Reverend Billy, a man whose sermons were less fire-and-brimstone and more gentle humming, was surprisingly competitive. This year, he’d decided to lead the St. Jude’s Church League softball team to victory, a feat previously considered more miraculous than turning water into wine. His team, a ragtag bunch of choir singers and Sunday school teachers, were, to put it mildly, less than stellar.
Their first game was against the formidable “Holy Rollers,” a team known for their aggressive base-running and questionable slide tackles. The score was 12-0, Holy Rollers. In the bottom of the seventh, with two outs and bases loaded, it was Reverend Billy’s turn at bat. He clutched the bat, his eyes wide. “Don’t worry, team!” he squeaked, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ve been practicing my swing…in the garden…with a zucchini.”
The pitcher wound up, throwing a ball that sailed towards home plate. Reverend Billy swung with all his might, a mighty crack echoing through the field. The ball soared…and soared…and soared…before landing squarely in the pastor’s prize-winning pumpkin patch, shattering a record-breaking 100-pound behemoth.
Silence descended on the field. Then, a single voice broke the stillness. It was Agnes from the Holy Rollers, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Holy Smokes!” she exclaimed, “Looks like someone hit a grand slam…of pumpkin pie!”
