Otto suddenly bustled into the room in a state of agitation. Sylvia closely followed. “Brad, get up. We need to talk.” Brad sat up, convinced this was yet another useless bit of panicking over some bit of hearsay connected with his baseball career. “What?” he moaned.
“That was Rod. He asked if the Area Scout, whatshisname, had been in contact. I said no. Apparently he’s left a message with Hank who called back but got no answer. Check your mobile.”
Sensing there could be some genuine cause for checking his phone, Brad grabbed it off his bedside table and turned it on. “When did Hank get the call?”
Otto’s eyes blazed. “Apparently some time today. I basically hung up on Rod and told him I’d call back. Hurry, damn it. Did he call?” Otto’s words echoed his wife’s questions, her anxiety coursing through her veins, her body language screaming with a combination of dread and anticipation. They all but turned Brad’s phone on for him, crowding in on his space, aware of nothing but the digital beep that indicated the awakening of the device that held what could be life-changing news.
“Hurry!” Sylvia squeaked.
“Hang on!” Brad growled. “Give me some space already. What did Hank’s message say?”
“I don’t give a flying...what Hank’s message said!” Otto boomed. The expletive was drowned by Jordan’s yell as he snubbed his toe on the door in his hurry to get into the room.
“What’s happening?”
The desperation in Otto’s voice matched the swollen vein in his forehead. “None of your business,” Otto snapped, almost beside himself. “Now get out. This is private.” Otto grabbed Brad’s phone and checked the text messages. “What the...? There’s nothing. Check the voice message!”
Brad buried himself deeper into the mattress. “Dad, calm down. You’re psycho.” Brad dialled to check the messages, in the meantime looking at Jordan who stood dumbfounded in the doorway. Otto brushed past Sylvia and slammed the door in Jordan’s face.
Brad jumped out of bed. “Dad, what the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Just listen to your messages.”
“I’ve got twelve. I’ve been in the US, remember.”
“Listen to them. Is there anything from that...you know...” Otto had clearly lost the plot. His brain didn’t function, spewing out a riot of expletives and incoherent commands. Sylvia’s feminine instincts to comfort Jordan fought her loyalty to Otto and her own manic desire to hear whether Mr Rex Jones, Area Scout for the New York Yankees baseball club, had called. Jordan lost out.
“Hurry up, damn it!” Otto roared.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Brad snapped. Message after irrelevant message filled Brad’s ears until finally no messages remained. “Nothing.”
Otto’s eyes bulged almost out of their sockets. The veins on his forehead and down the side of his neck tripled in size, like blue earthworms. He involuntarily wheezed. Brad could have sworn smoke came out of his ears, reminding him of the smoke that came out of the Vatican chimney the day they elected Francis I. Otto used every profanity his vocabulary allowed. In sympathy, Sylvia silently voiced each one, not daring to rub her husband’s neck, wound as tightly as a heavy-duty rat trap. Finally Otto stormed out, followed by Sylvia. Confused and unsure of what to do or where to go, Jordan stood immobile in the corridor.
Otto turned on him. “You bastard. Why did you get the call and not Brad, hey? Answer me that, you miserable leech. You’re a good for nothing freeloader, you know that? Brad is twice the baseball player you’ll ever be.” Jordan stood there, confusion and uncertainty written all over his face.
Brad thought of a boxer sitting in his corner king hit from one of his own trainers. He bolted to the threshold of his bedroom door and stood beside Jordan. “Dad, what the hell is the matter with you? Why are you talking to Jordan like that?”
“Shut up, you idiot! Don’t you know he’s your opponent? He always has been. Can’t you see that?”
“What sort of rubbish is that? We make each other better. We always have. Besides, he’s my best friend. I don’t care if he’s got the call and I don’t. Good for him, he deserves it. I’ll get my call later. Being a bastard to Jordan, that makes sense. Yeah, that’s the way to go. What the hell are you trying to prove?”
