossed and turned.  Visions of mud mixed with jeering Reformed Christians and scoffing Catholics, Methodists and Presbyterians.  “Our pastors would never get involved in anything so ridiculous,” they called.

He awoke with a start and found himself staring at the red numbers of an alarm clock.  3:15 a.m.  “It’s not my idea,” he said.  “Hmmm?” Marilyn asked through closed eyes.  He grunted and rolled over.

Two miles away, Dirk Wibrant fidgeted in his sleep until his wife poked him in the ribs.  “What are you doing?” she asked.

“What?  Oh, it’s this damned mud-wrestling thing,” he said.  “It’s like, everyone wants us to do it but us.”

“So just say no.”

Dirk gave her a pitying look.  “It’s not that easy, Dot.  I’m on shaky ground as it is, and with the kids getting older, we need the job.”  Dot’s silence admitted the truth of his words.  

“It’s worse than that,” he added.  “You know Mary on the Consistory?  She’s suggested that my annual review might be affected by the outcome.  And, she said the Consistory has hired me a trainer because Kevin already has one.  Can you believe this?”  

Dot turned on the light.  “Kevin has a trainer?  That doesn’t sound like him.”

“He’s new.  How do we know what sounds like him?  Besides, he’s in good shape -- wrestled in college.  He works out every day.  Maybe he’ll just revert to default mode and go for the kill.”

“I thought there wasn’t going to be a winner or a loser.”

“Yeah, but how will it look if that little shrimp beats up a big guy like me?”  Dot rolled over, turned out the l

night and said, “Good night, Dear.”

* * *

The next morning, Kevin’s doorbell rang at 6:00 a.m.  Marilyn pushed Kevin out of bed with a disgruntled, “If it’s this early, it’s for you.”  He found Paul Ringer in shorts, tee-shirt and running shoes.  “Wakey wakey.  Time to get in shapey.”

Kevin groaned.  “Paul, it’s not even certain we’re going to have this thing.”  Paul’s eyes grew wide.  

“Not certain?  Father, it’s in the Village View.”  He unfolded the weekly paper and pointed to a small article on the front page of the Life section.  Paul read out loud.

“Churches Try Mud-wrestling for Charity.  Parlous Reformed and St. Claire’s Episcopal Churches have agreed to get down and dirty for charity.  In a joint effort with the town board, Fr. Kevin Baker and Rev. Dirk Wibrant will wrestle in a mud pit on the town hall lawn to raise money for the food pantry.

“The pastors were unavailable for comment, but Town Supervisor Fred Warner said, ‘It was an inspired idea, that’s for sure, and our food pantry certainly needs the donations.  This will help bring the plight of the poor in our community to the public’s attention.’

“Parish leaders worked with the town council to find a suitable date --”

“Date?” interrupted Kevin.  “What date?”

“You didn’t know?  June 9.”

Kevin slapped his forehead.  “That’s a month-and-a-half!”

“Then we don’t have time to waste, Father.  Let’s get out there.”

Dirk Wibrant met his trainer that same morning.  Archie Ortega, a small stocky man with shaved head and gorilla shoulders gave him a crushing handshake at the door of Global Gym. Walking to a private workout room in the back, he turned to Dirk and said, “Let’s rev up with some pushups, okay?  Get it, Rev up?”  He laughed at his own joke, wiped his shining head, and showed Dirk the small room.  “How many can you give me, Rev.?  Forty?  Twenty?”

Dirk glared at him.  Archie coughed and shuffled his feet.  “Maybe we’ll start with five.”

* * *

The sun peeked through the bedroom window on Sunday morning, and Kevin sprang out of bed.  “Damn!” he shouted.  Marilyn looked up at him through squinting eyes.  “What’s up?”

“Look at the time!” he shrieked.  “I’ve got a service in fifteen minutes, and I was so tired last night that I forgot to finish my sermon.”

Marilyn rolled over.  “Tell them they get the day off.  They’ll be pleased.”  Kevin bolted out the door and down the stairs of the rectory still buckling his pants.  He neglected to shave and  realized halfway through his impromptu sermon that he had not even brushed his teeth.

