THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART 4 OF 5

We returned from our exploration of the hills and valleys of the Burgs just in time for the Staff Softball Challenge.  

On the way back Rob declared that since he was president he was also the de facto captain of our “team” and would set our lineup.  None of us had brought our gloves and Dan had forgotten his sneakers and noted he would have to play in his school shoes.

The undefeated Shawnee Staff turned out to be Nick Charles, the one size fits all social staff, the two waiters, a bus boy and one guy who was dressed in overalls who had been painting the ancient porch furniture white for another summer season.

They were wearing faded yellow and green Shawnee Tee-shirts which Mr. Charles announced could be purchased at a discount ---- - today only - using a bull horn which seemed unnecessary as we were the only "sports fans" in earshot for this great event. 

We almost had a full team not counting the Rev who said he would play, but only if necessary.  We all chimed, “You’ve gotta – our team needs you.”  Which was a bit of an exaggeration, but we all felt a bit guilty for leaving him out of our “fun” so far.

The home team staff took the field filling a minimum of key positions.  Only Mr. Charles actually looked like he wanted to play and he took to the mound with his bullhorn. 

He announced to the “non-audience”  that "batting for the Collegiates, was team captain Rob".  And so the game began.  

Rob hit the first pitch for a easy double as there was no second baseman and only one outfielder.  The Rev was next.  He tried several bats from the worn bat bag.  Strode to the plate exuding the confidence of Babe Ruth on a good day.  

First he tried the right side of the plate; then the left side.  I thought wow, the Rev is a switch hitter. 

Then I noticed that his grip was wrong.  Batting left handed he had the right hand above his left hand on the bat – even a little leaguer knew not to do this!  I realized then and there that the Rev was never a ball player.

Nick Charles delivered a high arching sloball and the Rev dove to the ground – even though the ball was five feet away from hitting him.

Frank looked at me and mouthed “Good grief he doesn’t know how to hit a softball.”  

(As the game wore on and on and on we would also learn that he didn’t know how to throw, catch or run either.  He was totally uncoordinated. )

Apparently preaching was it for him.  He probably would never have made it in any other endeavor that required dexterity.  I would discover that this was almost always the case for most pastors I would meet)

After the longest four innings ever played and a half dozen soggy dirty water hot dogs washed down with warm orange soda it started to rain.  

The score:  Collegiates 22 – Shawnee 2.  

Nick called the game after one distant rumble of thunder and Shawnee's undefeated record stood intact because he reported that we had not played enough innings for it to be an “official” game.

He announced to no one in particular - "Thanks guys, you were good sports",  and then reminded us that the great Bingo tournament - with great prizes - would begin in 15 minutes.

It started to pour and we ran to a white gazebo in the rose-less rose garden next to the lodge.  The Rev ran (and tripped several times) back to the safety of the hotel. We knew he didn't want to face us after his performance on the field.

Now was the perfect time for Rob to broach the idea we had all been waiting for – but didn’t have the courage to discuss.  “Well, I suppose I have to do it” – he muttered.  “Yep,” we replied together sheepishly.  Paul warned, “It's now or never Mr. President and you are the anointed one, elected to do that stuff.”  

Rob pondered the challenge and then ran off into the storm to catch up with the Rev as a big thunderbolt flashed above us.

It seemed to take far too long for such a simple task but just as we were to give up an omen rainbow arched over the hotel roof and Rob returned with a sly smile on his mug. 

“It wasn’t easy – BUT he is going to do it – but only if we all sign a paper and swear never ever, ever to tell anyone – EVER!  Do you guys agee?

YESSSSSS - we shouted in unison.

And so the crowning moment of our entire Y club life was about to happen.  Rob had cajoled a Methodist minister, our mentor and adviser into buying his under-aged charges some beer!

We piled into the Rev’s car, he at the wheel.  We could see him literally twitching with nerves.  A mile down the road was a small gas and grocery store combo – Big Sam’s Gas n Go, with a sign in the window that blinked “Package Goods”.

I, being the biggest (and oldest looking), was unanimously selected to go into the store and select the illicit brew as we didn’t trust the Rev to actually know how to do this – we were right.