Jordan re-entered the guest bedroom while Otto, followed by Sylvia, raced to the phone and furiously dialled. “Hank, it’s Otto. Please call asap.” Otto replaced the receiver and dialled again. He burst into a new wave of expletives. “I was just on the phone to him. Who the hell is he on the phone to now?”
Relief at hearing his rampant father couldn’t do any damage to people who weren’t answering their calls, Brad entered the guest bedroom. Jordan held his mobile to his ear with one hand and was awkwardly getting into his jeans with the other. Brad frowned, observing Jordan, not sure what to do. “Rod, you need to come and get me. Now! I don’t care...I don’t care...I don’t care. Just for a few days. I’ll work out what to do later. Now...yes.” Jordan hung up. He pulled on his jeans. “Braddo, your old man’s gone psycho.”
“I know. He reckons you’re getting a contract and I’m not. He’s nuts with disappointment and jealousy. I don’t care. You deserve it.”
“You’re the best mate a guy could want but you know what? They won’t be offering me a contract. I’ll tell you that right now.” Brad stood in the doorway as Jordan quickly stuffed his pyjamas into his bag. Brad’s expression expressed his calmness despite the tension. As always, Jordan saw in Brad’s serenity the need to wait and see without making hasty decisions or coming to false conclusions. That’s why Brad was in the elite category, that’s why he could turn games around. His strategies weren’t emotional; he just seemed to be able to read the play and read the opposition and turn everything to his psychological advantage. Jordan had called Rod to stay at his place. Rod and his wife always made him welcome. Jordan needed support right now. The cavernous emptiness of his parent’s Toorak mansion was the second last place on earth Jordan wanted to be at that moment. The last place, of course, was Otto and Sylvia’s.
Brad grabbed Jordan’s second bag as they walked down the corridor and through the lounge. Otto and Sylvia stood by the phone sheepishly observing the pair. “Otto’s a little upset,” Sylvia whispered feebly, by way of explanation or apology. They continued walking and closed the front door behind them. The cold Melbourne air banished all fatigue from Brad. Adrenalin pumped through his veins at the inexplicable reaction of his parents. His mind was clear and he was angry. “Want me to come, too?” Jordan shook his head, leading the pair of them up the road in the direction Jordan knew Rod would come. Just then Jordan’s phone rang. It was at his ear before the second ring. Brad silently mouthed the word “Moose” and smiled weakly at Jordan. It was yet another method Jordan sought to sharpen his reflexes. The voice sounded like Hank Tory but Brad wasn’t sure until Jordan’s expression changed to that hardened disinterest his father seemed to evoke in him. Jordan listened for a while, then explained he was going to Rod’s for a few days. The next interaction seemed to be Hank wanting to come and pick him up and Jordan refusing. Hank appeared to have submitted to Jordan’s inflexible demands to meet at Rod’s in half an hour.
“Apparently it’s bad news. My father wants to see me urgently. Stuff it! He can see me at Rod’s. Rod’s more of a father to me than he’ll ever be. You can come if you want.” That was Brad’s cue. Such comments from Jordan betrayed a high level of vulnerability. The spring that seemed to coil tighter and tighter in recent times suddenly had the potential to reach breaking point. It was put on hold in the United States. If Hank’s news was that Jordan wasn’t getting a contract, after having tasted everything they dreamed of and which appeared within their fingertips, it would be a crushing blow. It didn’t bear thinking about. Maybe Brad would get the same call. Maybe his dad was on the phone hearing the news right now, and ripping the phone out of its socket as the hopes of his lifetime were dashed in a moment. But Brad was more concerned about his f
riend. Being kicked out of what had become the closest thing to home apart from the baseball club was not good timing if the dreams of Jordan’s lifetime were being dashed against the rocks on the same night. Brad had often wondered at the emotional resilience of his friend, but everyone had a breaking point. There’s no way Brad would leave Jordan until things were stable. He checked his ringing mobile and ignored the call.
