Since the selection of the new pope, I’ve been
thinking about my Brooklyn-born mom, may she rest in peace. She always said to
me, “Steven, you should be pope.”  I
would protest and try to explain to her why that was not going to happen, but
she persisted over the last decade of her life.  “You ought to run for pope.”

“Ma, popes only come from the ranks of cardinals.”

“So become a cardinal. What’s the big deal?”

“But Ma, I’m not Catholic.”

“You’ve crossed bigger bridges than that in your
life, believe me. Remember that time you beat up Garth Goodnow in the sixth
grade?”

I think she’d seen the pope on television and liked
the outfit that he wore.  I always wore
simple blue or brown or gray suits, but she liked the fancy, ornate, stuff.  “Look at that wonderful hat he’s got on,” she
once said, holding up a photo in a magazine.  “You’d look so handsome in that hat.” She was talking about the tall
mitre he wears for services. 

“Ma, I can get fancy with my ties.  You know, like that gold, red & green
striped tie you gave me last Christmas.”

“I’ve never seen you wear it,” she sighed, pouting.

“I wore it just last Wednesday,” I lied.

“Well, why can’t you convert to Catholicism? You
went to that Catholic school back in the Sixties.”

“Ma, you know that I’m not a religious person. Give
me a break.”

“All you have to do is memorize a few prayers and
the Hail Mary. You always said you wanted to visit Rome.”

“Ma, if I was pope, you’d never see me for dinner on
Sundays.  You couldn’t live at the
Vatican with me, it’s just men and maybe a few nuns.”

She sat up straight for a moment.  It was if that had never occurred to
her.  I could see the calculations going
on in her mind. Her eyes dilated and one gnarled finger poked her chin as she
came to her conclusion.

“Okay then,” she said.  “How about manager of the Dodgers?”