The Gift That Kept on Giving

By BRENT M. LOEHR

I first heard about Father Mathew’s ball when I was in Grade 7.

Years later, during my first year of college baseball, I was reminded of my intrigue again. That I forgot about it surprises me considering how big it was. It has fingerprints from admirers across North America and, of course, the legends.

At that time, my father told me the story of that baseball and its rumoured fate.

Nearly fifteen years later, after graduating from college, then a teacher of Grade 7 and an expectant father—the memory of the ball flashed before me once again. I was looking for material to write about for a university class I was enrolled in at St. Peter’s College: I realized that were often stories within a story.

It was at those very grounds that Father Mathew had walked as a monk. I also needed to make the pilgrimage to see for myself if what my Dad had said about that baseball was true. I did. I wrote about my findings, and it was published in a Canadian magazine and later, in my first book of non-fiction: The Global Baseball Classroom. A picture of the ball was selected for the cover of that book.

Sadly, Mervin Loehr, my father, passed away before the story was eventually researched and written. I am thankful that Father Leo, who graciously and patiently granted me access to the St. Peter’s Abbey archives was able to read the original published version before he himself would also pass away. I felt his pride and connection to it all when he received a copy of the published story a year before he died. Below is a version of it:

St. Peter’s Abbey, a Benedictine monastery on the outskirts of the greenery surrounding Wolverine Creek, is across the railroad tracks from the village of Muenster — a small Saskatchewan community of around 450. The Abbey is serenity incarnate and the final home for the ball. A conversation with Abbot Peter Novecosky informs me that former parish priest — Father Leo Hinz, is now curator of the archives.

I have been waiting in the reception area for a few minutes. Father Leo slowly walks in, “Hello, Mervin,” he says. A warm feeling washes over me. People over sixty often inadvertently call me by my dad’s name, even though he died years ago. He quickly corrects himself.  “No, problem,” I offer, “I am used to it.”

Descending to the basement by elevator, Father Leo reaches for the light of the musty room, then extends his arm and points to the back wall. “There is where the ball is,” he says, as he slowly moves his arm across himself to point to the mass storage shelves filled with files, “and here is where you can find out more about Michel’s life.”

I sheepishly walk toward the container on the shelf, like a child waiting to meet a big leaguer for the first time. Then I stop. 

Father Leo notices my pause and asks, “You want to learn about Michel first, don’t you?” 

I feel I should.

He makes a space for me moving jumbled papers and letters to the edges of a nearby table. The cardboard box, labeled ‘Arthur’ in black magic marker, is in my hands; the tape holding his obituary card is losing sticking power, barely keeping the memorial note in place. I plunk the container, which safeguards remnants of Father Mathew’s life, into the middle of the work area and pull a file at random from the unsorted box. 

“What you called him sounded like Michael?”

“Yes” the aging priest says.

 “M-I-C-H-E-L is pronounced like the name Michael. A lot of people get it wrong.”

Flipping through further pages I learn that about the same time that photo was taken, a young Arthur Michel was completing high school and growing a love for the game of baseball — fostered by the Benedictines. A few years later, in 1916, Arthur would further his studies in Collegeville, at St. John’s University, and be drafted to a different Big League, joining the Benedictine community in St. Peter’s Monastery, in Muenster. This religious order immigrated from Minnesota from the Stearns County area in 1903. Some local settlers also made that trek, and my ancestors were among them. He would choose the name Mathew upon his ordination in 1921.

“Father — what do you remember about Father Mathew?”

The resonant hum of the lights is drowned as Father Leo says, cocking his head to the side, “He was a determined man.  What he said he would do…he did.  He was big and strong.  Michel was known for riding miles and miles to church on horseback — even in the dead of winter.” The little I had heard from other people about Father Mathew was mixed including his imposing personality, stubbornness, and strong will.

“How did he come across the ball?”

 “School in the States.”

Father Leo, now resting on a rickety stool, points to the end wall where the ball rests. As I walk reverently toward the shelf, I feel like I am at a wake — nervous to glimpse into a coffin. I reach for a simple charcoal-gray, cardboard box, which is too small to hold a single shoe. Scotch Tape holds each corner together and secures a manila card on the lid, labeling its contents. It seems (to me) like an irreverent final resting place for a piece of history pregnant in baseball lore. A printed name on the bottom of the card, boldly scribbled over itself a few times, spells out: Fr. MATHEW.  Gingerly lifting the lid, I peer in. An ordinary baseball, yellowed over the years and with signatures appears. I leave it lie.

I am shocked as I read a small card inside listing the various players who signed the ball: most impressive, Babe Ruth. Fourteen other Yankees etched their names; George Pipgras, Benny Bengough, Roy Sherid, Tony Lazzeri, Johnny Grabowski, Leo Durocher, Bill Dickey, Lou Gehrig, Lyn Lary, Herb Pennock, Bob Swawkey, Art Jorgens, “Dusty” Rhodes, and Cedric Durst.

