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The Piker

“Iron sharpeneth . . .”
Prov. 27.17

I had enjoyed my first year as the assistant priest to Father Compton, the parish priest of St. Ostwyns in the picturesque English village of Merithorpe. But I’d become aware that I was a sore disappointment to Father Compton in one important respect. I did not share his passion for sport.
Father Compton was a fanatic for any game played with a bat and ball.
“What about a spot of tennis, Pike?” he’d say hopefully, loosening the screws on his racquet press.
Or, while lovingly oiling his cricket bat in the vestry: “Do you fancy wielding the willow this afternoon, Pike?”
Or, while teeing off down the centre aisle of St. Ostwyns with an imaginary number three iron: “How about a round of golf tomorrow morning, Pike?”
Just as Father Compton had his stock invitations, I had my stock excuses.
For example: “Sorry Father Compton, I have to call on Mrs Tipping this afternoon. Her husband’s had another of his turns.”
Or: “Unfortunately, Father Compton, I promised to take Janie shopping.”
Or: “I’m afraid, Father Compton, I haven’t quite finished my sermon for tomorrow.”
Father Compton would become quite exasperated by my prevarications. I knew he didn’t believe in them for a moment.
He would argue for the health benefits of sports.
“Look, a chap’s got to have a bit of physical exercise, Pike. It clears the old cobwebs out of the brain. Mens sana in corpore sano, you know.”
Or he’d try appealing to national pride.
“We’re English, Pike. We invented cricket. Greatest game in the world. We have to keep up the tradition, you know.”
If he could have appealed to scripture, I’m sure he would have. Fortunately there are no references there to games played with bat and ball. Nevertheless Father Compton was inclined to believe this was an oversight on the part of the book’s author, and that our Lord and his disciples almost certainly amused themselves after a hard day of preaching by knocking a ball round with a stick.

Despite its predictability, life in Merithorpe could have its surprises.
“Better slip home and pack a bag, Pike,” Father Compton said to me one morning. “We’re catching a plane to New York this evening.”
“What on earth for?”
“We’re going to a theological symposium. Here’s the programme. Just the sort of thing for a chap like you.”
My heart sank as I scanned the list of the papers to be presented. The first was entitled “The Logic of Pneumatomachianism and its Refutation by the Cappadocians with Special Reference to the Trinitarian Reasoning of St. Athanasus”.
“Hold on Father Compton,” I said. “For a start I can’t afford it. Second, to be perfectly honest, I’ve no interest whatsoever in Pneumatomachianism, the Cappadocians, or St. Athanasus.”
“Not to worry,” said Father Compton. “Lord Moule is giving us his plane tickets. He and Lady Moule are frightfully interested in this sort of thing. They went to Cappadocia on their holiday last year, I recall.”
“Why don’t they go themselves?”
“They would but Lord Moule has to present the sports prizes at St. Bardolph’s. One can’t let the Old School down you know, Pike.”
I’d let Father Compton down often enough, I felt. I drove home and packed a suitcase.

