Title: Spero [ReV 239]
Featuring: Brian Postal
Date: January 1, 2011
Location: Toronto, Ontario, Canada

It was a grey but relatively warm New Years Day in Toronto, a very reasonable 4°C, and only a little precipitation hanging loosely in the air. The air was crystal clear by Toronto standards, you could almost see the CN Tower from Rexdale. The air inside the Tim Horton’s coffee shop at Albion & Finch was warm and recycled… familiar.

There was quite an array of folks at the coffee shop that morning. A lineup to the door of people order coffee, donuts, and sandwiches. A quorum of elderly men discussed the merits of foreign versus domestic automobiles. A woman with a stroller trying to convince her baby that he *loooooooooves* oatmeal. He doesn’t. A Sudanese refugee family (based mostly on their dress) complaining about the cold in heavy accents. A crazed woman talking loudly at a friend about some impending political upheaval in Egypt. The usual suspects. Only two people are alone. The first is a young man in a business suit, typing away on a new MacBook Air, blissfully unaware that there was anyone else at the coffee house that morning.

The other?

Brian Postal had never felt so cripplingly alone. Even amid the sea of people at the coffee shop. Many still badly hung over from the festivities of the pervious evening, maybe hoping the java would give them a boost to get through the day and try again on Sunday. Brian sipped his double-double and wondered how it got this bad.

Brian thought of his high-school days, it seemed like a lifetime ago, when he tried out for Canada’s Olympic team in Sydney. Maybe missing the cut for the team was the turning point in his life. It certainly shook him to his core. Brian was the best in his school and yet the best simply was not good enough. So maybe he wouldn’t have displaced Daniel Igali, but no one else on the team even got a medal! And Brian was worse than all of them? Maybe he was right to give up on that dream. Who wants to end up like Darren Drozdov… or fellow Canadian (and high-school idol) Chris Benoit? Wrestling was a pipe dream.

Brian put his cup on the table and slid it back and forth between his hands like a hockey puck. Maybe music would have been his salvation? He did have a promising music career ahead of him, a member of the AFM and CFM. He’d done session gigs with Harmonie Park, Allure Sound, and a handful of other studios in Detroit, beside a couple touring gigs with blues and bluegrass bands…

No sooner had the thought filled his mind than he instantly regretted thinking it. Music wasn’t his salvation it was his downfall! Maybe if he had gone to Nashville, or New York… but chasing that dream down to Detroit would be worst decision he ever made. If wrestling was a pipe dream, music stood at the barrel of a loaded gun - at least for Brian.

There were some decisions Brian wished he had made differently in his life. And some blood he’d like to get off his hands…

“Brian!” the exuberant voice of Father Peter rang out. “I guess it’s easy to say in hindsight, but I knew it was you in that confessional.” he continued as he sat at the table.

“What confessional?” Brian asked. Father Peter looked shocked and embarrassed, and began trying to backpedal. “I’m just messing with you, Father. That was me.” He continued as the priest let out a long sigh of relief, “I’m glad you came.”

With a relieved smirk the Father shook his head and replied, “No, my son, I’m the one who’s glad. It’s so tremendous to see you again! It’s been almost 3 years since I heard from you, and… I can’t remember the last time I heard confession for you.”

Father Peter was a kindly man, in his 70’s, with a friar-like tuft of hair that ran around the sides and back of his head. He wore small, and unobtrusive glasses most of the time and had a prominent nose, like Klinger, from M*A*S*H. He only stood 5’10”, but he was probably over six feet when he was a younger man. Just a little round in the middle, and with a Irish accent. He came from the Republic of Ireland, in fact he was born Peter John Patrick Connolly the very year that Ireland got it’s own constitution - 1937. His father served with the British Forces in WWII and was killed in battle and awarded a Victoria Cross. His mother emigrated to Canada when the hostilities ceased, in early 1946. His mother died of pneumonia while he was in his senior year of high school. Peter dropped out and spent the next the next decade in the bar or the drunk-tank. He was arrested on his 34th birthday for getting in a fight with Greek man who stole his drink from the bar. The arresting officer was Liam Clarke, another Irish immigrant, who gave Connolly much the same conversation he was about to give Postal. A lost and confused Peter Connolly joined the seminary when he was released from custody the next afternoon.

Father Peter still has that Victoria Cross.

“Father, I’m jammed up really bad. I don’t know what to do. I need out.”

The priest’s expression became very serious as he leaned across the table and looked Brian square in the eyes. “You haven’t gotten out yet?”

“No.”

“Why not, Brian? Last time I saw you, you said you were finished.”

“Well for one thing, you can’t just ‘leave’ with these people, and two, I got nowhere to go. I got no skills, I got no education, I got nothing.” Brain let out a sigh of exasperation. He was mentally exhausted and felt like there we no options left for a late-20’s nobody.

“There’s got to be work for a fit man like yourself in the trades right here in Toronto, or Detroit. You have a work visa for the States, right?”

“The economy’s still in the toilet, Father. They’re going to hire back guys they let go before I get anything - and even if I do find work it’s going not to be steady, it’ll be piecemeal. I need a cheque I can depend on, Father. And that’s here… it’s even worse in Michigan.”

“I never joined the clergy until I was 34! You’re not even 30 yet, there’s still time for you, Brian.”

“I’m no preacher, Father.” Brian declared softly, looking into his empty coffee cup.

There was a long pause between the two men. Neither one looking at the other. Brian suddenly felt foolish. He stood awkwardly, knocking his chair over and drawing the attention of most of the coffee house. He went to pick up the chair.

