Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and am only writing these stories for my own enjoyment.

Author's Note: Thanks to my housemate, for help with the Act of Contrition and general information about the Catholic Church.

When I was a boy, I collected baseball cards. And there was this one kid who convinced me to trade a Duke Snider for a Gene Hermanski. He said it was a good deal.
-- Ben Stone, "Helpless."

O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.
-- Act of Contrition

The young boy hurried down the steps of his parents' brownstone, as a glorious July sun shone down on his fair hair. He moved with a purpose, as though his life depended on it. In actuality, it was a Saturday trip to the drugstore on the next block.

Sid's Pharmacy was a paradise; there, one could purchase five-cent Cokes and candy bars by the handful. But to this boy, baseball cards were the store's biggest draw. Eight-year-old Ben Stone had discovered baseball the previous spring; now it was an obsession. Almost every cent of his meager allowance went toward completing the year's Topps baseball card set. He had just received fifty cents from his father, and was off to buy as many cards as the money would allow.

One of Ben's school chums was leaving the store just as he approached. He waved hello, rushing towards the other boy; who seemed apprehensive, as though he didn't want to chat.

"What are you doing?" Ben asked.

"Just got some baseball cards," said Jimmy Hart, a thin red-haired boy wearing a Yankees cap. All of the boys in P.S. 43 were Yankees fans; with the exception of Ben, whose favorite team was the Mets, and a boy named Harold McLain, who favored the Brooklyn Dodgers. Both boys were teased for their preferences.

Ben looked down at Jimmy's hands; they were empty. Nor was there any other indication that the boy had, in fact, purchased baseball cards.

"Where are they?" he inquired innocently.

Jimmy turned, looking into the store window. Sid Azzarella, the proprietor, was busy dispensing prescriptions to a heavy-set elderly woman; his son, the store's other employee, was working the soda fountain.

He nudged Ben down the sidewalk and into an alley. Once they were there, he lifted his shirt, revealing several Topps baseball card packs in the waistband of his pants.

"Five-finger discount," he whispered.

Ben knew immediately what the boy had done; he was shocked, and didn't know what to say. But he figured that he'd better say something.

"But isn't that stealing?"

Jimmy grinned. "Are you kidding? Mr. Azzarella's rich. He'll never miss these things."

"Really?" Ben asked, wide-eyed.

"Yeah. And don't you want to buy candy? This way, you won't have to spend your whole allowance on cards."

Ben thought about it. He'd always been taught not to steal – but perhaps it wasn't so bad to steal from rich people. And he did want to buy candy in addition to baseball cards. He always did, and agonized over the decision; but the cards always won out.

He bade Jimmy farewell, then walked out of the alley, taking a long lingering glance toward Sid's Pharmacy.

The heavy-set elderly woman was still at Mr. Azzarella's prescription window, and Mr. Azzarella's son was still serving soda to a group of young girls; one of them, Peggy Harper, was Ben's crush.

But Ben wasn't paying attention to her. He walked towards the baseball card shelf, trying to act normal. He'd never stolen anything before, but he'd heard tales of other boys' exploits in the world of thievery. He knew that the best way to avoid getting caught was to act "cool."

Still, there was the pervading feeling that he was committing a terrible sin. His breath quickened, and his heart pounded. He wondered whether he should just leave, but it seemed like he couldn't back out now.

Besides, he still needed a Mickey Mantle and a Yogi Berra.

He glanced around. No one was looking at him. He leaned forward, stuffing eight packs of baseball cards into his pants, just as Jimmy had done.

Ben's head spinned as he walked out of the store. He was halfway home when he fully realized that he was free. He'd done it. And hadn't been caught.

He was horrified to realize that it felt strangely good, like achieving a victory.

Later that afternoon, Ben was spread out on his bed with his collection of cards. He'd gotten his Mantle and his Berra, as well as many extras that he could trade to his friends for cards he still needed.

His mother poked her head inside the door.

"Benjamin, honey," she said, "your sister's coming down with a cold. I need you to go to Sid's."

"Okay, Mom," he replied absentmindedly, the baseball cards still commanding his full attention.

"Where did you get all those baseball cards, Benjamin?" she asked.

Ben was wholly unprepared for the question. He should have known that his mother would notice; she noticed everything that went on in the household. Still, she never seemed to pay much attention to his baseball obsession.

"I bought them," he lied.

"But your allowance is only fifty cents."

"I…uh, bought them with last week's allowance."

"Don't lie to me!" she shouted, pointing to the wax wrappers on his bed. "You stole them from Sid's, didn't you? Didn't you?"

Ben fought back tears. He didn't know what else he could say.

"And I thought I raised you right! Wait until your father hears about this!"

"No!" Ben exclaimed, now sobbing. He knew that if his father found out, he had a date with a leather strap. Or worse. "Don't tell Dad! Please! I'll do anything!"

His mother silently glared at him.

"I'm sorry," he choked.

"Okay," she said. "I won't tell your father. But I'm marching you to Sid's to return those cards, and you're going to confession. I'm so disappointed in you, Benjamin."

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession."

Ben had tearfully given the baseball cards back to Mr. Azzarella, who forgave him and expressed the hope that he'd learned a lesson. Now he was kneeling in the confession box at St. Mary's, about to tell Father MacIntyre about his sin.

Thinking about it, he realized that returning the cards had been much easier. Now he was being called on the carpet before God, and he didn't know what lay ahead. Maybe he was destined for the fires of Hell.

"I – " Ben had trouble getting the words out. "I stole some baseball cards."

"I see." The priest's tone became stern. "Do you still have the baseball cards?"

"No, Father. I returned them."

"You know that stealing is a sin."

"Yes, Father." Ben was shaking, and suddenly felt cold.

"Is the first time you've done anything like this?"

"Yes."

"Well, what you have to do now is apologize to God. I want you to make a perfect Act of Contrition."

Ben did as he was told.

"Now, I want you to go forth and say twenty Hail Marys, and think about the error of your ways. Be sure to avoid any near-occasions of sin. God is watching you. Go and sin no more."

The dark latticed window slid shut. It took Ben a minute to realize that it was over, and he was forgiven. But he felt sick.

The guilt would be with him for a long time. And years later, when he recounted the incident to his own child, he did so with shame.

finis