On the plane to New York, I had time to reflect about the attitude problem I have towards sports. I was tempted to end a lifetime’s pretence and confess to Father Compton that, when it comes to sports, I’ve always been true to my namesake. A piker, in other words. Or, as my dictionary defines it, a person who backs out at the last moment. A coward.
I grew up in South Africa, where the national sport is rugby. The ambition of every schoolboy in my home town was to play for the Springboks. Every schoolboy, that is, except one.
It was all because of the first game of rugby I ever played. I was in Standard Four. Early in the game, by some fluke, the ball landed in my hands. Even before I had a chance to run for the goal posts, the whistle blew.
“Offside!” yelled the referee.
There were cries of domkop!, pampoenkop! and some other Afrikaans expressions that are best not repeated.
“Whose side are you on, Pike?” bellowed our sports master, Mr Kruger, from the sideline.
Actually, I’d been trying hard to keep well clear of the ball to avoid getting my spectacles broken. The eyepieces were held together with silver wire. Mr de Groot, our local jeweller, had done a good job in fixing them a day or two earlier but didn’t think they could be mended again. He suggested I take them off next time we played with a medicine ball during physical education.
That was all very well, but without my spectacles there was no way I could see a medicine ball hurtling towards my face. It was Hobson’s choice, really.
Minutes later, the whistle blew again.
“Offside!”
I turned to face my fuming team mates and the inevitable happened. I could tell by the way the muddy ball smacked into my face that I’d be needing a new pair of spectacles.
My popularity never recovered from that game. As I stumbled from the field, the one surviving lens screwed into my eye like a monocle, someone yelled: “Why don’t you learn the rules, Pike!”
It was deeply galling to discover that I was the only boy in the school who couldn’t fathom the rules of rugby. Even my younger brother, who couldn’t do fractions, knew what a first five eight was, and where he was supposed to stand on the field.
I’d piked out of basketball in Standard Two and softball in Standard Three. From then on, I was a rugby piker.
When I went to college, playing sport was compulsory one afternoon a week. There was an option for boys who demonstrably lacked prowess in rugby and that was hockey.
Knowing I was in the company of fellow-pikers, I felt something approaching confidence as I hobbled onto the hockey field in a pair of rugby boots borrowed from my brother. The boots were two sizes too small and my stick had been repaired with Scotch tape. But my parents had spent so much on spectacles for me that it was hardly surprising if they were reluctant to invest in new sports equipment.
I adopted what I felt was a suitable stance and made sure my spectacles were on firmly. Minutes later, a shrill blast on the referee’s whistle brought the game to a halt.
“Offside!”
He was looking at me.
It was the old story. It made no difference whether I pretended to chase the ball down to the far goal posts or whether I hung about on the sidelines on my own. I was offside.
By half time, I’d had enough of all the black looks and whispered threats. Then fate intervened. Even though you can’t see it, there’s an unmistakable whistling sound a ball makes when your face is directly in its flight path. Seconds later, the eyepieces of my glasses parted company. Feigning unconsciousness, I dropped to the ground.
As they carried me off the field, I knew I’d just become a hockey piker.
Without a doubt, the most complicated and dangerous game I piked out of at college was cricket. The ball travels so fast you don’t even hear it coming. The force will completely disintegrate a pair of spectacle frames.
The most inappropriately named game was softball. I can vouch for the fact that a softball slammed into your face from a hundred yards away does not feel soft at all.
I was going to tell Father Compton all this but somehow I felt he wouldn’t relate to the problem. He wore spectacles himself and yet no matter what game he played, his spectacles remained intact on his face. He’d never piked out of a sports challenge in his life. Besides, he was preoccupied throughout the flight with his copy of Sports Illustrated.

When we arrived in New York, Father Compton discovered our hotel was not far from the Yankee Stadium.
“I’ve always wanted to see American baseball. Why don’t you come along with me, Pike?”
“What about the symposium? One of us will have to make some notes for Lord and Lady Moule,” I said, pretending a regret I did not feel.
“Couldn’t we just give them a set of the conference papers?”
“They might expect to get into some pretty detailed discussion with us.”
“I suppose you’re right, Pike,” Father Compton conceded reluctantly. “It’s a good thing you’re an academic sort of chap. I’ll see you at the symposium tomorrow, then.”
Characteristically, once he’d discovered baseball, Father Compton’s enthusiasm for the game knew no bounds. He bought himself a baseball bat and ball and the other paraphernalia of the game and naturally he wanted me to get involved as well.
“Let’s go down to Central Park and have a knock around. We might manage to get a team together. Baseball is really big over here.“
“Sorry, I really have to get back to the symposium,” I said.
Father Compton sighed, but I knew he would not give up on the idea so easily.

