Campus maintenance crews cleared the baselines away, making it possible to run the bases, but the outfielders were sliding on bruised knees too often, the shortstops pivoted on cold glass, and the pitcher made his windup on a mound of ice, pitching himself in a somersault with his follow-through. I cleared the rest of the field for forty dollars. I hadn’t felt the ruffle of money in my pockets in a while, and I wouldn’t be on rooftops again for another few weeks. This would hold me over until then, and the maintenance crew was all too happy to let my hands be the ones that froze to the end of the shovel. “The sun will come out and melt it soon enough,” a crewman told me. “But if you want to take the time to clear away, be my guest. It’ll get the coach off my back.”It was morning when I started and night when I finished. I cleared away the infield, scraping the crust of thin ice into piles of sheets, and then I decided to finish the outfield as well. I hated to leave a job unfinished. It was warm enough each day, even in the shadow, to melt away the frost that clung to grass blades each night.I stood at the fence and watched the team drills the next day. The players were able to run without incident and the pitcher gave a confident windup. The batter was cranking the pitches all over the field, sending the fielders left and right, sprawling for catches. He never hit one over the fence, but he had a great swing, his fundamentals were perfect, and he rarely missed a pitch. When he removed his helmet I saw it was Father Donnelly. He looked young and athletic enough to be a player.He blew a whistle that hung around his neck and sent the team around the bases a few times, and then to the far fence in sprints. He popped the button on his batting glove as he approached me.“Baseball is a pure sport, isn’t it?” He said it more as a statement than a question.“You’re pulling double duty,”
