Home Run

by Dave Lawrence

  “Jose, beuno verte, amigo.” They hugged each other. “Padre Juan Carlos, meet three visitors from Australia. Rod, Brad and Jordan.” They exchanged handshakes. When Brad politely took the priest’s hand, he wondered at the relevance of the meeting. Jose then turned to the man in the sports jacket and gave him a vigorous hug. “Holy man, meet Rod, Brad and Jordan. Guys, this is Terry.” They also exchanged handshakes. “Jordan,” Jose said, “this man is responsible for me keeping my faith. He’s the pastor of the big Pentecostal church around the corner.” Terry bowed humbly. “He’s chaplain to some of the baseball clubs. This man has a gift.”

  “No,” Terry said, shrugging off the praise, examining the two boys and Rod, “I share my experience of God’s love for me. God’s love is so wonderful, you know. If you haven’t experienced it, I encourage you, I strongly encourage you, to seek it out.” Terry smiled. “And it’s free.”

  “How do you seek it out?” Jordan asked.

  “You ask God, and don’t stop asking him till he shows you. He will. He’s promised. The world lies as it breathes. God doesn’t. He speaks the truth. It’s very refreshing.” The confidence in Terry’s voice was infectious. “I can show you how right now.” What followed forced Brad to believe he’d entered some sort of twilight zone. Terry opened his hands. Father Juan Carlos opened his hands and raised his right hand in blessing. Jose placed both his hands on the shoulders of Brad and Jordan who stood in an uncomfortable silence and waited for the next weird turn of events.

  “Okay, Jordan,” Terry advised, “this is what you can say anytime, anywhere, aloud or in silence, but with sincerity and perseverance, just as you play baseball. Lord,” Terry began, “show me who you are. Show me your love. I want to know your love.”

  Juan Carlos, the small Latino priest, blessed the three shell-shocked Australians with the sign of the cross.

  “It’s as simple as that,” Terry said. “You wait and see what happens.” His smile, the spark and gentle creases of his eyes immediately made Jordan and Brad recall Declan, the Baptist pastor they’d met on procession earlier that year.

  Rod thanked the two men and asked what they did to share an office. Terry explained the range of services they offered the neighbourhood, from shelters for the homeless to government advocacy to helping unemployed find work to soup kitchens and youth programmes. It was called Good Shepherd Centre. “We are blessed to be working together – a Catholic priest and a Pentecostal pastor,” Juan Carlo said with a big smile. “The time has passed to keep to ourselves. God is urgently calling Christians to work together and support each other. There are too many threats to the Christian faith for us to carry on as we have in the past. The time for unity is now.”

  Terry nodded. “We have our differences, to be sure, but we pray and serve together, and work through the rest with tolerance. Juan Carlo is right – it is time for Christian unity. This is the work of the Holy Spirit.”

  Jose laughed when he saw the look on the faces of the two boys. “What has this got to do with you, right? Well, I brought us here because one of the programmes these guys run is a free baseball clinic for the kids in the precinct. They invite me down when I can. They run it every week and try to get big names so more kids come. It’s very successful. Come on, we’ll be late.” Jose thanked the two men and walked through another corridor to a large vacant block where hundreds of kids had assembled and were being arranged in age groups by a host of volunteers, including well known baseball players. When Jose came through the gate pandemonium erupted, and within seconds Jose, Brad, Jordan and Rod were swamped by screaming kids – jumping on Jose, pulling his shirt and pants, grabbing his arms and legs. Jose laughed and allowed them their moment before instructing them to follow the lead of the volunteers who had the nets, bats, balls, bases and mitts set up for play. To Brad it looked like the organised chaos of an agitated ant nest.

  Jose assigned Rod, Brad and Jordan a group of boys and girls to show them how to play baseball. For Brad it proved to be one of the most fulfilling experiences he’d ever had in his life. The eager young faces were full of gratitude and enthusiasm, their laughter innocent and heart-warming. After two hours the volunteers enlisted the older boys to disassemble the nets and place them, along with all the baseball equipment, in their designated boxes and wheel them across to the specially made sheds.