When Father Compton finally turned up at the symposium, he met an Episcopalian priest, Father Kennedy, who ran a youth club in Harlem. He was looking for someone to help coach the club’s baseball team. Father Compton volunteered. He and Father Kennedy disappeared to the club for the rest of the afternoon.
“You should come down and have a game with us, Pike,” he said at breakfast next morning. “You’d enjoy it, you really would. Baseball is a lot faster than cricket, you know. Less chance to get bored.”
It was a Saturday and I was looking forward to visiting the Guggenheim museum.
“I’m sorry Father Compton,” I said. “I can’t make any sense of the rules of baseball.”
“Look, they’re simple,” he said. “A child could learn them in two minutes flat.”
He drew a diamond and a series of small circles on a napkin, and launched into an explanation. He was, as usual, disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm.
I made a lame excuse about having to write up some notes from the symposium.
“Academic symposia are all very well, Pike, but it‘s down at street level where Christianity really matters,” he said.
“In fact, I believe there’s a real spiritual awakening among these boys at the club. They asked me if you would come down and lead them in prayer this afternoon.”
There was something a bit odd about the way Father Compton said this, but after five days of listening to heavy-weight academic papers, even a prayer meeting seemed a welcome relief. I agreed.
“Good. I said you’d be coming. They’re starting the prayer meeting at quarter to two. I’ve borrowed a car from Father Kennedy.”
The youth club was a surprisingly palatial building, set in grounds surrounded by a high netting fence.
“They’re meeting downstairs in the changing room . . . I mean the basement,” said Father Compton. “We’ll take the stairs.”
We descended several flights of stairs. It was then I became aware of a faint, aromatic odour in the air. And I heard the sound of voices raised in prayer.
“Give us the victory, Lord, this afternoon.”
“Yeah man, victory over all our foes!”
“Amen, brother!”
“Hallelujah!”
“Whee!”
What was that smell? Incense? I sensed it was associated with my past in some way. Whatever it was, it was making me decidedly uneasy.
Father Compton opened the door.
“You go in. I’ll see you outside in a few minutes.”
The door closed behind me.
“Guys, here he is!”
“The English champ!”
“Pleased to meet yuh, Father.”
“Whee!”
I found myself surrounded by a group of ebullient black youths. All were over six feet tall and all wore red and white uniforms.
My nightmare had begun. I recognised the smell. It was Dr Thyssen’s Original Liniment. It came in a round green tin with a wildebeest on it. Every changing room at college had been permeated with that smell.
To a sportsman, it was as the anointing oil poured on the heads of the sons of Aaron. To a piker, it is smell of fear itself.
I felt my hand gripped by a huge black hand.
“Hi man, I’m Rufus and these are the Harlem Redcaps. We’re sure honoured to have you playing for us, Father. We’re gonna need all the help you can give us. The Green Jackets are a real mean team. Leroy and Shelborne, you help the Father to get his gear on.”

At this point, overcome by the fumes of Dr Thyssen’s Original Liniment, I must have passed into a state of semiconsciousness. I was vaguely aware of my shirt and tie being pulled off, and of being zipped into a red jacket. My trousers were replaced with baggy white pants and my feet laced into hard boots. A red cap was jammed onto my head.
I felt myself being grabbed by the arms and propelled into bright sunlight and a wide open space. I heard the sounds of cheering. A baseball bat was shoved into my hands.
As the liniment fumes cleared from my head and consciousness returned, I found myself facing a huge black youth in a green jacket and cap. He was hopping from one leg to another, while simultaneously smacking a ball from one hand to another. He grinned at me ferociously.
There were other youths in green jackets ranged in a diamond pattern round the field, watching me intently. Further out field, also wearing the green uniform, I saw Father Compton. He was smirking. I knew he’d engineered the whole fiasco.

Fear concentrates the mind wonderfully. I could see the frightful scenario all too clearly. In a few seconds’ time, I’d be needing a new pair of spectacles. And, judging by the size and brute strength of the pitcher, I’d also be needing facial reconstruction and prosthetic dentistry.
I had thirty-five pounds and sixty pence in the Merithorpe Branch of the Bank of England. That would cover the cost of new spectacle frames, but it meant Janie would not get the winter coat we’d been saving for. The big question was whether the lenses would survive the impact. Even if they did, would they survive being ground underfoot as the players rushed to my aid? Judging from past experience, it was unlikely.
We’d need a bank loan to cover the facial reconstruction. A big loan, according to what I’d heard about the costs of hospital treatment in the United States, which made it unlikely we’d ever have a house of our own. New teeth would be out of the question. I’d have to do without them. But, I reflected, there were thousands of people in the United Kingdom who couldn’t afford teeth. Being toothless might actually open a new ministry for me.
My thoughts turned to the physical ordeal ahead. The smack in the face from a ball travelling at a speed approaching that of sound is not pleasant but you do go into instantaneous shock and, with luck, pass into unconsciousness. The real pain comes later. You have to live with the swelling and having to tell people that it’s not as bad as it looks.
It occurred to me there was a way out – the piker’s way. I could stage a physical collapse. What would it be? Heart attack? No, the deception would certainly be found out. Heat stroke? Unfortunately, I hadn’t been out in the sun long enough for that.

