Home Run

by Dave Lawrence

  Jordan’s typical spark was absent, but Brad could tell something had given him some sort of revival. Jordan’s next words revealed what that was. “My parents are taking me overseas for two weeks.”

  “What?” Brad cried.

  “My mother came to Rod’s place soon after you left. She hugged me,” Jordan stammered, fighting to stop an outbreak of tears. “She apologised and begged me to come home.” Jordan paused to resist the tears that threatened to overtake him in the library. “She said she won’t be like that any more. Dad was there. They said we should go on a family holiday.” Jordan’s defences caved in. He covered his face and wept, drawing attention from a handful of students milling about in the library. Brad placed his arm on Jordan’s shoulder and shielded him as much as he could. When Jordan didn’t stop, Brad led him into one of the vacated audio rooms.

  “That’s fantastic, Jordan.”

  He nodded, his eyes red and watery, his nose runny. “It’s something, isn’t it, Braddo?”

  “Yeah. When are you going?” Brad struggled to grasp the rapid change in Jordan’s family situation. At least his parents were taking some responsibility. A holiday could be the best thing to take his mind off the bad news about the Yankees. “When are you going?”

  “In four days.” Brad’s jaw dropped. “We’re going to game reserves and safaris in Africa. Then we’re making our way north to see the pyramids in Egypt.” Jordan’s parents were never overly concerned about his academic progress. The amount of school Jordan had missed over the years probably added up to a year.

  When the final bell rang later that day, Brad’s desolation followed him home. It would be at least an hour before his parents returned. Baseball season was over and Jordan was busy preparing for his overseas trip. Why had the Yankees contacted Jordan and not Brad? What a strange thing for Jose to give Jordan. Surely he didn’t do that for everyone? When would the Yankees be contacting him? At that moment, the home phone rang. Otto told Brad not to leave. Rex Jones and Rod Sullivan would be coming over that afternoon at 5.30pm. Brad felt sick. Butterflies the size of birds fluttered in his stomach. He meandered aimlessly, not able to keep still for a second. He called Jordan. After an interminable wait, Sylvia came home, quickly followed by Otto. Soon afterwards Rod arrived, then Rex.

  After the pleasantries and offer of drinks, Rex Jones offered Brad Newton a contract. Brad signed it, the youngest Australian to be drafred by the New York Yankees. Otto and Sylvia squealed with delight. They jumped up and down. They hugged each other. They hugged Rod and shook Rex’s hand. Rod congratulated Brad warmly. Otto and Sylvia broke out the bottle of French champagne they bought two years ago for just such an occasion. So, Brad told himself, it’s happened. His dreams were materialising. Brad said nothing, the immensity of the occasion speaking for itself. Drafted by the New York Yankees. He would begin in the minor leagues, the equivalent of the fifth tier down from the majors. In the second year, depending on how he went, he would jump two or three tiers and maybe play a game or two in the majors at the end of the season. The hope is that by nineteen years of age he would get rookie of the year. How many times had Brad dreamed of this happening? How many promises had he and Jordan made to each other for this moment to happen? How often had Brad imagined this precise event, playing it over and over in his mind, and now here it was, before his very eyes, in his very own living room.

  After Rod Sullivan and Rex Jones shut the door behind them, Otto and Sylvia pounced on their son. Brad had never seen them so excited. They wildly jumped into the air, running around the lounge screaming, bumping into furniture, pushing it over, throwing their heads back and howling at the moon. They punched the air in a victory salute and spun around till they were dizzy and dropped to the floor. Brad laughed at how ridiculous they looked. The elation that began deep inside him didn’t overwhelm him with happiness, for some strange reason. Brad imagined that would come later. Everything he ever worked for – all the extra effort, the hard work, the clinics, the strength and flexibility training, the early mornings and the weekends, the perseverance, the skills training and the countless extra hours he and Jordan put in to be the best – all lead to this. Brad thought of Jordan and his heart sank. The plan had always been that the two of them would play together for the New York Yankees. They would share an apartment in New York the moment they legally could, and go to the games together in their fancy car. Then, when they were eighteen and the “no girls” clause was no longer in force they would find the best-looking supermodels and woo them in the bright lights of New York City.

  The reality struck Brad that unless Jordan came to America, they would be separated. They had played in the same school and baseball teams since they were seven years old. That made nine years. In their innumerable conversations about all the permutations of what could happen with either of their careers, one outcome was that if one was drafted to the American majors, the other would try to get into the college league and aim for the majors from there. Jordan would come over. Hank would organise it in no time. Although now that things may be changing in his family, he may want to stay in Australia. That was not comforting. Brad felt in two minds – to call Jordan or not. On the one hand, Jordan had the right and would want to know, but on the other hand, it would be extremely hurtful for him. Brad never believed for a moment Jordan would resent him for it, he wasn’t that sort of guy. But it would still hurt. Meanwhile, Otto and Sylvia pulled out their folder with information supplied by Rod detailing schools, accommodation and other practicalities. In the end, Brad went to bed deciding he’d tell Jordan when he came back from his holidays so as not spoil them. He swore his parents to secrecy. He’d already asked Rod not to say anything, and Rod could be trusted.

