Father Ron

Pedophile or warm and giving priest? Both, says a young man with fond -- but tarnished -- memories of a good man.

By Damien Cave

Mar 7, 2002 | I first met Father Ron Provost 20 years ago when he suddenly appeared in our parish parking lot and attracted more attention than a pro wrestler. I was 8 years old, it was a warm spring day in New England -- one of the first to tease us with summer heat -- and our entire Catholic elementary school was outside soaking in the sun, playing kickball, competing for attention and letting off steam.

We were completely engrossed in our own small world -- until Father Ron appeared. Tall, trim and balding, he must have come from Mass, walking out of the brick Catholic church into the lot, but I only noticed him because of the screaming: "It's Father Ron, it's Father Ron!"

Everyone around me was suddenly dissatisfied with the games of recess. They dropped what they were doing and sprinted toward Father Ron. With nothing better to do, I quickly followed.

A few weeks later, I joined the local street hockey leagues that Father Ron started and began to understand why he was so well-loved. Not only did he seem to have permanent warmth and a glowing smile for both boys and girls, he also had the ability to make children more than they thought they could be.

I'll never forget the way he bent down to show me how to hold a hockey stick. I was confident in abilities I didn't yet have; he made me feel like a star. It was a form of welcome that I often saw repeated. For eight years, I played street hockey in Father Ron's leagues -- in several Massachusetts towns, on all-star teams that competed on a national level -- and at every venue I saw children meet Father Ron and grow as I did: from shy to confident, asocial to outgoing. He was a man who brought hockey and hope to working-class towns with little more than bars and high suicide rates. To me, he was simply a great and humble man.

Today, it's more complicated. My memories are poisoned, and his good works have been largely forgotten. Defrocked and downtrodden, the 63-year-old former priest lives outside the church, in an old Worcester, Mass., home with his brother Kenneth. After spending seven years digging graves at a local cemetery, he occasionally shovels snow at local parishes, but for the most part, life for Father Ron is simply an attempt to move beyond the past.

"I never know who's going to hate me," he says when I catch him by phone at home, starting our first conversation in more than a decade. "I'm struggling, but I think I'm doing OK."

What happened?

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