I put these unworthy thoughts out of mind, and did what I should have done at the start. I prayed.
It had a remarkably calming effect. I was able to watch with interest as the pitcher prepared for his first throw. As if watching a movie frame by frame, I saw his arm draw back, every muscle in his body concentrated on the task. I observed the powerful flick of his wrist as his arm came forward, and how his fingers imparted a spin to the ball as it left his hand.
As I watched the ball’s slow trajectory towards the strike plate, I realised, with astonishment, that I could hit it. I hefted the bat. It had a satisfying balance and solidity in my hands. I knew precisely the angle at which the bat had to connect with the ball to take advantage of its spin.
Keeping my eye on the slowly advancing ball, I crouched slightly, the bat poised behind me. When I knew everything was right, I swung the bat, stepping forward as I did so, so that every ounce of my body weight was behind it. Bat and ball connected perfectly.
I could tell the ball had sufficient force to clear the far boundary of the field and would smash into the netting fence. It had a fearsome spin. It was lucky, I thought, that none of the Green Jackets had been in the ball’s way or they would had their heads taken off. I could see the look of amazement on their faces as they followed its flight.
Then, to my horror, I saw Father Compton streaking towards the boundary. He spun in a half-circle, simultaneously leaping into the air as if propelled by a rocket pack. His hands closed over the ball.
He shouldn’t have tried because I knew all too well what would happen next. The ball ricocheted out of his hands and neatly clipped the corner of his spectacle frames.
I watched the spectacles mounting gracefully into the air, their plastic frames slowly disintegrating. The lenses cracked under the impact. The shards caught and refracted the sunlight in a kaleidoscopic array of colours.
The applause from the onlookers was deafening.

Poor Father Compton. It was not easy signing the autograph books with his bruised and swollen fingers, and without his spectacles he could see even less than I could. We bought a replacement pair from a department store on the way back to the hotel.

On Monday it was back to the symposium and a highly erudite paper entitled (I think) “Eschatalogical Themes in the Nabusite Codex: Some Philological and Semantic Probings in Light of Chomskian Linguistics”, by the world-renowned scholar Rabbi Leibowitz. If I understood him correctly, the learned Rabbi was demonstrating how the writings of the ancient Nabusite prophets foreshadowed the development of twentieth-century technology in a remarkable way. I think this was what the Rabbi was saying, but as I noted, it was a highly erudite paper, and I cannot claim familiarity with either ancient Semitic tongues or Chomskian linguistics. Nor do I have a background in higher mathematics, Einstein’s theory of relativity or quantum mechanics.
Father Compton and Father Kennedy appeared to be engrossed in the address. Later, I saw both of them slipping copies of Sports Illustrated into their briefcases.
Later that evening, the learned Rabbi entertained the delegates with a delightful story entitled The Eight Wise Sayings, about a king who went on a pilgrimage in search of wisdom.

“I’ve misjudged you, Pike,” Father Compton confided as we settled down on the plane for the flight back to Heathrow. “I thought you were a chap who didn’t like sports very much. I should have realised you were protecting me from myself. A true sportsman can’t play below his form just because he’s matched with an old duffer like me. Play to win, that’s the motto. That’s why your countrymen are the greatest rugby players in the world. Even better than the New Zealand All Blacks.
“What we need is a game where we can be more evenly matched. How about a spot of croquet at Lord Moule’s when we get back? He’s got a marvellous lawn up at the manor. You could invite Janie, I’ll bring Constance and we’ll make up a party.”
Secretly, I’d been hoping Father Compton would suggest a game of cricket. Compared with baseball, cricket would be child’s play. Croquet was a start, however.
“That’s a marvellous idea, Father Compton,” I said. “Janie and I will really look forward to it.”