Half an hour later, sitting in Rod’s living room, the first bomb exploded. Jordan’s face turned deathly white. Rex Jones had called Hank and delivered the bad news. Jordan was an exceptionally talented baseball player, but he was not getting drafted with the team of his dreams. Hank questioned further, asking if possibly next year was possible. No! Apparently they’d picked up a couple of South Americans, some young phenoms from Venezuela and Mexico. Their budget was limited, Hank explained. “There’s always another club, son,” Hank offered, his habitually confident voice hollow and shaky.
Brad numbly observed Hank floundering about how to comfort Jordan. He was failing miserably, no doubt deepening the wound of Jordan’s rejection. Rod stood up and slammed his palm into his forehead. He held his head in both hands in a gesture of helplessness. His heart bled for Jordan. Brad sat in a stupefied daze. What do you say to your best friend when he’s just been given the worst news of his life, when his dreams are shattered before your very eyes, in a totally unexpected moment when the electric excitement of the dream had been shoved in your face for seven long, uninterrupted days? It was more than cruel. It was sadistic. It was unspeakably sadistic. And here Jordan was, a dagger driven mercilessly through his heart, sitting deathly silent and white, all colour and life driven from his face, a face normally so cheeky and adventurous.
“I know just the thing to take your mind off this crappy bit of news, Jordan,” Hank said, springing up onto his feet as though his positive act and tone could efface the pain and make everything good. “Come, let’s go. We’ll discuss my idea with you at home.” Jordan didn’t move. His eyes stared ahead, not blinking or moving. After a moment, Jordan shook his head with the tiniest motion, only barely moving his head from side to side. “Come on, Jordan, snap out of it. I know just the solution for you.” Jordan repeated his tiny shaking of the head, staring ahead blankly. Rod watched on helplessly, for all the world wanting to tell Hank to piss off, but not daring to overstep his role as coach.
“Mr Tory,” Brad tactfully suggested, ignoring his ringing mobile, “I reckon we should let Jordan stay here tonight.” Brad’s soothing tone and his broad shoulders and muscular chest seemed to inspire the credibility required to convince Hank to allow Jordan to stay. Mr Tory kicked his son’s bag in frustration and slammed the door on his way out, seemingly setting off the landline in the kitchen, which rang loudly. “Leave it, Rod, it’ll be my parents.”
Rod Sullivan threw up his hands in frustration, as if the gesture could free him from the tangled web he was getting himself into involving his two star baseball players and their parents. “Stay here, Brad,” Rod ordered, his eyes fixed intently on Jordan. He stole a glance at Brad and threw his eyes in Jordan’s direction to make sure Brad kept his eye on his vulnerable friend. Rod quickly left the room. He returned moments later carrying a New York Yankees baseball cap. Brad had never seen Rod so shaken, as though he was about to break down. Brad didn’t blame him. If the news wasn’t so totally unexpected and devastating, Brad reckoned he’d be balling his eyes out himself. The fact that Jordan stared straight ahead and didn’t move caused Brad serious concern. Rod’s wife entered the room. She kissed Jordan on the cheek and left.
Rod stood before Jordan with the cap. “Moose, this is a gift from Jose De La Cruz.”
Jordan shot a quizzical gaze at Rod, a frown creasing his forehead, his thick black hair partly dishevelled. “On the morning of our flight back Jose came into the meeting and told me to give you this if you didn’t get drafted. He signed it! Look!” Rod clenched his jaws tightly to stop himself breaking down as he handed Jordan the cap. Jordan reached out and took it, almost reverentially, and checked the inside.
