Chapter Four

“Hey there! I see you made it, partner! We’ve been expecting you for near about an hour.”

Barton’s southern drawl was exactly what Ransom expected. A deep, but pleasant sound, curled up around the edges, masking a force that person could only decipher intuitively. Never really aggressive, the Southern drawl had its own ruse and unique set of barbs. Nevertheless, Ransom extended his hand toward the burly man without hesitation.

“J.C. Ransom, New York City. Thank you for allowing me to visit.” Mayor Barton either didn’t notice, or refused to recognize Ransom’s gesture... and the young reporter remembered a dozen of his favorite plots with similarly inauspicious beginnings.

“I can't believe you fellas are so interested in our athletic program. Quite a ride you just took for a simple football story.” Barton finally noticed Ransom’s hand, wiped off a palm greased with sweat and reached out.

“I'm Paul Barton, Mayor. Welcome to Bethlehem!”

“Thank you.” Ransom sounded off sincerely.

“First time in Alabama, son?”

Ransom detested being called, ‘son.’ He knew a guy once that constantly referred to people as ‘son.’ The guy was a belligerent whelp of man, constantly ridiculing Ransom’s every spoken word and the memory was still hot to the touch.

“I’m afraid it is my first trip to Alabama, but hopefully not my last.”

“Afraid? Boy, there ain't nothing to fear 'round here, except getting on my bad side.” The former jock turned Mayor laughed out loud like a bear on steroids. Ransom counted the word ‘boy’ and added it to the list of terms he disliked.It appeared as though he’d need to be getting used to the term, despite a deep detest.

During the brief exchange both men sized each other up. Paul Barton saw the very thing he hated most about outsiders: a false grin offered above a condescending expression ready to emerge at the drop of a hat. It was the Northern gaze, which carefully hid a Yankee seriousness, a painfully obvious reflection of too much being made out of too little in honest conversation. He had seen it in Bethlehem’s visitors before. It was enough for Mayor Barton to justify taking aim and firing off a pre-emptive strike across the bow.

“Now I read that sample copy of your magazine you sent me, and I ain't believing it-- not for a minute. UFO's, Antichrists, and bigfoots! Jesus son of Mary, how do you make a living with crap like that?”

Ransom shuffled his feet. “I don't know. It's just a job. Most of it probably is crap. But then every once in a while there comes a story like this.”

“Well there’s no crap here boy. It’s in the water down here! We breed winners and we've got the streaks to prove it.” As Mayor Barton recited the high school’s victories, he slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other, emphasizing the number of wins. Ransom couldn’t help but follow his hands in a hypnotic trance.

“We’ve got thirty-eight championships in football, thirty-seven in basketball and we’ve grabbed seven in baseball... I guess we would have more there, but we just recently had enough boys to start a team.”

“Impressive.” Ransom began to ponder his assignment. Creating an unusual story for readers of the Unconventional Wisdom was never easy, but he was the best in the business… at least until recently. His editor accused him last week of rehashing the same basic plots and twists, as if a two-headed baby wasn’t enough to capture a reader anymore. He was assigned to Bethlehem for something fresh.

Barton continued. “Never a loss, not even one single defeat in seven hundred and ninety-three straight athletic games,” he eyed the reporter in glee while continually moving his hands.

“But how do you do it? I did my homework on your teams. You’ve no losses in over thirty-seven years and yet none of your players go on to play professional sports-- or even college for that matter,” Ransom shot back aggressively.

“We bring the best out our boys down here. This ain't your usual town.”

“You're right about that. So far, just about everything I guessed about this place has been off, way off...” Ransom’s voice trailed off as he remembered the Beethoven.

“Like what?” Mayor Barton shot back.

Ransom shifted again uneasily. It might be a legitimate question… it might even play into his story.

“Like why is Beethoven playing on all the radio stations?” Ransom asked.

“Beethoven? Don't you like it?”

“I love it. It's just not... what I expected.”

“Well son, what did you expect?”

Ransom stopped for a split second to consider the situation he’d gotten himself into. The bomb had already been dropped, not much point in trying to avoid it, he thought.

“I'm not sure what I expected, maybe Hank Williams Junior? Beethoven just seems off kilter.”
Ransom watched the demeanor of his host change. The man’s smile slid downward into a straight gathering of the lips, approaching a frown.

“Kilter? I don't even know what the hell that means. You won't find any Hank Williams junior or senior or Hank Williams the third once removed, or any of that stuff down here. You'd best head to Nashville boy if that's what you're looking for... all that smoking and drinking doesn’t sit right with us, you know? We only listen to Ludwig Van Beethoven down here. Hell, our basketball team runs out to the Fifth Symphony!”

Ransom’s mind instantly conjured up the image of a group of boys running out of the locker room to do a few lay-ups to the opening notes of Beethoven's 5th. What a cue. He visualized a crowd of twenty people roaring in approval.

Noting Ransom’s inner silence, Mayor Barton continued. “Surely you've heard Beethoven's 5th up there in New Jersey, ain't ya?”