  Within moments, like a well-executed Formula One racing team, the entire area was transformed into a giant outdoor picnic area. From one of the buildings that formed one wall came a queue of mostly women who wheeled out hamburgers, stews and salads. Before the volunteers started dishing out the food, a huge black woman struggled up to a raised section of concrete, assisted by two other equally large women. “Chil’ren, it’s time to thank the good Lord for the gen’rosity of all these good folk who’ve given us so much today. Lord, we thank you.” Hundreds of voices repeated aloud and in unison, “Lord, we thank you.” The black woman continued, her vocal chords frightening the seagulls with their power; “For this food and the good people who made it possible.” The kids repeated: “For this food and the good people who made it possible,” but it quickly degenerated into a cacophony of blurred voices and undefined words. “Amen,” yelled the large woman in her thunderous voice. “Amen,” screamed the kids at the top of their lungs, drowning in laughter. Adolescents and little ones, black and white, Latino and Arab, lined up and started chowing down on the tucker.

  Sitting on the floor, Jose was surrounded by exuberant teenagers. Brad and Jordan almost couldn’t get their hamburgers into their mouths without an elbow in their ribs or a pushing in their back, but they didn’t mind.

  “You didn’t expect this, did you, Braddo?” Jordan said as a ten year old Mexican kid leaned across his plate and nearly spilled his beans.

  “And you did, Jordan?” Brad asked, copping an elbow from a tall girl who reminded him of Venus Williams.

  “Of course not, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Here, kid, you want this sausage?” The kid took it as if it was owed him, not even looking at Jordan, who burst out laughing and give him his potato as well.

  “Me too,” agreed Brad. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Jose looked over to the Australian boys. “There’s more to life than baseball, hey, amigos?” and he continued his story to the group of wide-eyed kids feeding hungrily off his energy.

  Jose farewelled Brad, Jordan and Rod. “Nice to meet you, amigos. You take care. Don’t forget what you’ve learnt today, hey? God is more important than baseball. You don’t forget that. Pablo here will take you back to your hotel. Hasta luego.” He smiled, leaving them bewildered. His swiftness and simplicity confounded them. Where were the blaring trumpets, dancing girls and the chorus of angels singing “Alleluia” as the world’s greatest baseball player exited? This is happening too fast, they thought to themselves. There were still too many things to say, too many thank you’s to express, too many questions to ask.

  “What the hell,” Jordan said, “am I suffering separation anxiety? It’s only been sixty seconds.”

  “I think so,” Brad said in a daze. “I feel the same.”

  Pablo drove them home, explaining that Jose’s foundation bankrolled most of the programmes run by Padre Juan Carlos and Pastor Terry Finn as well as a host of other initiatives around the country. Pablo talked and talked. The three of them drank in everything he said.

  They got home at 8pm. Rod didn’t even bother to check his mobile, knowing there’d be half a dozen messages from Otto and Sylvia and possibly a message or two from Hank. The three of them collapsed into bed and fell fast asleep the moment their heads hit the pillow.

  Chapter Six

  The plane trip home gave Rod Sullivan the opportunity to explain to the boys the gist of his final conversation that morning with the recruiting department of the New York Yankees. They had spent the past two days roving around the different tiers of the minor leagues. Concrete decisions were made about the ins and outs of what actu
ally would happen should the pair of them be offered a contract. But what their coach was about to tell them burst the galaxy-sized bubble the pair of them floated in as they soared faster than the speed of sound 35 000 feet above sea level.

  It was 3pm. They’d been in the air for half an hour. Earlier that morning Rod had his meeting with the Yankee recruitment officials. Brad and Jordan took the opportunity to watch some of the players work out in the gym. After the meeting the three of them had a quick bite at a diner before taking a cab to the airport. The boys could tell Rod had news. His demeanour was different – what could it be?

  Brad braced himself. His and Jordan’s one training session with the Yankees showed them how far they were from the level required to play in the majors. The difference in skill was so vast as to be beyond sight. In Australia, even when competing against adults, which he and Jordan occasionally did in club matches, Brad excelled. He bamboozled batters with his pitching and he scored home runs frequently. He knew, and his coach often told him, that American baseball was a different story. He needed to keep a level head. Even when he pitched winning games for the national team against international players, Rod was determined Brad would keep his feet firmly planted. He had to keep improving, working hard and honing his skills. There was no resting on his laurels. Brad and Jordan, in one of their many secret agreements, told each other that their yardstick was the American majors. Nothing short of that was good enough. They would get there, they constantly told each other, but they had a long way to go. Rod reinforced that belief, although he was always as encouraging as he could be.

