Home Run

by Dave Lawrence

  “Yes,” Jordan said emphatically. “This trip will be hell.”

  “Stop your bitching,” the coach said benignly. “You’d be crying for us after half an hour.”

  “Rubbish,” Jordan said, knowing how true his coach’s words were.

  “You know you would, Jordan,” Brad added.

  “Who asked you, Braddo? Hey, have you noticed that blond air hostess with the softball implants? I wouldn’t mind her throwing me a couple of those.” Spontaneously, the three of them chanted together, “No drugs, no booze, no girls.”

  “Best way to be for you young clowns,” the coach croaked. “Now be quiet. It’s 11pm and time for bed.”

  “No bedtime story, coach?”

  “Shut up, Jordan.”

  Brad smiled to himself. His dream, he was sure, was about to come true – he and Jordan drafted to the New York Yankees. It was just a matter of time.

  The sheer unexpected euphoria of the New York trip blew Brad’s mind a thousand times over. Never before had he been confronted with such a monumental succession of explosively exciting events, one after the other, each one more sensational than the rest. The sights, sounds, smells and minutia of New York burst in technicolour upon the impressionable teenagers. Starting with the sumptuous breakfast at a high class brassiere with none other than the coaches and potentates of the New York Yankees baseball club, the days only magnified in magnificence and inaugurations.

  Yet here they were, meeting dignitary after dignitary, darting from minor league club to minor league club, meeting officials and visiting stadiums. But the ultimate experiences were yet to come.

  Brad and Jordan rubbed shoulders with their heroes. Baseball’s administration gods permitted them access to the stadium and even the change-rooms. They wore the catching mitts of the team, held the bats, pitched the balls, donned the gear and even trained with their ultimate team of all time. They savoured a foretaste of the stratospheric heights upon which these demi-god athletes blithely walked. Brad pitched to the best batters in the world. He stood on the mound that dreams are made of. Meanwhile, an armour-plated Jordan felt the thud in his mitt from the New York Yankee pitchers as he stood behind the plate, almost choking with disbelief and joy. Under the watchful gaze of the coach and officials, the two teenagers felt they did themselves proud, even though they dropped balls, got smashed out of the ground and felt like toddlers in the presence of giants. The smells of oils and ointments and creams and gum and sweat mingled with the heady intoxication of disbelief and wonder as the two teenagers shook hands firstly with this then that superhero, the energy of the moment spinning them onto the threshold of a new galaxy they yearned to enter.

  On the evening of their third night into the trip, Brad and Jordan watched baseball on cable TV in the hotel room. Rod prepared a simple meal at the kitchenette. Brad’s eyes drooped. Jordan suddenly jerked his head up, eliciting a laugh from Brad. “We’ve taken sleep deprivation to a new level.”

  “I keep telling you not to stay up,” Rod reprimanded them. “By the look of it your body won’t be giving you a choice tonight.”

  “How can we spend all day the way we have, only to tuck up at night like babies at ten o’clock?” Brad replied.

  “What time did you stay up to last night, gasbagging away like two old women?”

  “Come on, Rod. How good is this?” Brad defended himself. “I don’t have my parents breathing down my neck every second of the day. No school, no homework...”

  “Since when do you ever do any homework, Braddo?”

  “All the time,” Brad protested. “You’re the one who never does homework. You don’t even do your SACs.”

  “I do, eventually. But who cares? When we get signed up, we’ll be earning more money in a few years than our classmates will see in their lifetime. Who gives a toss what ATAR score we get? This is what it’s all about. This!” yelled Jordan at the top of his lungs, and hurled a cushion across the room which thudded into the wall.

  Brad grabbed another cushion and threw it at Jordan, who raised his arms in front of his face and moved his body at the same time like a boxer, dodging the projectile.

  “Cut it out, fellas,” Rod said. “This trip is already costing your parents a bomb. Don’t add a hotel damages bill.”

  “My old man wouldn’t care,” Jordan said. “He’s happy to pay anything when it comes to me. The more the better, hey Braddo? That way he soothes his conscience from a lifetime of neglect. Being there and caring, that’s too hard. Buying me out is easy.”

