A Pinch To Grow An Inch

School is a hard place with the fear of failure ever present, compounded by the fear of being unpopular.  Worse still, is the fear of being invisible.  Common student wisdom is, it's better to be noticed for being bad than to not be noticed at all.  This story explores what it means to be noticed, and whether that's a good thing or not.

Joey Carter hated school.  Not that he was a bad student, just invisible.   He was average height, average weight, had average brownish hair, and got average grades.   

Children at school never made fun of him, but they never invited him over to their houses either.  When he stood in a group of kids, everyone else talked, while he stayed invisible.  The one time he tried to speak up, the other children kept talking as if he wasn’t there.

Which is why he dreaded his birthday.  At Expansion Elementary School, children gave their friends a pinch to grow an inch on their birthdays.  It never hurt, and everyone laughed when the birthday boy or girl squealed in pretend pain.  There was even a pinch party every spring for all the students who had birthdays in the summer.  

Joey knew how many pinches he would get.  Zero.  Even when his mom brought in cupcakes the year before, kids sang a half-hearted happy birthday only when prodded by the teacher and gobbled the cupcakes with barely a thank you.  The second his mom left, everyone went back to their work without a glance at Joey.

To make it worse, this year his birthday was a Monday.  Joey spent the entire weekend devising ways to skip school.  He prayed for snow, which was rare in April.  He invented a new holiday called First Mow of the Year, but he gave it up.  If his parents believed him, he’d probably spend his birthday pushing the lawn mower.  Finally, he settled on the old standby.

MONDAY:  “Mom,” he called down the stairs early in the morning.  He moaned and held his stomach when his mother entered his room.

“What’s the matter, Birthday Boy?” she said with a smile, but frowned when she saw him.  

“I feel sick.”  Mom eyed him for a full ten seconds before breaking into a smile again.  

“Well, my sick boy, let me get the thermometer.  But I warn you; if there’s no fever, you go to school.  Birthdays are no excuse for skipping.”

She doesn’t understand, Joey thought.  His mom simply thought that he wanted his birthday off.  She had no idea how humiliating it was to have people look right through you when they were supposed to be giving you pinches to grow an inch.  If people really depended on those pinches, Joey would be about four inches tall.

Mom stuck the thermometer in his mouth, but her smile told him everything he needed to know.  “98.6,” she said and kissed him on the forehead.  “Nice try.” 

Slowly, Joey rolled out of bed to get dressed.  He put on his underwear and was just reaching for a pair of jeans when his bedroom door flew open.  His eight-year-old sister filled the doorway, a broad smile spread across the horizon of her face. 

Joey clutched the jeans to his body and crouched down.  “Ginny!” he shouted.  “I’m getting dressed!”

“Happy Birthday, Joe!” she cried with a little hop that made her red curls bob up and down.  Then, without warning, Ginny darted forward and pinched his thigh.

“Ow!” he squealed, rubbing the blooming welt.

“Pinch to grow an inch!” Ginny called and raced out of the room before he could catch her.  Joey slammed the door but smiled.  

“Well,” he told himself, “There’s one at least.”

When Joey got to school, he slunk in like every other day.   Nobody wished him Happy Birthday.  Nobody talked to him.  Nobody looked at him.  At Expansion Elementary, fifth graders did not take cupcakes on their birthday -- Mr. Baker did not like it.  So, as far as anybody knew, Joey did not have a birthday today.  As far as anybody, Joey did not exist.

When the lunch bell rang, all the children hurried to the cafeteria.  Joey brought up the rear, carrying his brown paper bag.  He sat down near a few other kids but not with them.  He sat at the “regular” boys’ table, the one for boys who were neither popular nor unpopular.  The popular girls led by Kelly Burns sat at the table behind him.  The popular boys sat at a table next to theirs.  The most unpopular kids sat at a table in the corner.

As the regular boys unpacked their lunch boxes or poked at their hot lunch trays, Joey pulled out a peanut butter sandwhich and, to his surprise, a cupcake with a little “11” written in icing on top.  Frankie Butler looked over and said, “What you got a cupcake for?”

Joey felt a twinge of excitement.  Maybe someone would notice him.  “Birthday,” he said, looking Frankie in the eye.  Frankie took one last look at the cupcake, said, “Oh,” and went back to his conversation.  Joey’s face burned.  He looked around at all the other kids enjoying themselves while he sat alone, wishing himself what nobody else would:  A Happy Birthday.

That was when something snapped inside Joey.  I don’t have to sit here and be ignored, he told himself.  After all, I’m eleven years old.  I can make them notice.  Before he knew what he was doing, Joey leapt onto the bench of his table and called out, “Today is my elelventh birthday!  Would somebody just give me one pinch?”  As soon as he said it, he sank down, his face burning, and wished he could disappear.  Why had he done such a stupid thing?  The other students stared at him a moment, some whispered and others sniggered, but soon they all went back to their meals.