“I don’t think Beethoven plays New Jersey too much anymore. I probably couldn't go hear him anyway, since I'm from New York.” Ransom retorted already feeling the Southern rub. This conversation was spirally downward very quickly.

“He don't play anywhere anymore son, he's dead! That's why we have radio.”

“I'm sorry I was trying a joke.” Ransom realized at this point that all attempts at humor were likely moot. It was probably best for him to repair the bridge that was systematically being eroded before his eyes.

The mayor adjusted his posture and brushed a piece of lint off his jacket. “Wasn't very funny. Hank Williams Jr., my ass. I'll tell you this right now... not trying to get smart with ya... but a big part of me doesn’t like you folks sniffing around our business. Hell, for all I know this town could get run over with the kind of freaks reading your paper.”

“It's all harmless, I promise.”

“Not trying to get smart with ya... but we've had promises from your type before and we don't care for 'em none… no offense now.”

“None taken.” Ransom said, in his best attempt to dodge both the bullet and bite.

That moment, a side door opened from a little shop on the street and a member of the clergy emerged. Reverend Baker was dressed in black pants, black shirt, and a white collar. He seemed to be slightly older than Mayor Barton, but it could have be the thick black rimmed glasses (a style from maybe the 1950's) that caused Ransom to project an older age onto him. Ransom noted the Catholic appearance, and believed that it seemed out of place for rural, protestant Alabama.

“Reverend Baker! Come join us a second. This here is J.C. Ransom, a reporter from New York City. He's come to tell the world about all our victories in his magazine, Unconventional Wisdom, or something along those lines.”

“Well, God's fortune favors us once again. And wisdom is often quite unconventional. That’s a catchy name for your magazine Mr. Ransom.”

“Pleased to meet you Reverend, and actually for the record, it's not ‘my’ magazine. They just pay me to write a few stories every year.”

“I'm sorry to say I've never read your work, Mr. Ransom. But I pray you find your stay here pleasant.” Baker seemed sincere, but Ransom couldn’t tell. He’d never met an insincere priest, but supposed there was a first time for everything.

“Thank you, Reverend. Maybe later I could speak with you about Bethlehem High School's athletic victories.”

“I'm not sure how much help I could be; after all, I'm only the town minister.” Ransom noted Baker’s humility and he found it welcoming and inviting. “You can help more than you realize... for example, do your players pray before the games?”

Barton shot back rapidly and Ransom was sure he just struck a nerve. The mayor said something about ‘secular humanism’ and Constitutional Rights and he said it a not so friendly tone. Two steps forward, three steps back, Ransom mused.

“How did you find out about all our wins Mr. Ransom?” Baker asked, visibly embarrassed by the conversational turn.

“You can just call me Ransom, that's what I go by at home.” Ransom was eager to share what he knew and pounced on the opportunity to answer the question directly.

“A friend of mine has a daughter over in Twin Gap. She was visiting her folks last summer and told me you guys had beaten them in every sport, every year for as long as she could remember.”

“All true! Every word of it!” The Mayor belted out like a drunk who was somehow allowed to participate in a Marine boot-camp.

“So I became curious.”

“And?” Barton leaned in toward Ransom for a response.
Ransom obliged. “And it all checked out. You actually hadn't lost a game since before she was born. I'm still curious though.”

“About what?” Baker asked.

“Why do none of your athletes go on to play in the Pros? Or even college athletics? Even the handful that do get scholarships never start a game. Doesn't that seem strange to you?” Ransom asked.

“We bring out the best in our kids down here.” Baker beamed.

“So I keep hearing.”

This story was sure to be more interesting than last month’s. Like it or not, successful sport’s stories naturally draw more readers than alien-abducted babies in eastern Illinois. If this didn’t pan out, he was toast. His editor would never let him back on the job with another lousy article like that. Here was a potential goldmine though… an undefeated, unheard of athletic program. Ransom was aware of how many odd rituals there were in sports, such as wearing socks inside out, touching the school mascot; something was going on here and that gut instinct he had learned to trust in his years of writing seemingly ridiculous stories started to churn.

“You know, I got a scholarship myself back in the day. I never played a single down of college football though. Maybe all those fancy colleges are prejudice towards us down here.” The Mayor grinned at Ransom.

“Why would that be?” Ransom asked.

“You're the reporter. Find out for me!” Barton gave Ransom a hearty slap on the back. For a moment Ransom thought he would fall over.

“Enough talk. You probably want to get over to the field and catch the tail end of the boys’ practice. I'm in the green car over there. You can follow me home, freshen up a bit and we'll grab some of the woman's meatloaf on the way out!”

“That would be great. I've not eaten since Birmingham.” Ransom said, remembering how the coffee had soaked into an empty stomach and left him both jittery and hungry.

“I guess your boss told you that you’d be staying with me this weekend seeing how we got no hotel or nothing. I should tell you my house ain't no Ritz Carlton, but it ain't no barn neither.”

“Ah yes, no room for him in the inn...” Reverend Baker quipped. The men share a brief chuckle. Ransom wasn’t so sure it was funny, but he tried to play along.