  Brad braced himself. He was smart enough to know that life didn’t always pan out the way people planned. He knew enough about some of the promising Aussie stars whose careers went nowhere once they left the juniors. He knew enough tragic stories, not only just in baseball but in all sports, where promising phenoms copped injuries or tragedies or simply weren’t good enough in the final analysis to make it to the top. He’d seen stars that rose quickly and in spectacular fashion, but then fizzled to nothing within the space of a season. He was smart enough to know that even players with undeniable potential or actual skill could be overlooked for unaccountable reasons. There were any number of a thousand reasons why people, and that included himself and Jordan, would not be drafted to play in the States. Brad even had the presence of mind to know that, at the end of the day, he may end up simply not being good enough. But that’s when he and Jordan decided that they would leave no stone unturned, no training session missed, no hard work left undone, no way to improve left untried. They would give 100% to making it happen. And this was when they closed their minds to any thought except being drafted and succeeding in major league baseball, and why not for the New York Yankees, alongside Jose De La Cruz?

  Brad braced himself. Whatever bad news came, as long as he had health and breadth, if it wasn’t now, it would be next season. If not next season, the season after that. He was still only 16. In reality, he still had years up his sleeve. And the reality was he was the best pitcher in Australia, including the seniors. That surely counted for something. If he’d attracted the eye of the Area Scout at 16, why couldn’t he do it again at 17? One thing was sure, Brad Newton and Jordan Tory were only going to get better. Not school, not Azra, not their parents, not the system, nothing was going to stop them training harder and harder, with the best coaches and specialist trainers that they could lay their hands on. Jordan’s dad had promised that he’d pay whatever price for both of them to get the best coaching money could buy. Jordan would take his dad up on that if necessary. Fortunately, they had the best coach and parents who were totally supportive. Jordan’s parents at least let him do whatever he wanted, so absorbed were they in their own lives.

  “Well?” asked Jordan. “What did the recruitment guys say?”

  The look on Rod’s face gave some indication of how he felt. “Apparently there are a couple of phenoms in the Yankee’s sights, one from Venezuela and another from Mexico. They’re seventeen – a couple of years from the majors. They didn’t say it outright, but I suspect they were setting me up to let me down gently.”

  “It wouldn’t be you they were letting down,” Brad corrected him.

  “I know, Brad. They’re touting this bloke from Venezuela as a once in a generation talent. He’s the best player in South America, at seventeen years of age. They went through their draft restrictions, which I already know, but everything pointed to them being very cool on the subject of drafting either of you boys.”

  Jordan shrugged his shoulders. “They don’t draft batters as much, it’s more likely pitchers.”

  “They did say that,” Rod agreed.

  “Well, we’re a partnership,” Brad responded bleakly. “It’s one of us or neither.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Brad. If they sign you up, you go. We’ve already agreed to that. I’ll have to come over later. We might end up playing against each other.”

  Brad pursed his lips. He and Jordan had often talked about that scenario. “What else?” Brad asked.

  “Not much. There was some general talk about the usual pathway followed by draft picks, talk about the minors and the practicalities and difficulties of bringing school-aged players over from other countries, especially ones outside South America and Canada. They said they’d usually only recruit kids your age from outside Australia once they’ve left school. The alternative would be sending you off to college to play in the college leagues.”

  “We already know all that stuff,” Jordan said. “You’ve told us all before.” Rod nodded helplessly. “What did they say about us,” Jordan demanded, “are they going to make us an offer or not? It’s that simple.”

  “I wish it was, kiddo. They gave me nothing.”

  “You’re not holding out on us, are you?” Jordan said respectfully, almost apologetically. Rod was one of the few adults Jordan trusted.

  Rod shook his head. “Basically, they intimated if there was going to be an offer, they’ll make it through the normal channels. I’m only the bird dog, remember.”