  Three days later Jordan knocked on the door wearing his Yankees cap, fist clenched and knuckles pointing out. Brad gently punched, knuckle to knuckle. A big smile lit Jordan’s face. “Congratulations, Braddo. You did it.”

  “How did you know?”

  “The old man found out. I’m so proud of you.” Jordan hugged Brad tightly, slapping his back forcefully. “You did it, Braddo. I can’t believe it.” Brad nodded and smiled weakly, wishing for all the world that Jordan had the same news. “Gotta go. We’re off to the airport. See you in two weeks.”

  Jordan bounded across the street and hopped into the car. Hank made a token wave before the tinted window lifted, but not before Brad noticed the stylishly made up face of Jessica Tory sitting in the passenger seat beside her husband. Brad waved. It was the last time he was to see his best friend alive.

  Throughout that week Brad received irregular Facebook updates of Jordan’s progress, firstly in South Africa and then Kenya. Spectacular shots of elephants, lions, hippos, wildebeest and crocodiles posted on his page accompanied funny anecdotes of small disasters and typically Jordanesque incidents. Brad was still smouldering at the way his parents treated Jordan, especially because it was Brad who got the good news and Jordan the bad, rather than the other way around, which is what his stupid parents suspected. So Brad deliberately withheld all news from Jordan.

  “Braddo,” wrote Jordan on Facebook, “remember those guys Jose introduced us to in the slums, that Latino priest with the funny nose and the other guy, Terry? Remember that weird moment when they suddenly blessed us there and then in that dingy room? Guess what? I’ve been praying that prayer to God about twenty times a day. If there’s more to life than baseball, I want to know what it is. I want to know what all these people have – your Aunty, that incredible guy we met at the ecumenical procession, Jose and his two friends. They’ve got something special, and I want it. What have I got to lose? If God loves me, I want to feel it, Braddo. Next stop – Cairo and the pyramids. Take care.”

  For every photo posted of a wild elephant, five more photos of Jordan with both arms around his parents’ neck appeared. For every crocodile, Jordan posted five more of him and his parents in the ferry on the Zambezi. For every picture of a native African, Jordan posted five of
him eating or walking with his parents. Brad smiled broadly. Jordan was making up for lost time. For once he was the centre of his parent’s attention. Brad had to hand it to them, they were lifting their game at the moment it counted. He’d never seen Jordan so happy in all his life. What a shame he wasn’t there to share it with him. Maybe I should pray for it to last? Brad made a silent prayer to God, if God existed, that Jordan’s parents would be like this always. Brad knew it was not the African savannah, the safaris, game reserves, wild animals or exotic countries that Jordan was enjoying, it was his parents’ attention.

  That Sunday afternoon Brad returned from the gym on his bicycle. The overcast weather signalled rain and the clouds looked bleak, so Brad rode as fast as he could to beat the downpour. Moments before the clouds burst and the raindrops pelted their tiled roof, Brad secured his bike in the garage and made his way inside where his parents were sitting on the couch watching the news. Without taking much notice, Brad walked past on his way to the shower when both his parents leaned forward and strained their ears. Carnage appeared on the TV, with sirens blaring against a black sky and bloodied bodies ravaged amid debris and fires. Across the bottom of the screen Brad read: Cairo, Egypt: Coptic Church bombed. 16 dead 35 wounded. Brad jumped over the coffee table and stood by the television, straining to hear the foreign correspondent reporting from the scene

  “... deadliest bomb blast in months targeting a Coptic Church in Cairo 6.30pm local time. At least sixteen people were killed and thirtyfive wounded, many critically. It appears Islamic militants detonated the bomb in the middle of the Saturday night vigil Mass in order to foment unrest in a country torn by protests since the Arab Spring began two years ago. The Egyptian authorities have condemned the attack and sworn to bring the perpetrators to justice. In the meantime, Australia’s ambassador to Egypt has confirmed the deaths of two Australians.” Just before the screen cut to the Australian ambassador, Brad thought he noticed, in front of the screaming ambulance, a bloodied and partly lacerated New York Yankees cap. A chill ran down Brad’s spine.

  “What..?” Otto began.

  “Quiet,” shouted Brad, his eyes glued to the image of the ambassador.

  “Tragically, it has been confirmed that two Australians instantly died in the bomb blast this evening. A third is in a critical condition ...” Brad panicked. Jordan was in Cairo. It was not unlikely he would have taken his parents to a Church given his recent interest in Christianity. In fact, that’s exactly the sort of thing Jordan would do. Brad’s throat constricted and he almost threw up. This could not be. It simply couldn’t be.

  Otto grabbed Brad’s arm in a panic. “What’s the matter, Brad?”

  “Jordan’s in Cairo. He could be dead.” Brad’s knees almost gave way as the shock struck him like a baseball bat on the head. Dazed, he sat down, his mother holding him. The three of them watched the television but the news had cut to a different story.

  “What are the chances?” Otto said.