“Brian, you can’t just give up! There’s no easy way out, there’s no shortcut home! You need to get this right, and now is the time!”

Brian hated the man - for always being right. Brian knew the priest was right, too, he knew it to his core, and with someone breathing the truth down his neck he couldn’t rationalize it away like he had so many times before. This is why Brian never really had friends, friends just got in the way, constantly challenging him to own his choices and make the hard decisions necessary to set things right.. It was infuriating. The truth might have been great 7 or 8 years ago - but it was too late for all the naivety and foolishness now.

“Stop trying to help me!” Brian screamed at the old man, “I don’t even know why I came here!” Brian threw the chair back to the ground and stormed, shaking, to the door of the Tim Horton’s.

The whole restaurant sat in stunned silence as this man threw a fit, yelling at one of the most respected people in the community. And from that silence the low, authoritative voice of the priest bellowed out at Brian Postal.

“Yes you do, Brian!”

Brian froze in his tracks, but he did not turn around, he just stood, tensed up like a cat facing down a Doberman with anger, fear, and resistance all over his face.

“And that knot in the pit of your stomach is God’s Spirit calling you out on the carpet!”

Brian gritted his teeth.

“You need to decide if you’re man enough to make this right and get yourself out. You’re asking me to abandon you, Brian, just like you’ve abandoned yourself! I won’t do it! I won’t!”

Brian turned his head as if he was going to look backward over his shoulder at the priest, but instead looked at the ground in front of him, breathing deep. The whole coffee house stood silently like a hostage at a back robbery, waiting to see how these events might unfold. Righteous tension hung so thick in the air you could barely breathe.

“If you just want someone to absolve you of your sins so you can go commit them again stop using me! I’m not a puppet to placate your conscience!” hollered Father Peter, pounding his fists on the table, “So what’s it gonna be, Brian? You gonna man-up and face this thing down or are you going to go cower is some hole and die there, a soulless, half-man?”

No one in the coffee house, including Brian, could believe what they were hearing. Father Peter never raised his voice �" ever. And there it was, the gauntlet was thrown. Brian could feel the Father’s piercing eyes burning a hole through his head. Brian just stood there, eyes closed, facing the ground on his left, head still cocked for what felt like hours. But the second-hand on the clock only thundered out eight ticks before Brian opened his eyes and turned to face his challenger.

Brian wanted so desperately to tell the man he was a senile old fool, but he couldn’t because Father Peter’s words rung true in his heart. And in that moment Brian had an epiphany - if you agree with what’s been said it resounds as wisdom, but if you disagree it smacks of folly - and so it was time to acknowledge that wisdom, to act on it, face reality down. It was time to take the first steps to make it right.

Brian began to weep and looked to Father Peter, whose eyes were also welling with tears. “Help me.” He quivered out, humbly.

“Of course, my son.” the priest affirmed. “That’s my job.”

A collective sigh of relief seeped from the on-lookers as the priest walked over to Brian, put a hand on his shoulder, and guided him from the coffee shop. “Let’s talk.” He said.

They left the restuarant and walked along Finch from Albion to Keele, almost to York University. Talking about everything. Brian felt such an amazing release as he talked. It had been so long since he’d spoken freely to anyone - the last person to earn this confidence was, well, Father Peter �" three years earlier. The difference this time was that Brian wanted the help. Last time Father Peter helped him get clean and sober, this time he wanted the priest’s help getting out. Brian felt like this task was bigger than a single man, he needed a divine intervention… and he was convinced God had stopped listening to him. That’s why he needed a man of the cloth, someone with a direct line to the almighty. Someone to put in a good word.

“How long has it been since you wrestled, Brian?” There it was, out of the blue. Brian was so struck by the question that he didn’t even know what to say.

“Sorry, what?” Brian said, shaking his head as if doing a double-take.

“Wrestling, can you still do it?” the Father was persistent.

“Maybe. I haven’t tried in a while - are you suggesting I try out for London 2012? ‘Cause I think it may be too late already...” Brian said, almost laughing. What a wonderful feeling to find something genuinely amusing. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it today, but today was the first time in a long while. It was a delightful string of firsts. Brian could almost feel freedom coming down over him. It put a bounce in his step.

“No, no, Brian, but I know PRIME is holding open tryouts for a couple roster spots, and one of the tryouts is in Detroit. Since you already have an American work visa it might give you a leg-up.”

Brian was honestly astonished, “You watch wrestling? Like sports-entertainment wrestling?”

The priest smiled, “Do you know any good Catholic that doesn’t love God, a good drink, and a good fight?”

Brian was excited �" this was a real first step to the rest of his life. Maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe there were still opportunities to do something else. Maybe he wouldn’t be stuck swinging a hammer for the rest of his life. Maybe he didn’t have to choose, maybe he could do something he loved and have a soul. Right now neither was part of his life.

“Good point, Father.” Brian said with a half-smile, “When? Where? Specifics, please!”

“I don’t remember off the top of my head, it’s next week some time, I believe. Let’s head back to the parish and we’ll look it up on the internet.”

Brian gratefully agreed. As Brian looked around and surveyed the broken ambitions of his youth, attempting to collect the pieces and resurrect the vision he once had, he knew that this was the start of something awesome.

He breathed a deep, invigorating breath and let his lungs empty slowly, watching the fog dissipate into the humid Ontario air.

He hoped this wasn’t another wrestling pipe dream, another opportunity to watch his hopes disappear into thin air like his foggy breath in the cold Toronto afternoon.
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