  The first faces to greet the three homecoming Australians drugged with jet lag and sleeplessness were Otto and Sylvia, dressed in the casual clothes of the baseball fanatic, complete with cap and gum. Brad hugged them. The rest of the evening was a blur. He vaguely remembered waiting for their luggage at the Melbourne Airport carousel, standing among its typically eclectic crowd. Brad stared at a green bag that held his and Jordan’s baseball gear, watching it slowly wind its way back through the far opening. He was semi-aware of Sylvia asking him if the green bag was his and Brad responding in the affirmative. Otto said something. Brad barely heard. Sleep was pounding inside his head. They waited till it came around again. Otto grabbed it more aggressively than necessary. Rod made a call on his mobile. Jordan seemed to simply be there, probably in the same sleepdeprived stupour. Brad vaguely became aware of a large chute that encircled the airport. The bottom dropped out of it and he fell down headlong, gently and without danger, till he snapped his head up and realised he’d fallen asleep and was about to drop onto the floor. Otto’s strong arms prevented the fall.

  Brad washed his face in the toilets. The water felt like a slap. He shivered. Jordan stood at the basin beside Brad. “That turbulence was a fricking nightmare,” Jordan croaked, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep.

  “So was the turbulence coming out of your arse,” Brad returned. “Between the air outside the plane and the air you let out, I didn’t sleep a wink.”

  “It was pretty horrific. I pity those airline stewards. Will they ban me, do you think?”

  “They should. You staying at our place?”

  “Looks like it. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah,” Brad said, as if Jordan should even have to ask.

  The freshness of the cold water wore off as soon as they made their way out the carpark. Brad was fast asleep in no time, before Otto was able to abuse the freeway company for limiting a four lane freeway to 80km per hour
in order to generate more revenue for the government through fines on top of the ludicrously high tolls they already exacted on motorists.

  Brad was woken twice by his eager parents. They couldn’t contain their excitement when hearing from Jordan about the trip. Jordan struggled with all his being to stay awake and answer the unending questions that were fired at him by Otto and Sylvia. Before he finished answering one question, the other would shoot another, or ask for clarification. In the end, Jordan simply pretended to fall asleep in midsentence, not just to shut Brad’s parents up but so that he could enter the dreamworld already enjoyed by his buddy.

  Brad walked tranquilly among the daffodils filling the grassy infield. Suddenly a giant reached down and rocked him back and forth, uprooting the daffodils which scattered everywhere. The giant lifted a struggling Brad, dragging him away from the safety of the dream. The giant was screaming at Brad, telling him to get up. The giant grabbed both Brad’s arms and morphed into Otto.

  “For crying out aloud, Brad, get up already, will you?” Otto roared, his voice tense. Brad found himself half in and half out the car, entangled in Otto’s arms as his father fought to get his hulking son out of the car.

  “Is he all right?” came Sylvia’s concerned voice. “I don’t think he’s well.”

  “He’s just tired, Mrs Newton,” Jordan laughed. “Ha ha! Look at the big baby.”

  Brad allowed his dad to guide him out the car before owning his own movements. “I’ll grab your stuff,” Otto said. “You need to go to bed. Jordan, I suppose you’re staying here tonight? The bed’s made up.” The four of them made their way into the house and off to their respective rooms when the phone in the living room rang. As Brad changed into his pyjamas, he partially recalled Rod telling his parents he’d call them once he got home and freshened up. That was probably Rod.

  Otto’s voice raised a pitch. It became agitated and began firing off question after question. Brad couldn’t make out who it was that could be on the other end of the line, or what the conversation was about. He could hear his dad’s agitation. From his room he imagined Sylvia standing next to Otto, vicariously sharing his agitation, somehow perceiving that the news had something to do with Brad’s baseball and that somehow the news was bad. Even in his state of semi-delirium, Brad resented the constant tenterhooks his parents placed themselves on when it came to Brad’s baseball. It was true their obsession opened all the doors for him and that he was denied nothing in the pursuit of his dream, but sometimes he could do without the angst and pressure. He suddenly thought of Jose and had to wonder whether what he and Jordan experienced was in fact true or just a dream. No, it was true. They had actually met Jose De La Cruz in person. He had shown them around – he and Jordan were his personal guests. Brad remembered the clinic. He involuntarily smiled in his bed. He remembered the grateful looks of the disadvantaged kids he trained that afternoon, now a couple of days ago but seemingly a couple of hours ago. His heart warmed as he replayed back in his mind the events of that occasion. The faces of the boys and girls reappeared, their shrieks of delight re-heard each time they hit a ball.