Unbelievable. I had heard Babe Ruth signed it—but Lou Gehrig too!

“Nothing can leave the archives. If you want, I can make a few copies of files for you if something stands out in particular.”

The ball remains in the box as I begin rummaging through the container of files, while scribbling relevant dates: 1896, 1921, 1929, 1948, 1987, 1994.

“I am sure there was a newspaper article written about Father Mathew and the ball,” I say, leafing through the filed pages. “I remember reading it. I was in Grade 7 and that was when I learned about the ball for the first time.”

Later, at my home in Muenster, the desk in my basement office is covered with sticky notes and tidily stacked research as I reassemble the puzzle of his life for myself. The material gathered on Father Mathew now includes a newspaper story, parish history books, articles written by the Abbey, parish newsletters, and his obituary. I have become fascinated by his life. I am surprised to read that he was chosen as the first principal of St. Peter’s College in 1921 and received his inaugural parish assignment that same year — all at age 25. A spellbinding picture in a 1981 article written by Abbot Peter titled Father Mathew: 60 years a priest, shows the Reverend bundled in black and riding on horseback — just as Father Leo mentioned. 

Another date I wrote down during my first visit with Father Leo rises up from the pile in the form of a note left by Father Mathew: In 1928 I was sent to do graduate studies at the Catholic University of America (CUA), Washington, D.C. After a few months I was made head supervisor of a student’s residence on the CUA campus. My card designated me as President of Albert Hall. This card, together with my keen interest in baseball, won me a pass to all American League games, a seat near the players’ dugouts, and eventually the cordial acquaintance of Babe Ruth (June 1, 1987).

The letter indicates the Philadelphia Athletics were the Yankee’s opponent that day. The fall contest, in 1929, took place just before the Stock Market Crash (and impending dust bowl of the Great Depression). A quick Google search reveals that the Yankees were the defending back-to-back World Series Champions and Connie Mack’s Athletics would later win the title that season. The A’s boasted Jimmie Foxx, Mickey Cochrane, Al Simmons, Max Bishop, and Lefty Grove. The Yankees, who were one of two teams that year to introduce the practice of permanently using numbers on their jerseys, had a roster brimming with talent, including Leo Durocher, Bill Dickey, Lou Gehrig, and of course The Babe.

John Goodman. I remember a film called The Babe — where the slugger is influenced by priests in his formative years. Not having a copy of this movie sparks my memory of something better. Climbing the stairs up from our basement, I head toward my collection of books. Years ago, I bought a first edition paperback (1948) called The Babe Ruth Story for 25 cents at a thrift store. Through it, I deduce that—as a boy—George Herman Ruth was ignored. He was reared in his father’s saloon near where Oriole Park at Camden Yards (Baltimore’s current field) now stands. Ruth often spent time roaming neighborhood streets. From this raw upbringing he was sent at the age of seven to an industrial school for boys. “It was at St. Mary’s,” Ruth writes, “that I met and learned to love the greatest man I’ve ever known.”

At St. Mary’s Industrial School for Boys, operated by the Xaverians, a Catholic order that worked with the underprivileged, Ruth found his surrogate family. Brother Matthias, a quiet man who took on a father role, introduced Ruth to the game of baseball and built up the youngster’s arsenal of tools. Despite his intimidating size (estimated in the book to be 6’6, 250 lbs.) Brother Matthias became a hero to Ruth, teaching him to read and write and the difference between right and wrong. Brother Matthias, as busy as he was at St. Mary’s, made Ruth feel like he mattered and Ruth responded to Brother Matthias’s firm, guiding hand. 

The Babe recalled, “I never would have played it professionally if Brother Matthias hadn’t put me in my place one day and changed not only my position on the field but the course of my life.” Ruth was laughing at his team’s pitchers who struggled on the mound and were continually replaced. Brother Matthias, in earshot of the taunting, called, “Time!” and promptly forced the delinquent Ruth to then pitch, to prove a point.  “He did it to take me down a notch,” said Ruth. “Brother Mathias saw to it that I didn’t get far away from the pitcher’s box during my last two seasons at St. Mary’s.” 

By 1914, Ruth — at the time 19 years old — had passed through the exit and entrance of St. Mary’s repeatedly. His talents had grown exponentially, and his prowess and name became known to Jack Dunn, a baseball owner, who signed him. George Herman Ruth would never forget the lessons learned at St. Mary’s and the impact of his mentor; the future Babe had a new father-figure in his life. 

By 1929, Babe transcended baseball circles and was the American pop-culture icon. Ruth, who batted third in the order, wore the corresponding number 3, stitched in navy blue on the back of his grey Yankee jersey. He was paid a league-high $70,000 in 1929, hit .345, knocked in 154 RBI, and was on his way to winning his 10th home run title with forty-six round-trippers. 

