Robert Walikis
Catholic Night at Angel Stadium
Catholic Night at Angel Stadium occurs by the grace of God, through the prayerful and apostolic agreement of our Roman Catholic dioceses of Southern California and our Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.
Games’ dates proposed to conjoin our hallowed calendars are subject to conclave voting. Conflicting summer parish festivals or clashing beloved saints’ feast days are seminal points of discussion. We strictly observe our bishop-led consensus against scheduling Dodgers or Padres inter-diocesan play.
Our American League brims with opposing teams well-known to associate with the Devil, including the Yankees, a century-long deal with the Deceiver, and the Rays, despite rescinding his naming rights. This season, Catholic Night welcomes the Mariners who may yet prove to be “fishers of men”.
Our religious orders arrive for tailgating hours before the first-pitch benediction:
Franciscans, driving nondescript minivans, minister bottled holy water, alms for the needy optional.
Dominicans, blasting Gregorian chants from open-gate monster truck speakers, light 8-burner gas grills while holstering overwrought iron utensils.
Jesuits pass host-thin crackers, fruit plates, well-aged brie, and humidor-cellared cigars from Loyola-stickered station wagons.
Sisters of the Society of the Sacred Heart sell consecrated doughnuts and everlasting cider.
Trappists stride in with kegs of Trinity, their heavenly three-malt ale, pre-approved for concession sale.
The beatified ballpark pilgrims enter turnstile gates in brilliant white, renouncing black dress along with all of Satan’s empty promises; neither do we don his sinful game-time preference, the Angels’ alternate red jerseys.
As the first innings play out, our Monsignor from Senegal, mission-bound, rejoices at the glory of 46-thousand souls performing, “Sign of the Cross”: a reverent version of the “Wave”, wherein entire sections stand and sit en masse, starting behind home base, then beyond centerfield, next left of 3rd base, and ending right of 1st.
Faint echoes murmur, “In the name of.…”
Gregarious Deacon Gabriel fields a cheering section of CYO athletes, looking for the devout hitters who cross themselves on approach to home plate. The ascending “Amen!” fills the eaves.
Our Blessed Sacraments are ever-present:
There is baptism by fire of the Mariners’ rookie outfielder, a deluge of insults from the bleacher seats.
There is obvious penitence in our wayward Angels’ runners’ downcast demeanor after being picked off at 1st Base.
There is communion of the pretzels, peanuts, and Cracker Jack’s carried by cassocked concessionaires.
There is confirmation of the umpire, as the Holy Spirit guides his judgment of strikes and balls.
There is matrimony of garlic and French fries, a concession appropriated from the Franciscan Giants.
There are holy orders for novice Jesuits, refilling superiors’ drinks in plush box seats.
And the anointing of the sick for the home crowd, when our cleanup hitter grounds into a double play.
The seventh-inning-homily boosts our spirits, as halo headband sales trend higher. We kneel: bottom of the ninth, rally caps draped with rosaries, Hail Marys on our lips.
God only knows if He will provide cause for a walk-off celebration mass on Catholic Night at Angel Stadium.
Robert Walikis is a writer, playwright, poet, and songwriter. His work has been published in the journal Literary North and Pif Magazine. He graduated from Cornell University and lives in Irvine, California. He makes maps and tells stories. Twitter: @opentank