Then something happened that stopped the entire cafeteria cold.  Kelly Burns stood up, walked over to Joey, and gave him a pinch on the arm.  Without a word, and with the entire school staring, she walked away.  

Alec Mally, the most popular boy, stared after her, then a nasty grin formed on his lips.  “If she can, why can’t I?” he said to his buddies.  Only, when Alec pinched, it hurt.  His friends lined up to pinch Joey, all competing to give him the hardest pinch until he wailed in pain and his arm looked like he had chicken pox. Then the popular girls jumped in, not as hard, but just as mean.  Where are the monitors? Joey thought as even the third and fourth graders ganged up on him and gave him pinches.

Joey did not take the bus home that day.  He walked by himself rather than face the humiliation of all those kids who pinched him.  All those kids whom he now hated.  As he walked, Joey thought, I wish each of those pinches really would make me grow an inch because then I’d be able to do anything I wanted to them.

That night, when his family sang Happy Birthday and his mother told him to make a wish, Joey closed his eyes and thought, Let each pinch make me grown an inch.  Then he blew out the candles.

TUESDAY:  The next morning, Joey woke up, his wish forgotten.   But when he sat up and put his feet on the floor he noticed that his knees came up to his chin.  That’s strange, he thought and stood up.  His head smacked the ceiling, and Joey cried, “Ow!”  A second later, Ginny pounded on his door and called, “What’s the matter, big brother?  Arms still hurt?”  She pushed the door open, stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at him, then let out a long, blood curdling scream before bolting down the stairs.

Joey could not stand up in his room even though it had a ten-foot ceiling.  He sat down on the bed again and rubbed his head, wondering what was going on.  A voice from downstairs broke his thoughts.  “Joey!” called his father.  “Please come down here.”  Joey tried to stand again, slowly, but gave up and crawled down to the kitchen where he knew his father was making breakfast.  

When he got there, he saw his father facing him, a spatula in one hand and a frying pan in the other.  Ginny stood behind their dad, trembling.  “Look at you,” his father said with a tut.  “You must be thirteen feet tall if you’re an inch.”  He did not seem frightened or even surprised.  “What did you wish for last night?” 

Joey looked at his long thin arms and legs waving around like tenticles, his elongated body, and his pajamas which had somehow grown with him.  He told his father about his bad day and his wish.

“You really do have to be careful what you wish for, my son,” said Dad.  “Wishes are powerful things.  Now you’ll have an uncomfortable day or two before finding out if your wish will stick -- but in the meantime you’ll have to go to school.”  Just then his mother walked in and joined them.  “Being a giant is no excuse for skipping,” she said with her sympathetic smile.  

“I’m not going to school in pajamas,” Joey insisted, but in reply, his mother simply reached into a bag she was holding and pulled out a set of clothes that looked more like tents.  

“Where did you get those?” Joey asked, forgetting his problem for a moment.

She smiled.  “Mothers are always prepared.”  Dad put a hand to Joey’s ear and said, “They used to be mine.  I - uh - had a giant problem of my own when I was your age.”

Even Ginny knew that Joey could not ride the bus in his condition.  She offered to walk with him, but he wanted to go by himself.  He had never been a giant before, and he wanted to think about it.  He walked slowly, and after a while the bus passed him.  Joey looked up and saw all the students staring out the window at him.  Joey’s heart sank.  Yesterday was bad enough, he thought.  Now I’m a freak.

When he arrived at school, he was met by two hundred children and all the teachers.  The children looked frightened, but the teachers never let on what was going through their minds.  After a minute, the bell rang, and Ms. Piston the principal jumped as if startled from a dream.  “All right, children,” she called, clapping her hands.  “To your classrooms!”  She started toward the school but stopped and turned back.  “You too, Joey.  You don’t want to be late.”  

That day, Joey had to sit cross-legged on the floor because none of the desks could hold him.  Even so, he towered over the other children who kept staring at him.  He did not like the feeling of their eyes boring into the back of his head.  When it was time for band, he shuffled to the auditorium and for the first time could stand upright inside.  When he tried to play his trumpet, however, he found it was far too small.  Mr. Adagio, the band director gave him a tuba, but even that was too little.  Joey ended up tapping on the bass drum until he accidentally hit too hard and broke it.

When he went to gym class, they played dodgeball.  Alec Mally was captain of the other team, and he told his players to aim at Joey because he was such a big target.  Joey’s team lost miserably.

At lunch, Ginny sold tickets to her second-grade classmates who stood in line to touch the giant boy.  Joey sighed.  He handed the tiny lunch sack he had been trying to open to a second grade girl and left the cafeteria.  He decided the tiny sandwhich his mother made probably would not have helped much anyway.  He was way too hungry for that.

After school, he trudged home alone, tired of all the staring.  The school bus drove past him, and the bus driver honked in greeting.  Once again, all the kids gaped at him out the school bus windows.  Oh well, he sighed, at least people noticed me today. 

