I promised when I started writing this that I wouldn't tell old stories about myself, where I look like the hero. You know, a Tino story. One where my wife would say, you're a million years old. Oh, how about those Rolling Stones.
But it's a pretty good story.
During my freshman year at Penn State, I was a lector at Mass. Back when I was still a good Catholic. I like lectoring because I got to talk in front of a lot of people. If I talk slower, they had to listen longer. And I got to look at them looking at me. Pretty good ego trip, and I didn't have to become a priest.
I realized my first conflict when my second Mass came on the same day of the second game of the season. We played TCU at noon, and I think church was at 4:45 p.m. Plenty of time. So the tailgate started around 8 a.m., and Melissa and I discovered grain punch. Good stuff. When the game started, we waited quietly to see who scored first. Guys in white shirts. Stadium goes crazy. That must be Penn State. We're in white. We go crazy. Three hours of grain punch had liquified our brains.
By the time the game ended (59-0, gotta stay to the end), we left to change at the dorms and get on over to church. Got a show to do, and we're barely on time. I grab my one tie, stop by Melissa's room ... and she's passed out cold on her floor. Can't leave a good Catholic girl behind. Over the shoulder and off to church.Well, maybe I was 10 minutes late. Didn't matter to me. Dropped Melissa in a seat and strolled up on the altar. Priest: unhappy. Me: loaded. Came time for the Litany, where I stand up, say things and the crowd repeats after me, and I smile, full of power. I head to the lectern and check out the priest. Priest: still unhappy. Me: still loaded.
I open the book, see the words and am struck by revelation. How could I have not seen this before? It doesn't say Litany. It says Nittany. Like I'd been screaming at the game after every touchdown ( there were eight that day). When I say Nittany, you say Lion. Nittany. Lion. Nittany. Lion. NITTTTTTAANNNYYYYYYY. Lion.
I stared at the words, then stared at the priest. He saw. He knew. He stared even harder. Maybe HE was a Paulist, and had seen this before. The words rattled around in my pea brain. Nittany. Litany. Nittany. Litany.
I did it the right way. Said whatever you say, and they said Pray for Us. OK. Whatever. Lost my shot at infamy. After Mass, I helped the priest carry things backstage. You were late today, he said. Well, hello, I was at the football game. He said, I left after the third quarter to get here on time. You have to, I said, you're the priest. (I wanted to say you weren't w/ Melissa, but figured I should leave that alone).
Awkward silence. How could I make this priest feel better? Hey, I said, at least we finished ahead of the other Mass!
So my lecter days were over. I went back out to the audience. The seats were all empty, except for a snoring Melissa. Since then, I've found attention in other ways.
