The Pope and Cardinal

Pope and the Cardinal Secretary of State.

There are Halloweens you forget — a couple of Reese’s, a movie, maybe a half-hearted costume. And then there are the ones that live forever. For me, it’s the Halloween when my brother Paul and I ruled Green Street at the University of Illinois as the Pope and the Cardinal Secretary of State.

In the 1980s, Halloween in Champaign-Urbana wasn’t just a night out — it was chaos wrapped in creativity. Green Street and the surrounding blocks were barricaded off for what can only be described as an unholy mix of costumes, beer, and youthful brilliance. Thousands of students, shoulder to shoulder, yelling, laughing, stumbling. I remember a group of guys dressed as a single giant penis charging down the street, high-fiving every woman in sight. And more “slutty witches” than there were broomsticks in all of Salem. It was the kind of thing that could only happen then — and probably for good reason.

I told Paul after my first experience, “You’ve got to come down for this.”

He didn’t hesitate.

We both wanted to be different, to do something irreverent — not crude, just something that would make our preacher’s kids’ upbringing twitch a little. Somehow, we landed on the Pope and his Cardinal Secretary of State. Paul immediately claimed the title of Cardinal. “You should be the Pope,” he said, with the same confidence someone uses when they know they’ve just volunteered you for the deep end.

So there I was, the Pope.

We spent a day and a half crafting our divine disguises in my tiny studio apartment. It started with a trip to a Michaels-type store — red felt, white sheets, cardboard, gold paint, glitter, a wooden rod, poster board, aluminum foil, gold chain, and glue. We didn’t even make a list; we just knew what we needed.

The papal hat came first: cardboard folded into a perfect mitre, painted gold with a white cross outlined in glitter. The robes were white sheets trimmed with red felt, cut and safety pinned to flow like the real deal. Well, maybe a bit short as we had too little material. We built a Bible from a cardboard box and labeled it “Da Book” in gold letters across black paint. And the pièce de résistance — the papal ring — made of aluminum foil and made red by a magic marker.

Da Book!

We were meticulous. Every cut, every detail mattered. The more we made, the more we laughed, bouncing ideas off each other like kids on Christmas morning. The music was playing, the beer was flowing, and, yes, we might’ve been a little high — but mostly we were just locked in. That night before Halloween was pure joy. Two brothers building something ridiculous and perfect together.

When Halloween night finally arrived, we suited up and stepped out. I’ll never forget it — the moment we hit the street, someone yelled, “THE POPE!” from across the street. Within seconds, guys were sprinting toward us, dropping to one knee and kissing my foil-wrapped ring.

It was hilarious… and slightly terrifying.

As we made our way toward Green Street, the crowd grew thicker, the shouts louder. “Bless me, Father!” “Over here, Your Holiness!” It felt like we’d started a movement. That’s when it hit me — I needed the Popemobile. Walking through that sea of drunk students, dressed as the Pope, felt like divine madness.

We detoured away from the main chaos, finding smaller parties with friends. Word spread fast with friends — the Pope and the Cardinal were in attendance. Soon, our friends joined in as a monk and a priest. The whole night was ridiculous and surreal.

Pope, Cardinal, Monk w/ Priest Kissing the Papal Ring

But when I think back now, what I really hold onto isn’t the crowd or the chaos. It’s that day before — sitting on the floor of my apartment with Paul, cutting cardboard, laughing at every idea, turning nothing into something. It was simple and creative and full of that unspoken brother energy that doesn’t need explaining. Like we were kids playing catch in our front yard after dinner.

I can’t remember much of that night, but I remember how it felt. I felt lucky. I felt alive. I felt connected to my brother in a way that didn’t need words.

Amen to that.