Home Run

by Dave Lawrence

  “When’s she going?” asked Brad.

  “What sort of ideas?” asked Jordan.

  “Forget it,” Javed said, “you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Hey, Javed,” a player called from across the change-room, “is that your sister?”

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “Are you Muslim?” the player asked, obviously referring to Azra’s headscarf.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if those Japs look like beating us, threaten a jihad on ‘em.”

  “Don’t be such an ignoramus!” Javed retorted.

  Laughter erupted from some of the players before the national team coach walked in and called everyone to order for the team briefing.

  “No drugs, no booze, no girls,” whispered Jordan to Brad as the coach took up position in the change-room. Via Rod, this had become the mantra of their national coach, which the players never tired of repeating. The expression was rapidly running through junior baseball circles.

  Chapter Four

  The typically unexpected Melbourne cold snap irritated Jordan as he and Brad and a couple of others from the local baseball team set out on their monthly half marathon. It was eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning in April but steam still billowed out of their mouths as they took to the streets at a steady pace.

  “Give it a break, Tommo!” Jordan ejected a great ball of spittle. “This is a half marathon, not a sprint.”

  “You’re too slow, Moose,” Tommo returned, picking up the speed.

  “Yeah, Tommo,” the big hitting but inconsistent George agreed. “Slow it down.”

  Tommo turned to Brad, who always set the course. “Where to, Brad?”

  “Straight up the Burwood Highway, right onto Station St, left onto Holland Rd, then all the way back down to Blackburn Rd.” Brad exhaled thick steam as he spoke.

  Over the past year the four players met monthly. They called it their half marathon but no-one knew how many kilometres they actually ran. They’d hop on public transport, whether bus, tram or train, get off and follow the itinerary Brad had pre-planned. Not only was it a way of keeping fit and hanging out together, but also a way Brad and Jordan could get to know Melbourne, seeing as though they spent four nights a week training and most Sundays of the year playing, not to mention the tournaments and trips.

  “Did the scouts come out for the Japanese game?” George asked, puffing already.

  “You puffing already, George?” Jordan asked. “Too much moussaka and baklava since the finals?”

  “You can say that again, Moose,” George panted.

  “No,” Brad answered. “Those scouts didn’t come as far as I know.”

  “It’ll happen, Braddo,” Jordan said, throwing a baseball to the leading Tommo, who deftly caught it in his right hand.

  “Hey, Moose,” George puffed, “tell me again why we call you Moose?”

  Brad plucked the flying ball out of the sky in the middle of a leap and flicked it with unreasonable speed at Jordan from close quarters. Jordan caught the baseball cleanly. “That’s why, George. He’s,” Jordan cut in and recited together with Brad, “faster than a mongoose, quicker than a snake, freer than a footloose, higher than a drake.”

  “But why Moose?” George persisted.

  “You tell ‘im, Braddo,” Jordan puffed.

  “Well,” Brad explained, “when I first saw him as shortstop he reminded me of a mongoose. His reflexes were so fast. Mongoose is too long. I didn’t want to call him Goose, so I took the ‘m’ and added it to ‘oose’ to make Moose. It sounded better. That’s what they’ll call him in the States, isn’t it, Jordan?”

  “So how come you don’t call him that, Braddles?” Tommo asked.

  “Dunno, he’s Jordan, that’s why?”

  “You’re crazy,” George said, and they all sprinted around the corner of Station Street.

  Up ahead a crowd filled the nature strip, walking slowly up the hill. As the boys jogged forward, they made out a large wooden cross being carried somewhere up the front. Two men brought up the rear. The one dressed in flowing robes turned around and saw the boys. He had a flowing beard and wore the cap of a Greek Orthodox cleric.

  “Hello, boys,” he smiled. “Sorry, but you might have to use the road or cross to the other side.”

  “What’s happening?” Jordan asked.

  The cleric and his companion, a kindly-looking man who seemed to be some sort of minister because of the cross he wore on his plain grey jersey, stopped and let the crowd continue, some chanting and others waving palm leaves.

