The New Mr. Big At Bc

"The Amazing Mrs. Ruth," says her doctor, William Stewart. He calls her that because nobody has four replacement operations in six weeks. This might have something to do with the fact that a patient is supposed to take six weeks to recover from one. But what was a mother to do? She had three kids and a husband who was on the road a lot with his job. Who can afford to lollygag around hospital rooms? The Amazing Mrs. Ruth is so amazing that her affliction hasn't stood in the way of her having a great time horseback riding and sleigh riding with Mike.

Together, Killer keeps Mike inspired and Mike keeps Killer smiling, even through the nights and days—sometimes three and four at a stretch—without sleep. She is getting worse, but her temperament just gets better, especially when her baby comes home from school. "I think Mike never gives up because he knows I'd never give up," she says.

Says Mike, "My mom is the toughest person I've ever met—man or woman." They lift each other: Killer with her devotion, Mike with his arms—literally. Because Killer has trouble walking, Mike picks her up and takes her where she needs to go. Ruth carrying his mother to communion on Sundays is a stirring sight.

In the mornings she puts on the "Our Father" record, and the family—Killer, Mike and his 28-year-old sister, Sally—prays together. Then Mike will play a few oldies: some Sha Na Na, a little Buddy Holly, some Four Tops. He'll swoop her up in those Popeye arms and commence to twist and shout. "You wanna dance, Ma?" he'll say. Killer will squawk some, but you know by her eyes that she's soaring. After 23 years of feeling as if your bones are breaking, you'll take any dancing you can get, even when your feet don't actually touch the floor. "Oh," she says when Mike finally puts her down, "I do miss dancing so."

She used to feel as if her feet weren't touching the floor when she and Tom would dance. However, when Mike was 16, she and Tom split. "Mike took that very hard," says Killer. "It troubled him the most."

The blasted thing about being Ruth or Father Paul is that people tend to forget there are real men, real hearts, real wounds underneath the devotion. Says Ruth: "People see me playing football the way I do or driving my Jeep or fishing or whatever and they say, 'And you want to be a priest?' It's like, what, can't priests ever have fun? Don't priests like football or fishing or anything?"

It is a hard road, particularly for one who digs into life as if it's a Dagwood sandwich. "Lonely," says Ruth. "I know being a priest is a fulfilling life, but lonely." But, hey, as Ruth says, the retirement benefits are out of this world.

"When you're around him for a while, you see his heart, not his size," says Father Paul. "So he's an awesome physical specimen. So what? You sit and listen to some of the things this young man is saying and you feel like you're going to break out in tears. He has a heart of flesh, not stone. He's full of humanness."

Maybe Father Paul is taken with Ruth because he sees himself in him. Wierichs used to drink beer and play hoops on Rockaway Beach in Brooklyn. He still goes back there now and again just to think. As for Ruth, when he needs to sort things out, he goes to the quarry.

That's when he fields the question for the 1,000th time. Priesthood or football? So what's it gonna be, Mike? You gonna save souls or touchdowns? "I wouldn't want the money for myself, but it would be nice for my mother," he says. "I'd like to set her up, know that she would always be taken care of. And I'd like for Rudy to keep on teaching if he wants to. He loves to teach. I don't need the money. Just $10 and the Jeep, you know? I'd like to play just to prove I could do it. But, gosh, I haven't even been drafted yet."