  Suddenly the colours in the hotel room darkened. Brad usually deflected similar comments, but somehow this cut the air and hung around, infecting the buzz and the energy that had previously reigned. Nobody said anything. Rod turned off the frying pan and came behind Jordan’s couch, placing his hand gently on Jordan’s shoulder. For an instant, Brad thought he’d see his best friend burst into tears, but Jordan’s sharp features froze. Brad knew he was putting on a brave face, as he always did. It had been four years since Brad saw his best friend break down at the indifference of his parents, but then suddenly the steely resolve of the Moose entered his life. It was at this point that Jordan poured everything into baseball, as though it became a surrogate family. Whenever Brad wanted to train, Jordan would be there. Whenever Jordan wanted to train, Brad would do the same. Together they pushed each other, moulded by Rod and the specialist coaches he brought in for the pair. They constantly exposed themselves to every training academy and training camp run by the Australian Institute of Sport or the various baseball associations, be they in Victoria, New South Wales or Queensland. Brad’s parents spent every cent on their son’s baseball development, and spoke of nothing else, dreamed of nothing else and wanted nothing else. Neither appeared to mind that their son’s education did not figure at all in their plans, much to the vocal disagreement of Aunt Shirley, which accounted for her banishment from any family occasion and her constant but subtle berating from the otherwise decently-mouthed couple.

  Brad didn’t care. Although his parents were pains in the arse and often an embarrassment, he knew they loved him. They’d given him every support and opportunity to succeed, and they initiated him into the greatest game on earth, and for that he’d be eternally grateful. After all, it was because of them that he was here now, financially and every other way. They were the ones who’d nurtured the relationship with Rod Sullivan and delegated his technical development to him, which had turned out, to date, a very shrewd strategy.

  Brad felt that his usual deflections and encouragements in the current situation would only end up sounding like empty platitudes, so he said nothing. The descending silence accentuated to a painful degree the isolation life had hurled at Jordan and for this Brad felt eternally grateful for Rod’s genuine care and his ability to plug some of the gaps that Jordan sometimes threatened to fall through. Rod’s large hand rested on Jordan’s shoulder. Jordan bravely kept a straight face, though Brad noticed the almost imperceptible quivering of the lip.

  “How about a run after dinner, Braddo? We’ve done practically no exercise for five days.”

  “What about our training session with the Yankees?” Brad reminded him pointedly, his eyelids all but crashing down on him in mid-speech.

  “You’re not serious, Jordan?” Rod asked. “You guys practically haven’t slept since you arrived in New York. You’ve been up yapping till 4am each night.”

  “We didn’t even sleep on the plane either, Rod,” Brad said. “Jordan, let’s have dinner and see how we feel.”

  “No worries, but I feel like a run.” The silence was filled by the TV commentary of the major league baseball game replayed on screen.

  Rod resumed his cooking. “Now, hold on to your seats. Tomorrow afternoon someone is taking us around town for a few hours.” The boys sat upright.

  “Well?” Brad asked, practically bursting with anticipation.

  “Jose.”

  Brad snapped his head to look at Jordan, too shocked to s
ay anything lest he ruin what he suspected. Jordan returned the look, then turned to Rod. Jordan’s voice was low and soft, resigned to hearing something that couldn’t possibly be true. “You don’t mean Jose De La Cruz?”

  “I do,” Rod said simply, turning the golden-brown sausages over with his spatula.

  The sound of the name released a chemical reaction in the two boys, expelling any fatigue and generating a new burst of energy. “Can you repeat that, please?” Brad asked quietly.

  “You heard me. 2pm tomorrow we meet at the stadium. He’s agreed to show us around.”

  “How the hell did you manage that, Rod?” Brad asked, dumbfounded.

  “With a bit of luck. While you guys were training last night, I got talking to some officials. Jose just finished an interview and was getting changed when he heard me say you boys would love to meet the players. He said if we were free the next day he’d show us around. Needless to say, I said yes. I’ve already postponed our scheduled meeting with a minor league club.”