Sweat was beading on his forehead as we entered the vacationer's emporium - crammed with "everything" a mountaineer vacationer might need – from matches to fishing lures.

I spied the large cooler on the back wall.  It had been affirmed, after much debate on the way, that the Rev would only buy us one large bottle of beer, just beer and no “hard stuff” as he called it.  

I surveyed the various brands in the case and played a beer TV commercial in my head, “Schmidt's of Philadelphia…Schmidt's will ring the bell for ya…”  Schmidt's it was.  I selected a big brown quart of sin and handed it to the Rev who carried it with both hands like it was a ticking bomb.

Big Sam, we assumed, greeted us.  “That will be all gents?”

“Ye..e…e…s sir,” stammered the Rev.  

He was sweating profusely and I knew he was thinking that certain damnation awaited him for this transgression.  He paid the man who must of thought he was watching a guy having an acute bout of the D.T.’s.  We turned to make our getaway, our prize clutched in a brown bag.  And then Sam uttered these now legendary words. 

 “Hey pal, got a church key?”

The Rev froze in his tracks.  He turned white.  Then crimson. 
He whimpered, “He knows…he knows…how does he know…how does he know I…I was...a preacher…Oh my heavens...!  

His knees buckled as I grabbed him and yelled over my shoulder, “Yes sir we sure do.”  

I hurried him out the screen door and placed him in the back seat as he seemed to be speaking in tongues.  An unintelligible babble. He was apparently in deep shock.  Rob crunched the gears and pulled away and asked – “What the hell? 

I replied, “Exactly,  the Rev just had a vision of it!”

(Hours later I would explained to him that the guy couldn't know he was a man of the cloth - that a Church key was slang for a bottle or can opener used by common gusslers.)  ”  

The Rev recovered by dinner and after saying a very long grace he cautioned us to take it easy tonight and reminded us all again about our solemn pledge of secrecy that would hopefully keep him in the work of the Lord.  

We rushed through dinner and skipped dessert -  our foamy adult beverage was awaiting us.

A quart of beer.  32 ounces  – that came to 4 sips per Collegiate. We were not going get into a lot of trouble for sure. 

After dark we stole away from peering eyes and sauntered to the boat dock.  The darkest place to indulge in our daring deed for Young Christian clubbers.

Rob got the honors of using his new Pocono souvenir "church key" purchased in the hotel gift store and ceremoniously intoned the Collegiate oath (which cannot be printed here as it remains a secret chant and frankly not of suitable language for many readers) - he downed the first swig.

Actually he gulped and sputtered.
  
We each took our turn and then passed the bottle on.  David didn’t drink, saying he had beer all the time at home and would forego his portion for the good of the order.  (We believed in reality his lips had never really tasted beer and he feared trying it.)

I took my turn, but it wasn’t the first for me.  My grandfather had “sneaked” me a shot glass of the bitter stuff on many a Friday night as we watched the fights on TV and ate saltines and sharp cheese together.  As always it burned my mouth.

Soon the bottle was empty and we all sat on the dock, bare feet in the warm stream – sated and enjoying a slight buzz that in reality was more psychological than physical from the meager amount we were allotted.

Rob however was actually slurring his word as he repeated over and over again, “Hey buddy, got a church key.”  And like an infection spreads, our smiles turned into giggles, giggles turned into laughs, laughs into uncontrollable waves of hysterical whoops that echoed off the hills around us. 

We were to a man – drunk.  

Drunk with the idea of growing up.  Becoming adults.  And the reality that we would soon be facing many sips of sin as we made our separate ways to various colleges all over the map.

The chatter died down as each of us thought over the evil we had wrought that day for our advisor. 

All was still until the silence was broken by Rob retching his Schmidt’s into the great pristine Delaware – he would never become a “good drinker” as they say.

We followed him as he staggered off to dreamland.  

For us all that night long ago this would go down in history as the best of times for the Collegiates - the best ever.  

Our Pocono Adventure was ending – But the beginning of a greater journey for us all had just begun.