“I was going to talk about wrestling with demons,” he started, pacing the aisle in his usual preaching style.  “But I think I’d just better talk about mud-wrestling.”  The early service crowd was made up of older parishioners who disliked the noise and disorder of children.  Kevin felt sure they would appreciate his hesitation in going forward with the match, but when he mentioned mud-wrestling, eighty-year-old Jim Burris stood up and cheered.  The rest of the congregation, all thirty of them, raised their arms in a premature victory celebration.  Even the oldest member of St. Claire’s, ninety-nine-year-old Beatrice Carter brandished her cane.

“That’s not exactly what I was hoping for,” he said, slumping against one of the pews.  He glanced down in Beatrice’s direction and let out of a cry of exasperation.  In her lap she held a notebook with neat columns marking the bets she was taking and the odds she was giving.

Ten o’clock service was no better.  Twelve-year-old Matt DeVry announced that he had gotten into a fight at school with Dennis Peltz from the Reformed Church.  “I wasn’t gonna let him can’t talk trash about you like that, Father Kevin,” he insisted.  “You kick that pastor’s--”

“Thanks but let’s just drop it,” interrupted Kevin, looking to surrounding adults for help.  Rather than reprimand Matt, they nodded encouragement. 

* * *

At the PAPA meeting the next morning, Kevin and Dirk sat opposite each other and said little.  In fact, the entire group stuck to business and avoided their usual small talk or gripes about their parishioners.  Finally, after less than a half hour, a haggard looking Dirk Wibrand stood up with a groan, held his back and said, “This is ridiculous.  We’re all dancing around this stupid mud-wrestling thing, and I’m sick of it.  If you guys would just tell our people this is a bad idea, we could finally get back to what we’re supposed to do.”

“You don’t want to wrestle?” asked Danny Ferguson.  “Quit whining and just say no.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” said Dirk.  “We aren’t in a position to refuse.  But if you all stood up for us--”

“Don't be wimps,” sniffed Pat Kearny.  “If I was a wee bit younger, I’d jump at the opportunity myself.”

“Yes, we know, Pat,” Kevin replied.  “But we’re the ones who got stuck with it, and it’s starting to wear on me.”

“Well, you can’t really expect us to do anything about it,” said a thin-lipped Kate Dempsy. 

“Why not?” asked Dirk.  “Wasn’t it PAPA that let Fred think this was a good idea?”

“Are you suggesting this is our fault?” demanded Pat.

“You didn’t exactly come to our rescue.”

Kevin stood up, too.  “Look, I don’t want to do this anymore than you--”

“Don't you?” asked Dirk, in a high-pitched voice nearling hysteria.  He stopped himself and looked around at the startled pastors, then took a deep breath.  “You Episcopalians have life tenure.  We don’t.  I can get dumped without any notice, and they’re already after me for my anti-war stance.”

“Well, what do you expect with such unpatriotic talk,” jumped in Danny, but one look from Dirk stopped him cold.  

“You all can just shrug this off.  I need this job.  I have a wife and kids.”  He quit speaking and looked from one pastor to another before throwing his hands up in disgust.  “You just don’t get it.”  He gathered up his bible and notepad and left.

* * * 

They sat across the table from each other Catherine’s Cafe, Kevin swirling a plastic stirrer in his black, unsweetened coffee.  Dirk poured two packets of sugar into his paper cup and drank without stirring.  He pulled a face, and both men laughed.

"Matt DeVry actually hit Dennis Peltz," Kevin said.

"Yeah, I know," said Dirk.  "His mom was ready to press charges until she found out what Dennis had said about you.  The she washed out his mouth with soap."

"Middle school," replied Kevin.  They gave a weak laugh again but soon stopped to stare at their coffee cups.  "So, how're the kids?"

"Molly thinks it's a hoot, and so far none of the kids at Parlous Elementary are giving her a hard time.  One of her friends asked if I was going to be on TV with WWE."  Kevin chuckled.  "Fred's too young to know what's going on."

"That's something, I suppose," said Kevin.  "He won't have to worry about his dad being made a spectacle."

Dirk bristled.  "What do you mean, 'a spectacle'?"  Kevin looked at him in surprise and alarm.

"I - I just meant that this whole thing is bizarre, isn't it?  We're both going to look ridiculous, rolling around in the mud."

"Then why did you hire a trainer?"  Dirk's voice was no longer conversational but held an edge danger.

Kevin stood up and began gathering his things.  "Why are you so huffy all the sudden?  And I didn't hire a trainer."