  “Brilliant,” Jordan cried. “Jose De La Cruz, the greatest hitter in the world, showing us around! What is this, a dream? I can’t believe it.” Brad’s eyes were wide and incredulous.

  Under a welcoming grey sky, a symphony of seagulls squawked in harmony with the vroom-vroom of passing motors along 161st street, sending a positive current of electromagnetic energy humming underfoot. It was 1.30pm, half an hour before the Moment, the Jose De La Cruz Rendez-Vous, after which Brad and Jordan were happy to die, having on their tombstones: Here lie Brad and Jordan who had a 2pm appointment with Jose De La Cruz.

  The three Australians stood outside Babe Ruth Plaza, waiting for the most recognised baseball player in the modern world, the highest paid baseball player in history, a man who’d broken nearly every batting record so far in five short years, a man who many believed would one day be more famous than the legendary Babe Ruth or Joe de Maggio, the baseball equivalent of Don Bradman or basketball’s Michael Jordan.

  Due to the comings and goings that continually occurred in the carpark, they ignored the single tinted-window sedan that pulled up beside them. Jordan checked his mobile. “Another message from my mother,” he said in disgust. “I told them I wasn’t bringing my mobile.”

  “She didn’t believe you,” Brad said. “I didn’t bring mine precisely for that reason.”

  “Which means it’s left to me to give them both daily updates.” Rod looked at the pair of them. “I keep forgetting you guys are just teenagers.”

  A Spanish accent interrupted them. “Can I give you a lift somewhere, amigos?”

  They turned to see the one and only Jose De La Cruz, his elbow resting on the open window of his sedan, smiling. Rod stood like a stunned mullet before quickly composing himself.

  Brad’s composure on and off the field had enormously impressed the Yankees brass. It now equipped him with the presence of mind to greet Jose normally. “You sure can.”

  Jose got out the car. “Who are you?” Jordan asked cheekily. Jose smiled, slapped him on the shoulder amicably and cupped the boys’ hands in his.

  There was something magnetic and yet incredibly normal about the man before them. The charisma shining through his Latin features and legendary smile immediately ingratiated him with the three Australians, more than they thought possible, despite their unalloyed hero-worship.

  “Don’t you have an entourage or something?” Jordan asked.

  “We thought you’d arrive with a cavalcade or something,” Brad added.

  “With blaring trumpets and dancing girls?” laughed Jose. “No, just me.” He climbed back into his car, inviting the others to get in. “Come on, we got places to go.”

  “I wouldn’t mind the dancing girls,” Jordan dared to say.

  Rod took the front passenger seat and the boys jumped in the rear. Once they were in, Jose turned around. “Dancing girls, yes, amigo? You know what I say on all my clinics, at all my seminars and to any kid willing to listen?” He paused, allowing the silence to intensify his words of wisdom. “No drugs, no booze, no girls.”

  Brad looked with amazement at Jordan, then at Rod. He pointed to Rod. “That’s what our coach says all the time; no drugs, no booze, no girls. That’s amazing.”

  “I have a confession to make,” Rod confessed. “I got that from Jose.”

  Jose smiled and winked at the boys. “He’s a good coach. That bit of advice is the third of four I always give.”

  “What are the others?” Brad asked.

  Jose turned back in his seat and looked out the front window, his eyes fixed on the stadium. Rod waited as if his life depended on it. He was committed to remember that whatever came out of Jose’s mouth at that moment would remain fixed in his brain for the rest of his life. It would form part of his own coaching philosophy. Here he was in person, hearing with his own ears, directly from Jose’s own lips, what could only turn out to be gems without price.

  Brad, for his part, strained every fibre of his being with anticipation, waiting for what was to follow. So did Jordan, who hung in a vast chasm of space, suspended between physical and metaphysical reality.

  There in Babe Ruth Plaza, time stood still till Jose turned back around and faced the boys. “Number one: work hard. Number two: work harder. Number three: no drugs, no booze, no girls.”

  In a flash, Jordan grabbed Brad with both hands. “We do all those things, Braddo.”

  Jose smiled. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “But we’re not here,” Jordan said. “We’re guests only. We haven’t been signed.”

