JOSÉ ENDOENÇA MARTINS
“I’ll be a good Franciscan Brother,” Benedict said to Hermann, a soccer team member, some minutes before the games started.
Benedict always thought he would become a Franciscan Brother. He had learned from Brother Brückermann to appreciate Saint Francis’s religious experiences, he had learned from his mother and father to pray for Our Lady of Aparecida. Above all, he wanted to be a Brother, and believed he was ready.
In that November of his first year in the seminary he took decisive steps towards franciscan priesthood, and everything seemed to be going his way. He believed he had already learned to conciliate secular and religious life. However, soccer came in to compete with priesthood.
“A good franciscan, no doubt about,” Benedict repeated to Hermann.
The game took the center of their interests, and nothing could be as secular and religious as soccer on certain days at the seminary. That was one.
“The only religiosity really appreciated here is soccer,” Hermann said.
They were near the goal of a grassless field, and the game was about to start. The other team was a school from the city and had never lost a game to the franciscans.
Hermann, the captain, felt he could change that when he gave Benedict a shirt. “Take the 10,” Hermann said and Benedict put it on. “Who knows, some day, we will have a franciscan Pelé,” Hermann joked, and they both laughed.
They felt happy and that enthusiasm helped them beat the visitors for the first time. Benedict orchestrated the victory, scoring the three winning goals. Benedict was carried triumphantly to Brother Gottmann, the Prefect, who blessed him and the other players.
Celebration went on during dinner. Benedict heard Brother Gottmann congratulate the players with a speech about that show of franciscan victory and excellence. His name was mentioned three times, and his goals were praised. He, then, believed he had understood Hermann’s comment that soccer and religiosity were parts of the same spirituality over there. Benedict felt that soccer would give him Heaven, but could spoil his priesthood.
Benedict’s popularity lasted only one week. In the following days, before the summer vacations, soccer turned into a nightmare. Caught in the middle of it, he could do nothing. Jealous of his athletic success, some students started to watch him more closely. They monitored his prayers, studies and discipline, denounced his mistakes, boycotted his participation in soccer, and criticized his athletic behavior. “Pelé doesn’t play for the group, he plays for himself,” they said to Brother Gottmann. “He thinks he is Pelé, but he’s nothing, nothing,” Sonnermann, Benedict’s hardest opponent, said.
But that was not all.
“Pelé, Brother Gottmann wants to see you in his office,” Hermann said to him in the corridor, one morning after the Latin class.
“Sit down, Pelé,” Brother Gottmann said when Benedict entered the office. “May I call you Pelé?”
“Hell no! My name is Benedict, I want to be a franciscan, and I’ll be Brother Benedict. I’m not Pelé, I’ll never be.” Benedict was angry. The events of the previous days had deeply affected him. He reacted against that idolatry that had possessed everybody.
“What bothers you, son? You should be proud of your nickname. Anybody would be honored. Pelé is our genius.”
“I’m not,” Benedict said. “Look, I’m excellent at English Literature, but nobody calls me Shakespeare. I’m a good poet too, but you never said I was Cruz e Sousa. Why, Why can’t I be Shakespeare, Cruz e Sousa, or any other writer? Why should a black boy always be Pelé? Stop freezing me in your racist stereotype. I’m more than a black soccer player. I’m a good student, and a franciscan too.”
Benedict’s rage surprised the Brother, who forgot why he had called the boy. “Calm down, son,” Brother Gottmann said. “Remember Saint Francis’s humility. He always accepted his burdens, all of them, humbly.” He made a signal and Benedict left the office.
In the corridor, several students were waiting for Benedict.
“What did he want?” Hermann asked.
“He didn’t tell me, we just had a hard argument,” Benedict explained.
“Be ready,” Hermann said. “He will do something.”
The following morning, what Hermann had thought happened in Brother Gottmann’s English Literature class.
“Shakespeare, come here for your excellent test,” he said.
The students looked at each other, but nobody stood up. They were curious to know who was the Shakespeare among them.
“You, Benedict, you’re our Shakespeare today,” Brother Gottmann said, with irony. “Come here.” Benedict obeyed, got his test, and was about to come back to his seat. “Hold on, Shakespeare.” What the Brother did next surprised the whole class. He held Benedict with one hand and, with the other he took the can full with a white powder from a drawer. “You’ve got the wrong color for a Shakespeare, Benedict, but I’ll fix it.” He dropped the white powder over Benedict’s head and spread it. The boy’s black hair turned into a white wave. “Now, you’ve got the right color, Shakespeare,” he said. “Sit down, and don’t forget Saint Francis’s humility.”
It was humiliating, but Benedict refrained from crying. He recalled Brother Brückermann’s teaching of franciscan love and understanding.
“Shakespeare, leave the room and stay at the library. And for three days you’re not allowed to talk to anybody,” Brother Gottmann said. Benedict left, and everyone could swear they had seen a white ring over the black head of the boy.
Benedict revenged that humiliation a week later, during Brother Gottmann’s monthly film session. An adventure film was going on and exactly when Burt Lancaster kissed Maureen O’Hara, a juvenile voice cried out of darkness, aloud and strong, “P-E-N-A-L-T-Y.” Everybody laughed nervously, but nobody could tell who had caused that abominable heresy. Embarrassed, Brother Gottmann left the room. The light lit again, but the students remained, wondering what the Brother would do about that.
Two days had passed, and nobody had been punished yet, when Benedict went to Brother Gottmann’s office.
“I guess you know who did that,” Benedict said.
“Did what?”
“Spoiled your film session.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, now you know that I always fight back,” Benedict said, and left.
In December, Benedict went home for his summer vacation, but he knew the future of his priesthood was in Brother Gottmann’s hands.
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