That night at supper, Joey’s family ate outside so he could sit upright.  His favorite part of the evening was when Ginny got in trouble for selling tickets, and his parents made her give him all of the money.  But then, Ginny got her ball stuck in a tree, and his parents made him reach up and get it for her.  

By the end of the day, Joey was ready to be small again.

WEDNESDAY:  When he woke up the next morning he was not small.  He bumped his head on the ceiling again, squatted his way downstairs, and complained to his mother and father.  “Why haven’t I shrunk?”  His father looked up at him and waved the spatula in his face.  “I told you this could take a day or two -- if you shrink, that is.  You might be stuck as a giant.”  Joey crawled away from breakfast thinking about how it would feel being a giant for the rest of his life.

When the schoolbus came, he watched Ginny climb on.  On a sudden inspiration he yelled to the busdriver, “I’ll race you!”  The busdriver did not speed, but buses still go pretty fast.  Fortunately, Joey’s extra long legs made him even faster.  He skidded to a halt in front of the school five seconds before the bus pulled up.  The children piling out of the bus cheered and gave him high fives (which were low fives for him).  

As they marched toward school, Joey heard Ginny say, “You should have seen him get my ball from the tree.”  For the first time in forever, Joey felt special.  

Class was much the same as the day before, except Joey sat on the floor in the back.  “I can always see you,” his teacher joked.  

At recess, Alec Mally threw a ball onto the roof of the playground shed.  “Hey, Joey,” ordered Alec, “get the ball.”  Joey scowled down at him.  “Say please,” he commanded.  Children looked nervously from Alec to Joey.  Nobody ever told Alec Mally what to do.  After a few moments, however, Alec blushed and said, “Please.”  Joey reach up and tossed the ball into the crowd of cheering boys.

Five minutes later, one of the teachers hustled over to him.  “Uh, Joey,” she said, “the flag seems to have gotten wrapped around the flagpole.  Could you please unravel it?”

At gym class, they played dodgeball again, and once again Alec Mally was captain of the other team.  Joey had thought about this, and he had a plan.  Instead of trying to dodge the balls, which he could never do, he caught them with his giant hands.  Joey discovered that he could catch two balls at once and use them to block shots while his teammates picked off the other team.  That day, Alec Mally’s team lost, and Joey was a hero. 

When Joey went to bed that night, he felt a warm glow he barely knew.  But he also felt troubled.  What if the kids liked him just because of all the things he could do now?  Could they ever like him just for being Joey?

THURSDAY:  On his third as a giant, the kids hardly stared at Joey, even when he raised his hand to answer a question.  Maybe because his hands were so big now, the teacher finally called on him, and Joey gave a good answer.  He answered three questions in a row, and the teacher said, “Where have you been all year, Joey?”  He answered, “Right here.”

At lunch, he sat on the floor at the end of the table with the regular boys.  Alec Mally still wanted nothing to do with him, but Joey didn’t care.  He pulled a giant peanut butter sandwhich out of his bag  (filled with two full jars of peanut butter and two full jars of jelly) then cracked a joke.  He had told it before, but nobody had listened back then.  This time, everybody laughed.

That night when he kissed his mom and dad goodnight, he lay down on the floor with three pillows and five blankets and said, “This has been a great day.  People liked me, and not just because I was big.  For the first time, I felt like a regular kid.”  He fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

FRIDAY:   Joey woke up still smiling.  He rubbed his eyes, yawned a toothy yawn, and without thinking stood up.  His head did not hit the ceiling.  Wide awake now, Joey twirled around.  He looked at his arms and legs.  They were normal.  “Ginny!” he called with excitement.  “Come here!”  His sister burst through the door and stopped short.  Her mouth dropped open.  She took a step backward, then ran down the stairs screaming, “Mom!”

A second later he heard heavy footsteps racing up the stairs.  When they reached his door,  Mom smiled, and Dad gave a little laugh.  “Looks like your giant days are over, Son,” said Dad, waving the spatula around.  “And I just made you five dozen pancakes, too.”

“That’s no excuse for not going to school, though,” warned Mom.

“Don’t worry,” said Joey, “I’m ready.”

Alec Mally was most interested in Joey being small again.  He said, “Not so special now, are you Joey?”  Nobody listened to Alec.  They wanted to know how Joey had gotten small again.  He just shrugged.  But in class he raised his hand and answered correctly.  In gym, he caught several balls during dodgeball and even hit Alec Mally.  And at lunch, he told a new joke he had heard on the radio that made the regular boys laugh so hard Mike Stellman snorted milk through his nose.  

Joey rode the bus home that day with all the other kids, and when he got off with Ginny, they all called, “Have a great weekend, Joey!”

The next morning Joey jumped out of bed and threw on his clothes.  He raced downstairs but was surprised to find the kitchen was empty.  He packed his backpack and called upstairs, “Come on, Ginny!  Time for school!”

Dad and Mom crept down the stairs still in their pajamas.  They smiled.  “I’m glad you like school now,” said Mom.  “But it’s the weekend -- Being happy is no excuse for going to school.  But don’t worry, Monday will come soon.”

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