J.J. waited in line at a concession stand. It was still an hour until game time, but he always endeavored to be at his seat when the National Anthem played before the first pitch. In all his years attending baseball, he never once missed standing at attention and singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in memory and honor of his brother.

            “Beautiful night for a ballgame, isn’t it, my brother?”

 He turned to the words from behind him and was momentarily speechless. A man about J.J.’s age stood ramrod straight, a shade under six-foot-five, a shade over 260 pounds, head of black hair accented by a ponytail that stretched three inches below his neckline and touched off with a neatly trimmed goatee. In the heart of Dodgers Country, he wore a weather-beaten Cubs cap. The black shirt and trousers, white collar, and plain wooden cross hanging at his chest from a silver chain quickly identified him as a man of the cloth.

His brown eyes blazed.

            “That it is, Father. That it is,” J.J. answered amiably.

After a pause, he added, “Let’s play two.”

            “I see you followed the Cubs back in the day,” the priest said and laughed heartily. “Ernie Banks, my man.” His was a happy laugh, the laugh of a man at peace with who he was and where he was. He extended a hand.

            “I am Father Thomas Kearns.”

            “I’m happy to meet you. People call me J.J.”

            Father Thomas squinched his eyes. “Hm. J.J. I don’t recall that name anywhere in the Bible.”

            “It stands for James Joseph, but I have gone by J.J. for many years.”

            “If I may, I would prefer to call you James,” Father Thomas answered. “A good biblical name. His little book has some of the most instructive readings in Scripture.”

            James.

J.J. liked the sound of it. No one had ever called him that, not even his mom when he acted up as a boy. And, J.J. figured, who was he to argue with this mountain of humanity, let alone a priest, let alone a man with a voice so melodious, indeed almost angelic, that it seemed to come from the Holy Spirit itself? He surveyed Father Thomas, certain it would be wrong to call him Father Tom.

His intuition was spot on.

Awaiting their turn to be served, they discussed the merits of Dodger Dogs as opposed to the Chicago Vienna, Costco Special, and New York street vendor franks.

Not only did they agree on the superb delicacy of the wieners in question, but they also found themselves in lockstep at the condiments table. Both smiled good-naturedly while slathering their dogs with deli mustard and drowning them in onions and relish.

“Would you like to join me in my suite?” Father Thomas offered.

J.J. saw no harm in it. “Why not?”

Neither J.J. nor Father Thomas had any problem being alone; in fact, they enjoyed it. Yet, when good company presented itself, they were not ones to turn it down, and both quickly sensed a compatibility with the other.

J.J. did a double-take when he arrived at the suite.

“Father Thomas, you have the best seat in the house.”

“I’m glad you agree, James. I wouldn’t sit anywhere else.”

They took their place in the left field bleachers. The wide expanse of gorgeous green opened in front of them. Beauty aside, the seats offered many other pluses. They afforded a bird’s-eye view of the action, the possibility of catching a home run ball, joining with brethren who knew and appreciated the nuances of the game, and a good chance for moving somewhere else should an obnoxious lout sit nearby.

The two made a curious pair. If Father Thomas’ stature and spirituality could fill a room, J.J.’s blended in like tasteful wallpaper in a finely appointed study. Smoothly dressed as usual, his blue jeans were ironed to a crease. A blue Polo shirt matched his bright LA baseball cap. A touch over six feet and a touch under 180 pounds, he kept his light brown hair cut stylishly short. His face was smooth, hazel eyes gentle.

The Anthem played. The two stood and sang along, J.J. with his right hand over heart, Father Thomas in a crisp salute.