"Come on, Kev," said Dirk with a cruel laugh.  "Everyone knows you hired Paul Ringer.  Trying to get a little jump on the competition, eh?  I don't mind, but at least you could have let me know.  Now the consistory has gone out and hired me a trainer."

"They what?"

"Little more even now, isn't it?"

"This is ludicrous," snapped Kevin.  "Listen, if you want to get a trainer, go ahead.  If you want to fight in the mud, fine.   I don't have time for this."  Kevin made for the door and slammed it behind him.  Dirk stared after him then picked up his bible and shuffled out.

Catherine called to the empty entrance, "Hey, you forgot to pay."

* * *

At 11:00 a.m. on May 28, Marilyn Baker stood in the back yard, cell phone pressed resolutely to her ear.  "Hi, Dot?" she said,  "Can you hear me?  Good.  Listen, I was hoping we could get together for a few minutes?  You were, too?  Great.  No, not at Catherine's, somebody'll see us.  The Grease Bucket?  Well, nobody we know will be there, that's for sure.  Half an hour?  See you then."

The Grease Bucket stood next to the freight tracks in the village of Starfield just north of Parlous.  With pealing paint, dirty windows, and a faded sign dangling outside, a casual observer would think it was closed down.  Inside, it sported an array of mismatched stuffed chairs, rickety stools and restaurant seats, rough wood floors, and a deli case that predated the Second World War.  Though it was a favorite with the locals, Parlous folk usually steered clear.

Marilyn sat down on an uneven steel tube chair with torn naugahyde cushion.  The linoleum topped table wobbled when she leaned on it.  The bell dinged, and Marilyn looked up to see Dot Wibrand scurry in.  Dot settled into an old Shaker rocking chair across from Marilyn and brushed her long golden hair out of her eyes.  "The wind out there is terrible.  But I swear Dirk is worse.  For the last month, he has been downright nasty.  I can't get him to shut up about this match."

"Kevin, too.  He paces the floor late at night and can't concentrate on anything.  His sermons have really stunk lately."

Dot looked around the empty store then over at the counter.  The clerk glared at them.  "I suppose we should buy a drink or something.  They went to the soda case and picked out Diet Cokes, the only sodas left.  Marilyn took a tissue out of her pocketbook and wiped off the cap before unscrewing it.

"I am so sick of mud-wrestling," said Dot.  "They have Dirk practicing over at the church now -- in mud!"

The large woman behind the counter stood up from the stool she'd been sitting on.  "You say mud wrestling?  You don't know them pastors, do you?  Boy, I can't wait for that fight -- whole village is going to be there to watch.  Pastors mud-wrestling, what a hoot."

Dot and Marilyn smiled at the woman and assured her they knew nothing.  When they spoke next, it was in hushed voices.  "I tell you." Marilyn leaned across the table to Dot.  "We have to do something."

"I know," said Dot, leaning too far forward and nearly falling out of the rocker.  "It's going to make them enemies or even destroy the relationship between our churches."

"You heard about that fight between Matt and Dennis?  And now our parish leaders are sniping at each other."

"It's got to be us," said Dot.  "Neither Kevin nor Dirk can get out of this.  They'll get into too much trouble.  Any ideas?"

Marilyn glanced over at the clerk who appeared to have lost interest in them and was washing dishes.  Marilyn made a mental note never to eat here.  "I have a thought," she whispered.  "It won't stop the spectacle from happening, and it's kind of crazy, but if it works, we'll take the focus off of our husbands and place it where it belongs -- on everyone else.  But we're going to have to involve those boys."

Dot allowed a slow smile to spread across her face.  "Let's hear it."

* * *

The sun burst over the horizon with a ferocious light as if to say, "This will be a day to remember."  Kevin Baker lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes red from lack of sleep.  Marilyn rolled over and wrapped her arm around him.  "If nothing else, all those workouts have turned you into one buff guy."  He rolled off the bed and shuffled out of the room without a word.

"Well, no matter what happens, it'll all be over with today," she called after him.  

Kevin reappeared in the doorway.  "You mean I'll be over with in this town."  Marylin smiled.

"It'll be all right."

