Photography © Chad Parenteau

 

The Meaning of the Game

After a standout high school career, during which He won countless trophies and graven images, God was still languishing in the low minors, trying to shed the “good field, no hit” tag which was especially galling for Him compared to the rep of Mother Nature and her devastating, long ball power. After all, by this time, she had recorded five extinctions, raw displays of slugging, fireballing, and chaos on the bases, and He hadn’t even made the playoffs in Single A. Such destruction and devastation, damage and death, denuding of forests and drowning of continents seemed beyond His skillset.

God knew He was better than this, almighty in fact, and that fate had much more in store for Him in the game. He relied on cliches to explain why such a touted prospect wasn’t reaching His full potential, saying He had to be patient, to let the game come to Him, and to stay within Himself, wherever that was since He was everywhere.

Many seasons passed. After the slugfest at Sodom and Gomorrah, the near miss bean-balling of Isaac, and His consecutive game hitting streak against Job, He was definitely ready for the majors. His reputation preceding Him, like many up-and-coming players, he had earned nicknames along the way, Yahweh, Shiva, Hades, Our Father, Rock of Ages, the Babe.

Fans couldn’t wait for this phenom’s major league debut. Yet God was tired. The fun had gone out of the game for Him, and He still couldn’t find where He was within Himself. As so often happens, the rookie, when he is called up, starts to question himself, after the long slog, feeling like a fake, lucky, and that a prolonged slump could start the very next game. The old doubts spread like cold shadows, slowing down His bat, and giving rise to nightmares where He was late for His first major league plate appearance, caught in traffic or quagmire, due to the shenanigans of imps, umps and devils.

Abruptly, shockingly, before opening day, God announced his retirement from the field but not from the game. There would be no more revelations, He said. He would become the team Manager now since many rookie phenoms more talented than Him were appearing on the scene: Christ and Allah, to name just two, five-tool players with unlimited upsides, power and speed. So, God decided to let them do the damage He had always dreamed of doing, while He pulled the strings from the dugout.

Finally, God had figured out the game: If, as manager, He could convince His players and the fans of the true meaning of the game, unwavering belief in Him and His Judgements, then they would always give one hundred and ten percent, and proceed to slaughter anyone who stood in their way.

And they did. God gave many inspirational pre-game speeches quoting much Scripture which declared that it was all right to smote and slay anyone who disagreed with Scripture. Before Scripture, before the players knew the game’s true meaning, it was just a game, and there was no reason to take such drastic, leave-it-all-on-the-field measures but once God had convinced His team of the true meaning of the game, and that they would achieve eternal paradise by winning, everything was permitted. God was within Himself, and still everywhere. Brilliant.

Thus in short order came the crusades and inquisitions, blood hatreds, witch trials, holy wars of conquest, slavery, torture, slaughter of natives, jihad, ethnic cleansing, in other words countless wars, conquests, persecutions, genocides, justified by the true meaning of the game, nothing forbidden, everything permitted, for the righteous. God fielded many great teams after this, more than the Yankees, squads of fiery religious zealots, maniacal nationalists and condescending psychopaths, greedy scoundrels, thugs and criminals, and inbred oligarchic imbeciles, doing their worst, as God sat in the corner of the dugout, spitting sunflower seed shells, knowing that He had fielded the greatest team of all time.

 

Steven Schutzman has published his work in such places as The Pushcart Prize and Oddball and everywhere in between. Steven is also a seven-time recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Grant, awarded for creative writing excellence.

Chad Parenteau is Associate Editor of Oddball Magazine.