Despite the bustling routines of the professional baseball game one afternoon, The Sultan of Swat sauntered over to a man he observed talking to an usher near the Yankee dugout.  It was Father Mathew, courtesy pass in hand and wearing a long black cassock complete with white clerical collar. I wonder if a flash of Brother Matthias struck Ruth’s gaze when he viewed Father Mathew in the distance? 

The Bambino asked Father Mathew if he had a baseball with him. Ruth plucked one that was used in batting practice and signed it: Babe Ruth. Talking ball with Father Mathew, Ruth was peppered with the Reverend’s baseball knowledge, love of the Yankees, and recollection of game statistics. Then he called his teammates over and they scrawled their signatures on the ball—a gift from The Babe to the Father. 

Father and Babe ended their impromptu gathering, parting company due to the impending game. Many of the players on the field that day landed in the Baseball Hall of Fame — making the meeting even more memorable — but it was Ruth, who, with the small act of taking time out for someone, left the priest with a stadium of memories and a baseball memento Father Mathew would revere the rest of his life.

A couple of hours at Humboldt’s Reid Thompson Library, cranking through rolls of microfilm from the late 1940s, pays off. Father Mathew Michel was instrumental in implementing electrical service on farms in the East Central area of Saskatchewan—so much so he was dubbed “Father of Rural Electrification”. On that same page, there was also a mention of my great-grandfather Arnold in another unrelated story.

I read the Babe Ruth autobiography completely a few days later and learned about an accomplishment that escaped his grasp: to become manager of the New York Yankees. His career wrapped up after he was signed as a free agent by the Boston Braves in 1935. It was his final season. His life’s work was sealed with his induction in the newly created Baseball Hall of Fame the following year. In the mid-to-late 1940s, while Father Mathew was working on ‘bringing power to the people’, Ruth fought for his life; the once mighty slugger’s health was in steady decline after being diagnosed with cancer in November of 1946. He died less than two years later.

Father Mathew Michel — whose vocation had a legacy in its own right — earned a Doctorate in Education at the Catholic University of America and enlightened over a dozen parishes during his long-standing service within the Abbacy of St. Peter’s in Saskatchewan. Throughout his life, he never forgot his brush with Babe or the gift he received from him. The autographed ball, often kept at his desk and made accessible to any inquiring mind, was a conversation piece shared with most visitors. Perhaps if George Herman Ruth had known the impact Father Mathew would make in people’s lives, The Babe might have asked for his signature that fateful day. 

Father Mathew’s ball, a token of his moment with Babe Ruth, was handled by countless admirers, dirtied hands and all, and was shared spanning eras of Pius VI to John Paul II, Mackenzie King to Chretien, Hoover to Clinton, Kenesaw Mountain Landis to Bud Selig. Father Mathew accomplished many of the goals he set to achieve but one more was nearly reached: his aspiration to blow out the candles on his 100^th birthday cake. He fell three years short when he died on January 22, 1994.  This was my first semester of college baseball.  During a phone call home, my father informed me of Father Mathew’s passing — and told me the rumour about the ball.

I need another trip to the basement archives — this time with a digital camera and a print-out from the internet. I need to take a closer look at the ball.

I pull out my camera and take a picture of the small, gray box. I slowly lift out the ball and hold it at arm’s length, snapping pictures of each part of the ball’s horseshoe threads. My father, years before in 1994, had told me that he heard Father Mathew, for whatever reason, had traced over the signatures that were fading. I scrutinize the ball as I roll it around slowly, scanning it in my fingers. It’s true. I shake my head as it is apparent that a number of autographs have been touched up—by various pens—as if to grasp memories that were simply slipping away. I breathe a sigh of relief as ‘Babe Ruth’, an exact replica of the internet print-off I brought, is clearly intact in its original stroke.

I reflect on the fingerprints that have contributed to the fading of this baseball. If it was my ball, it would have been in a glass display case from day one. But this was not Father Mathew’s way. He was not afraid of the ball getting touched — he insisted on it. This sharing of the baseball allowed it to do the touching. The ball carries with it an emotional impact that Father Mathew cherished, and others will revere. Father Mathew wanted the gift to keep on giving and, no matter what the case, the ball is wrapped tight in legendary memories as big as the icons involved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Brent Loehr works in education and is a published writer and coach. His work has appeared in magazines and online across the world. His first non-fiction book, The Global Baseball Classroom, is about remarkable people, places, and events encountered through travels to the Arctic Circle, Equator, and beyond. Brent lives in Muenster, Saskatchewan with his wife Melissa and two daughters: Sarah and Leia. You can learn more about his writing activities here at this link.