When they emerged from the house, a small band of parishioners waited for them.  One held a hand-painted sign that said, "Go Fr. Kevin."  Another hoisted a placard that read, "Kev the Rev!"  Kevin gave a faint wave and climbed into the car.  Despite the sense of impending doom, he had to admit feeling glad to see so many supporters.  The procession of cars that followed him slowed down only long enough to let a similar procession pass, this one led by the Wibrand car.    

At precisely eleven o'clock, both pastors climbed into the mud pit set up for the occasion.  Ropes marked off the pit, but anyone who wanted to could have jumped in.  That was what Marilyn and Dot were counting on.  

Everyone present was asked to pay $10.  Some people groused about it being public space, but when the chief of police walked through the crowd shaking a basket for the "donations," most coughed up.  

Kevin wore his old gray wrestling singlet from college days.  He still fit pretty well, and risking a glance at his stomach he had to smile.  The little paunch that had started to form in recent years was gone.  He really was buff.

When he looked over at Dirk, however, Kevin's smile evaporated.  The trainer had done his work well.  Dirk wore a tight t-shirt and, already more than half a foot taller than Kevin, bulged with muscles that had not been there two months earlier.  True, he still had a noticable belly, but Kevin knew that in a fight, that wouldn't matter.  He would have to depend on his experience and instincts to stay alive.

Fred Warner acted as referee, but all he wore was a pair of blue Docker shorts and a tattered white polo shirt.  A whistle dangled from his neck.  

"Okay, gentlemen," said the superviser so that only Dirk and Kevin could hear.  "The newspapers are here, and oh, look, there's a television news truck.  So, I want you to smile and at least pretend to be good sports about this."

Dirk and Kevin shook hands.  "Ready to be a good sport?" Dirk said, looking down at Kevin.  Kevin laughed.  "I was about to throw up this morning, but look at this."  He motioned to the crowd which cheered.  "This thing is so ridiculous it's funny."  He started giggling.  Dirk gave him a questioning look but Kevin waved it off.  "It's -- just -- so…"

The corners of Dirk's mouth twitched.  He snorted, then let a giggle escape.  Another giggle followed, and then another.  Before long, both ministers were doubled up with laughter, leaning on each other for support.  

"Fight already!" shouted someone in the crowd.  It was the lady from the Grease Bucket.

"Fight!  Fight!  Fight!" chanted the spectators.  Fred Warner looked nervous.  "Come on, guys," he urged.  "Let's get going."  He never got another word out.  At that moment, a wad of mud soared through the air and hit him in the back of the head.  Kevin and Dirk stared at him in shock.  Kevin noticed Matt DeVry slip into the crowd.  Dirk pointed at the supervisor's head and errupted into laughter again, bringing Kevin along with him.  Another mudball sailed over their heads from the opposite direction, and Kevin saw Dennis Peltz wipe his hands.  He heard someone scream and turned to see Mary Sweet wipe mud off her face.

Uh-oh, thought Kevin.  Mary Sweet is not someone to mess around with.  Sure enough, Mary reached inside the ring and hurled a bunch of mud in Dennis' direction.  It hit Amy Jones in the shoulder, nearly knocking her down.  Several nearby members of St. Claire's Vestry leaped into the ring and grabbed handfulls of mud.  "What's the idea of hitting a little old lady?" they shouted and let loose.

Another volley came from the right of the Vestry members, aimed at nobody in particular.  One hit Fr. Kearny a glancing blow across the nose.  He pulled out a handkercheif, wiped his face, then reached down and threw a fastball that caught Rev. Ferguson square in the chest.  Presbyterians sprang into the ring and started firing mud at the Catholics.  In moments, mud filled the sky while Kevin Baker and Dirk Wibrand stood untouched, mouths agape.  A newscaster from WHAT-TV smirked before the camera until a mud grenade filled his mouth.  

In the distance, leaning against the Town Hall, Dot Wibrand and Marilyn Baker high-fived each other.

* * *

The Parlous Pastors' Mud-Wrestling Match made TV evening news to the amusement of nearly everyone not from Parlous.  In the end, Dirk Wibrand kept his position as PRC's pastor, and Kevin Baker stayed at St. Claire's.  Fred Warner lost his bid for re-election as supervisor that Fall and retired from politics.  The Town of Parlous gave up on crazy on fundraisers like mud-wrestling... until the formation of the Parlous Pastors Hockey Club.

THE END