Altar service in those days was more than feigned mastery of a classical language. The refined choreography of doing "book" or "bell" took an entire apprenticeship as spare communion plate holder to learn. I well recall racing (not too strong a term) across the Communion rail, trying to keep up with the distribution of hosts. The pace over the rail was so fast and the maneuvers there so careful that ushers, often the policemen in the parish, could have used liability insurance for accidents. Today’s casual servers are, compared to the intricate minuet of my youth, doing no more than a lazy Funky Chicken.

Then there were the advanced levels of service at funerals and weddings. And the devotions, with their smells and bells. After another internship as acolyte, one could expect to inherit the role of Master of ceremonies on First Fridays. A ten year old could get dizzy at the prospect.

My memories of the priests then are vivid. They were all broad-shouldered Irishmen, as were the men in my Brooklyn neighborhood. The priests included Fr. John Conlon, who later was murdered in a rectory robbery in Queens, and venerable Msgr. Thomas Crawford, who founded the parish in 1920. Monsignor was near senility when I came upon the scene, a fact as obvious as it was undignified to dwell upon. His office and lifetime of service overwhelmed any temptation to gossip about his decline. Joking about Monsignor’s faltering was, even for us kids, absolutely unthinkable.

I remember very distinctly the time Monsignor Crawford dropped a few hosts to the floor as we distributed Communion. He seemed oblivious to my whispered alerts to the fact, probably because he was. There was no question of MY picking the hosts up. Fortunately, one of the other priests noticed (all of them came over to distribute Communion at each of the jammed Masses). He discretely placed a white cloth over the spot from which he removed the hosts. After Mass he went without a word and gently collected the couple of specks of white on the carpet. I am sure none of the parishioners attending noticed that anything was out of the ordinary, which was, I think, the helpful priest’s intention.

Sometimes the priests’ housekeeper invited me to work in the rectory, to answer the door and the phone. There were few calls to answer, far fewer than the housekeeper could have handled alone. I guess the idea was to introduce a young boy to the priests’ life, with the possibility of a vocation in view. In any event, the rectory smelled of cigars (as did my house), the men always wore their Roman collars, and they did not want to be my friend. I doubt very much that they ate quiche. They would not have know what the word "swish" meant. One time I saw Fr. Conlon bowling at Gil Hodges Lanes. He wore a simple polo shirt. The lady who gave out lane assignments warned me not to bother the priest who was bowling.

The parish priests made regular appearances in the grade school. Each quarter’s report card was placed in your trembling little mitt by Father Finger or Father Dowling or Father Burns or Father some-other-Irish-name. Life passed before your eyes as you tried to read Father’s expression for signs of how well you did. My recollection is that one would not want to play poker with any of them. More important to Sister than report cards was how quickly we sprang to our feet (all sixty of us, in one room) and said, "Good Morning, Father," precisely as he opened the door. Not when he touched the handle, and surely before he got more than a step into the room.

All this was playground chaos compared to the drills which preceded First Holy Communion and the Mount Everest of sacraments, Confirmation. That was then, as it is now, when the Bishop showed up. Kids got thrown out of Confirmation Practice, which lasted four full days, just for talking.

I knew very little about the theology of the priestly calling, save that one entered it by something called "Holy Orders," a phrase that somehow seemed perfect. And I knew this: the distinctiveness, the sacredness of the priesthood was a massive, unmistakable reality.

I have since learned that that IS the heart of the theology of the priesthood.