  “Amigo, the best I can give you is rule one, two and three,” Jose said. “And there is a fourth, but this is more about life than baseball. This sounds a bit crazy, but it’s true, hombres. It is true, and I thank God I know this.”

  “What’s the fourth rule?” Brad asked.

  “Life is more than baseball.” It was as if Jose had taken all three of them on an intergalactic flight only to leave them crashing into a foreign planet and leaving them for dead. “Come, I have something to show you.”

  Too taken with the unexpected turn of events, no-one dared, bothered or thought of where Jose was taking them. The champion baseball player instinctively knew the impact his words had on the impressionable teenagers, and drove on in silence, his presence somehow larger than life yet so grounded and down to earth. Here was Jose De La Cruz, not in the flashing lights of a thousand photographers, not smiling on the face of Time or three dozen sports and lifestyle magazines, not surrounded by screaming fans, not hitting home runs on live television or being neatly presented in countless documentaries and interviews, but driving down 161st Street within the speed limit in his ordinary sedan, taking time out to show three complete strangers the sights of New York. His humility and ordinariness only made him more and more larger than life. It was surreal, the visitors all thought simultaneously, and so incongruous that Jordan had to pinch himself to be sure it was actually happening.

  “This isn’t such a fancy car,” Jordan observed. Jose smiled and turned his head while keeping his eyes on the road. “Not good enough for you, hombre?”

  From 161st Street they turned left into Grand Concourse and followed the bustle of the road north east, finding their way onto Cross Bronx Expressway. They passed the Bronx River Parkway toward South Bronx. Brad and Jordan pumped Jose with question after question about particular games, his life generally, his career. Rod tried to dampen their enthusiasm but Jose was happy to answer, and threw in a few questions of his own. They had pulled into a particularly rundown part of Melrose, with kids Brad’s age playing in the streets, old men sitting on boxes and stray dogs sniffing under rubbish. Rod looked around in alarm as Jose pulled into the curb in front of a large, derelict building. Across the door, painted in large letters were the words: “Whatever you did to one of these little ones, you did to me.” Above the words a smiling image of Jesus, his hands outstretched, greeted the visitors.

  The next hour for Brad was a bl
ur. It was so unexpected and, if Brad was honest with himself, unwanted. Jordan, however, was dead silent, and obviously going through his own internal battle. He, Jordan and Rod were introduced to the workers and volunteers who ran the centre. They all knew Jose well, that was clear, as did the children who ran to him and received a hug and an affectionate hand nestled into the cheek. The women, all victims of abuse and neglect, as one of the workers explained, sat working on various types of cottage industries filling the vast open space.

  “Why am I bringing you here, amigos, you asking yourself?” Jose surveyed the scene. “Because life is more than baseball. We have opportunities, they have not. They are too poor to do anything but survive. We have so much; it’s justice that we share with the poor, especially if it’s not their fault. Jesus said, ‘What does it profit someone to gain the whole world, but lose his soul in the process?’”

  “Are you a Christian?” Jordan asked.

  “Yes, thank God, I am,” Jose smiled.

  “Why?” Jordan asked, to Brad and Rod’s acute embarrassment.

  “I will tell you, but first I want you to meet someone special. Let’s go.” Jose waved good bye to the staff and women and lead the three visitors back to the car. They drove in silence, a surreal, incongruous, silence to another part of town not far away, but just as depressed and poor, clearly with a high percentage of blacks and Latinos. Jose parked in front of a dilapidated church and led them inside. Brad couldn’t see the connection between the purpose of his trip and coming here to such a dump, but when he saw Jose dip his hand in water and make the sign of the cross, he wanted to whisper to Rod that he was ready to go.

  They strode down the aisle, through a side door, then down a passageway. Jose knocked at a decrepit door and let himself in. Two men sat in a tiny office behind busy desks, papers neatly piled high. Filing cabinets cramped against the walls. The first was a diminutive, chubby man in his mid-forties, clearly a Latino priest. The second man was dressed in casual clothes, in his fifties, wearing glasses and an old sports jacket.