Dear Jordan,
Rule one: Train hard
Rule two: Train harder
Rule three: No drugs, no booze, no girls
Rule four: Life is more than baseball
God bless you mi amigo,
Jose De La Cruz
This was the final straw for Jordan. Suddenly his powerful shoulders flinched as he broke down. Four years since Brad saw Jordan cry. Brad knew Jordan had wanted to many times over, but simply kept suppressing the tears. The latest combination of events proved too much for the young boy not quite on the threshold of manhood, but no longer a child. Jordan sobbed, his hands holding the rim of the cap that represented the brutal shattering of his lifelong dream of playing baseball for the New York Yankees with his best mate Brad. This dream was no longer alive, but dead, and the sobbing became more heartbreaking. Brad fell on his knees, his eyes watering. He couldn’t hug Jordan who was still sitting on the couch, tears streaming down his face. Rod placed his arm over Jordan’s shoulder as he sat beside him on the coach. With his other arm he held Jordan’s bulging bicep, the quivering in Jordan’s body forcing the tears to stream down the coach’s face as well.
Jordan’s pain struck Brad and Rod in the chest. Jordan dropped the cap in his lap and covered his face with his hands. Brad raced to the toilet and returned with a handful of toilet paper for Jordan to wipe his face, which by now was dripping and wet. “I hate them,” Jordan cried. “They’ve never loved me. I’m nothing to them.” Brad didn’t know what to say. “I’ve got no-one and now I’ve got nothing. They don’t want to sign me up.” Jordan’s entire body convulsed from his gripping sobs, the sound breaking Brad’s heart.
Brad’s tears streamed down his face. He tried to control himself but couldn’t. “You’ve got us, Jordan.” But Brad knew how empty his words would have sounded to Jordan. The evidence was clear; his parents gave him everything except what he needed, their presence and love. There was no reason they couldn’t give him an abundance of both, Brad thought. They were horrible people and had no right to be parents. Why did Rod take them to New York unless he was sure they’d be signed up? In retrospect he shouldn’t have done it. Even Brad’s stupid parents didn’t think they should go. And exactly how good were these South American phenoms? Surely in time Jordan would be a better draft pick. But Brad cut himself short. It was no use thinking like this. It is what it is, and that’s how life dished stuff out. So what if the New York Yankees rejected them? Brad had to accept it. They hadn’t told him yet, but they would. How could he and Jordan have convinced themselves they were next in line for the Yankees? How could they let their imaginations run so wild as to actually think it was going to happen? They were only sixteen, for crying out aloud. They were nobodies from Australia.
But Brad’s more immediate concern was the heart-wrenching sight of his best friend. Jordan’s body shuddered from the sobs that wouldn’t stop. His world had ended, had come crashing down before his very eyes. Brad ignored his persistent phone. He held on to Jordan’s arm and leg, sitting on the floor by the couch. Brad had some idea of the pain Jordan was experiencing, but only as far as his broken baseball dreams went. The depth of his emotional pain at the neglect of his parents would be another layer of torment altogether. Combined, Jordan’s pain and hopelessness could lead down dangerous paths. Rod and Brad were concerned about what Jordan could do. He could not be left alone.
Rod’s home phone rang again. Rod’s wife answered the phone. “Yes, Otto, he’s here. No, I can’t drop him off. Yes, you can come and pick him up.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Brad said simply.
“Well, you have to,” Rod replied.
“At least you’ve got a home,” Jordan said, his tears slowly subsiding.
“It’s your home, too.”
“Not any more. I’ve never had a home.”
Rod pulled Jordan to him tightly. “Today, Moose, this is your ho
me. We’ll get through this.”
Brad nodded. “Jordan, we’ll get through this together.” Little was Brad to know, but the second bomb, more devastating and fatal than the first, was yet to detonate in his best friend’s life.
Chapter Seven
Predictably, irrepressible Jordan rocked up to school the following day, dropped off by Mrs Sullivan on her way to work. Via their mobiles, Brad suggested to Jordan they meet at the library. Under the circumstances, he felt it was best not to meet on the ovals for a light practice session as they usually did before school. Both boys sported giant black rings under their eyes. Neither had had a decent night sleep since before they left for New York, and last night only sheer fatigue eventually defeated the sorrow of the day and sent them into a dull forgetfulness till they woke the following morning.
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