  “It’s a Palm Sunday procession,” explained the cleric. “We process around the neighbourhood from different churches in the Burwood area. We culminate at the church over the hill and conduct an ecumenical service.”

  Brad and the other two expected Jordan to thank the man so they could jog past, but Jordan stayed. “What’s that for?”

  The Greek Orthodox cleric looked at the four boys in their running gear. “It’s a celebration of the death and resurrection of Jesus, to put it in a nutshell. It’s an annual Christian tradition the week before Easter. This procession is an ecumenical one, meaning that all the different churches come together to celebrate in unity.”

  The kindly man with the grey jersey spoke to Jordan. “I know you boys are in the middle of a run, but you’re very welcome to join us.”

  His team-mates jogged on the spot. “Let’s go, Jordan,” Tommo piped up. “It’s getting cold.”

  “But you don’t know us from a bar of soap,” Jordan responded, to which the kindly man simply shrugged and smiled. “That doesn’t matter,” he said gently.

  Jordan studied him intently, as if he could not believe what he heard. “I’m welcome to join you on this procession?” he asked.

  “Why not?” The Greek Orthodox priest shrugged his shoulders. “Of course,” the kindly man reassured him.

  “Braddo, I’m going with these guys.”

  “Now, Jordan?” Brad and the other two looked from one to the other and then back to Jordan. “But we’re in the middle of a run.”

  “We can do that any time. I’m staying.”

  Brad breathed out heavily, his annoyance clearly visible. Tommo and George obviously wanted to stay with Brad but the thought of joining the religious procession before them, and then enduring a church service afterwards was too much, especially since they weren’t properly dressed for it. “You’ll freeze,” Tommo said.

  The kindly man took off his jersey and gave it to Jordan. “Put this on. It’ll be warmer in the church.” Jordan slowly extended his arm to take the jersey, his eyes studiously glued to the man with the compassionate face. He thought of his father, and made a mental comparison of how different the two men were. His own father never gave anything away unless there was something in it for himself, and here was a man who gave away his own jersey on a bitterly cold day, to a perfect stranger, with nothing to gain for it. His own father was loud and domineering with a handsome face but cold, calculating eyes, yet here was a man whose face radiated kindness, to the point Jordan almost felt like crying.

  “Let’s finish the run, Moose,” George pleaded. “You can come back later.”

  “I’m staying!” Brad knew that tone. There was no changing Jordan’s mind. He resigned himself to a boring walk behind a bunch of boring Christians, enduring a boring church service, and all in temperatures that would freeze his nuts off if he didn’t stay warm. Brad would stay out of loyalty to Jordan.

  “For Pete’s sake,” Tommo complained angrily. He jogged off in earnest, followed by George who spat contemptuously. They raced ahead of the procession and were lost to sight.

  “So what’s the point of this exercise?” Jordan asked the kindlyeyed man.

  The kindly man, who introduced himself as Declan, the Baptist minister from up the road, smiled again, his eyes warming Jordan’s soul. “I take it you’re not versed much in Christian practices,” he offered gently.

  “Know nothing about it,”
Jordan explained, “except that my parents won’t have a bar of religion, which means there’s probably something good about it.”

  “I don’t know much about it, either,” Brad added. “My aunt and grandmother are Christians, but we hardly ever see them. My parents don’t like them.” Brad wondered why he automatically volunteered such personal information. It was like he and Jordan had somehow come into a safe zone. The two ministers of religion were so open and welcoming, and seemed so genuine. It was disarming.

  The Greek Orthodox priest and Baptist minister exchanged glances and laughed good-humouredly. “Maybe your parents have good reason,” the priest said. “Some of us Christians are not always very Christian.”

  “My aunt and grandmother are great people,” Brad said.

  The priest studied Brad. “Then maybe your parents need to ask themselves some hard questions. We’ll need to get you warm, too. Here, take this jacket.”

  Brad declined but the priest insisted. “Thanks.” They walked on in silence for a while until the kindly man spoke: “So, Moose? Is that your name?”

  “It’s Jordan really. My team-mates call me Moose.” “Because of his reflexes,” Brad explained.

  “Jordan,” Declan said. “In answer to your question, we’re on this walk to celebrate God’s love for humanity by sending Jesus to die for the world, so that we can see God face to face and live happily forever. We also celebrate Jesus coming back to life, proving that God is greater than all things, even death. And it’s an ecumenical gathering, because we want to profess our Christian faith together. We’re Uniting Church, charismatic and traditional, Lutheran, Baptist, evangelical, Catholic, Anglican ...”

  “...and Greek Orthodox,” the bearded Greek priest said. “We’re here because we believe God is urgently calling all Christians to worship and work together. We’re committed to heal the divisions in Christianity which all of us lament. These ecumenical initiatives, they’re wonderful. We need to do more of this.”

  “Is it such a big deal?” Jordan asked, looking at Brad.

  The pair of religious men, both shivering, nodded and smiled. “Yes,” the kindly-eyed Declan said, “because that way the message of the Gospel will have more power, the message that God loves all men and women and that he sent his Son to die for us. We believe this is the ultimate truth. God wants the Christian church to be a witness of love so that all may come to know the love of God. This love changes people’s worlds.”

  “Wow!” Jordan exclaimed.

  “That’s what my aunt and grandmother reckon,” Brad said.

  “They’re right!” the Greek Orthodox priest said. They arrived at the church. People of all ages, races and types were filing in. “Come, let’s get inside fast.”

  On the tram home, Brad and Jordan sat next to each other and watched the passing traffic, the buildings, the road and any pedestrians that made their way to wherever they were going. Brad could tell something was going on in Jordan. Jordan was never one to question things. Life was simple – it was all about playing professional baseball in America. Suddenly Jordan seemed to look beyond the immediate here and now. From the earliest times Brad could remember Jordan seemed like a coil, tightly wound and ready to strike, particularly in defence of the underdog. He let out his aggression on the baseball and in training, hitting harder and harder, lifting weights that got heavier and heavier, getting Brad to hit baseballs at him from closer and closer to hone his catching skills and quicken his reflexes. Something was changing.

  “Jordan,” Brad began, “is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, why?” Jordan absentmindedly watched the sky.

  “Well, joining that church mob isn’t what you do every day, especially in the middle of a run. Tommo and George were seriously cheesed off.”

  Jordan shrugged. “They’ll get over it.”

  “And then there was Aunt Shirley and wanting to change schools. Are you sure everything’s okay?” Jordan nodded. Brad examined him and got the picture. “You know I invited Javed to come running with us?”

  Jordan winked ostentatiously. “You want to see Azra again, don’t you, Braddo? You didn’t want to see Javed. Don’t get hooked. You know the score.”

  “I know,” Brad said, “no drugs, no booze, no girls. I can’t get her out of my mind. She’s beautiful and intelligent and there’s something about her. There was a spark between us. I’ve never felt like this before.”

  “You know me, Braddo. I don’t tell people what they need to do.” Brad shot a look at his best mate. “Well, okay, I sometimes do. But seriously, you’ve only just met her. Anyway, she’s off to Pakistan. Forget about her.”

  “I wish I could.”

  Chapter Five

  As the two friends approached the Newton house, they noticed their coach’s muddy 4WD parked out the front. Opposite gleamed Hank Tory’s fire-engine red Porsche. Brad quickly got out his mobile. He listened to his messages. Jordan patiently waited. “Well?” Jordan asked. Brad lead the way through the front door.

  They walked into the lounge to find Sylvia and Otto sitting opposite their baseball coach, Rod Sullivan, and Jordan’s dad, Hank, dressed in his Armani suit. A stranger, also dressed in a suit, sat next to Hank. The number of beers, glasses and empty plates of finger food indicated they’d been there for some time. Music was playing. Brad wondered what this could be about. Did Javed’s stupid parents make a complaint about him and Jordan? Was Rod here with this strange man to deliver some sort of ban or reprimand?

  Upon seeing her son, Sylvia jumped out of her chair and rushed forward, hugging Brad. Otto wore a smile from ear to ear. “Finally,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” Brad asked.

  Hank nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face. He raised his beer and winked at Jordan. “Take a seat, fellas. Rod here has something to tell you. But before that, let me introduce you to Mr Rex Jones, Area Scout for the New York Yankees.”

  Brad and Jordan exchanged looks, almost not daring to hope for what they thought they might hear.

  “Not so fast,” the coach cut in. “It’s not what you’re thinking. Sit down and let me fill you in.”

  Rex Jones gripped both boys’ hands and resumed his seat.

  Rod sat down and motioned the boys to do likewise. Brad and Jordan took a seat on the edge of the empty lounge suite, its cushions neatly arranged as if waiting for precisely this moment. “As you know,” Rod addressed the boys, “I’ve been a bird dog for the Yankees for years, as well as coach. I think both of you boys have what it takes to make it in the Majors. I’ve been in regular contact with Rex here and he agrees with me.” Rex nodded and smiled. “In fact, he’s seen you boys more often than you think.”

  Brad thought he recognised Rex from some of the representative games. His combination of suit and Yankees cap stood out. Brad imagined he was one of the fathers. His excitement grew.

  “What I’ve proposed to your parents,” Rod continued, “is to visit New York as a sort of reconnaissance trip as my guest.” Brad and Jordan almost burst with anticipation. “I know you’ve been before, but this time it’ll be in my capacity as a New York Yankee, even though I’m not officially employed by them. Rex has agreed. We’ll meet the officials, the players, and some of the feeder clubs. Your parents have agreed to let you go on the condition that you understand, and I want to make it absolutely clear, this is not an offer to play baseball in America. It’s a way of a) increasing your incentive to get better, and b) give you a foretaste of what sort of life you’ll be living if you ever do make it over there.”

  “No point!” Astonished, the adults turned to Jordan.

  “He’s right,” Brad stated with a hint of irritation. “We don’t need any more incentive. And we don’t care about the schooling, accommodation or which minor league we start with. None of those matter to us as long as we get a contract.” The five adults sat in shock. “Mr Jones, if the Yankees don’t want us, we’ll go to another club.”

  “We prefer the Yankees,” Jorda
n said. “That’s our dream. We know we can do it. Braddo is without doubt the best pitcher in Australia, and arguably the best batter. He’s a phenom in anybody’s language.”

  “And Jordan is the best fielder,” Brad added, “and a better batter than me.”

  “And we’re both getting better every day,” Jordan added. “We don’t need to go to the United States but we’ll go anyway.”

  “Yeah, we sure will,” Brad boomed in his loud voice. “When do we go?”

  “Who’s going with us?” Jordan asked quickly.

  Hank leaned forward. “Jordan, you’ll be happy to know that Rod doesn’t want the parents to go.” Jordan didn’t care that his father understood he was not welcome.

  “What does mum think?” Jordan asked, only minutely betraying to Otto and Sylvia his longing that she cared. Brad, of course, knew his longing for his mother’s concern was far from minute, not that he would ever show it.

  “She doesn’t care,” Hank said simply.

  “We think we should come,” Sylvia said, “but Rod seems to think it’s best we don’t go.”

  “Besides,” Otto explained, “your mother and I have done all our homework as far as schools, colleges and accommodation goes. If you get the offer from the Yankees, we’re prepared.” Otto took a satisfied swig of beer. The goal of their ambition was getting closer by the moment. He unsuccessfully attempted to conceal a burp.

  “Please, Otto,” Sylvia cried, slapping her husband heartily on the thigh under Hank’s watchful eye.

  Five days later and two phone calls to the school, Rod sat by the window seat and fastened his seat belt. He adjusted his neck rest.

  “Geez, Rod,” Jordan complained from the middle seat, squished between the large frame of his coach and the absurdly broad shoulders of his best mate. “Why did you have to book three seats together? You know my shoulders count for two people.”

  “Very funny, Jordan,” Rod laughed. “Would you have preferred I booked us separate seats?”