  “I think I saw his baseball cap,” Brad whispered, voice barely audible.

  “No, Brad,” Otto countered, “you couldn’t have. We’ll give them a call. Then you’ll see.” Otto went to the phone and dialled Hank’s number. The call went through the mandatory beeps straight to voicemail. Brad dialled Jordan’s number. No answer. Brad shook his head, his face drained of all colour. A crack in the impregnable fortress of his death-free existence threatened to open. This was a blow he was not prepared to take.

  “I have to know he’s all right.” Brad dialled Jordan again, then Hank’s number. Voicemail both times. No-one had Jessica’s number. “The embassy! Call the embassy in Cairo,” Brad shouted.

  “Brad, calm down,” Otto suggested calmly. “It’s not possible. Jordan doesn’t go to churches.”

  “Shows you much you know,” Brad spat back, taking his worry out on his father. “Call the embassy.”

  Otto retrieved the phone book, unsure of where to find their number. Sylvia took out her phone and searched for the number in Canberra.

  “Everything’ll be closed,” Otto said. “It’s Sunday. Brad, this would have happened on Saturday night. How could it possibly be Jordan? What would he be doing at a church in Cairo on Saturday night?”

  With nothing else to do, Brad showered, changed and jumped online to find out more information. The internet revealed nothing that identified the murdered Australians. The following day at every opportunity he checked the news on his mobile, twice having his phone confiscated then returned at the end of the period when he explained what he was doing. After school Brad raced home and called the embassy. The voice on the other side of the line confirmed the names of the deceased, a mother and son, Jessica and Jordan Tory. The father, Hank Tory was still in a critical condition in a Cairo hospital.

  Brad dropped the phone. The room spun. Blackness descended. The worst nightmare possible had just come true. Days before, the best possible news elevated Brad to levels of unimaginable excitement. Now this. Jordan, dead. It could not be possible. It’s too sudden. Too drastic. Too forever. They had a life planned. They had girls to meet and go on double dates with. They had home runs to hit and games to pitch in the American majors. The world was theirs to conquer and enjoy. They didn’t...Brad checked himself. But Jordan hadn’t even left school. Brad screamed. This was not fair. Jordan wasn’t even in Grade 12. Life was not fair! A million thoughts coursed through Brad’s mind, thoughts about Jordan finally going on a family holiday, thoughts about their local baseball club and who the new shortstop would be, thoughts about Jordan always sticking up for the underdog, thoughts about Jordan’s legendary reflexes.

  Brad raced into his room and jumped on the bed. He held his head in his hands and shut his eyes tight, as though he could deny the reality by closing his eyes and wishing it away. Emptiness bore into him, like a cavernous underground cave with nothing in it but dry air and dead leaves. Life as he knew it was over. And it was over in every way for Jordan. And why? Who were these cowardly murderers who let off bombs in churches, killing innocent people? What gutless cowards would do such a thing? Brad wanted to rip them apart with his bare hands, to smash them against a rock until they were as dead as Jordan. Could the embassy have made a mistake? Could they have mixed up the identities? Maybe it wasn’t Jordan after all. Brad raced back, replaced the receiver and dialled the embassy in Cairo again. “It’s me again, Brad Newton from Australia. I called just before...Are you sure it’s Jordan Tory from Melbourne? How can you be sure?” There followed an explanation of the process. The gory details of identifying corpses through passports and databases left Brad icy cold. Again he dropped the phone, as if failing to replace it properly left some hope that Jordan was still alive. Should he fly to Cairo and be sure? Should he contact Hank Tory in hospital and get him to confirm it was in fact Jordan and Jessica?

  Monday, 4.30pm, the moment Brad’s world ended. How dare these cowardly worms do this to him, to Jordan and his mum and all those innocent people? How dare they? What did they hope to achieve? Where did such hatred and disregard for innocence and justice originate? What kind of monsters murdered Jordan, an innocent sixteen year old who never harmed them in any way? Jordan raced back to his bedroom and cried for his friend, for all his hopes left floating into nothing, for dreams that never came true, for not making the New York Yankees before he was ripped from life. His back to his wardrobe and his head on his knees, Brad cried like a baby, his inconsolable tears streaming down his iron-like wrists. “Jordan,” he whispered in between sobs, “I love you.” Again the reality of never seeing his best friend again and the circumstances of his death sent Brad flailing into a chute of despair from which he could not see himself recovering.

  Watching the news later that evening with his parents, Sylvia’s screams and Otto’s curses fell on deaf ears as Jordan’s smiling passport face appeared on the screen, followed by the glamorous shots of Jessica Tory, including one of her as a teenager in a bikini. A longer than usual segment on the news was dedicate
d to the tragedy, undoubtedly inspired by Jessica’s looks. Hank got a mention, but no photos. An Egyptian woman who spoke English was interviewed, “... this killing of Christians in Egypt keeps happening year after year. No-one does anything. The international community must do something ...” A government official spoke in Arabic, the news station providing the English translation: “... and these terrorists will be brought to justice. We will not allow these extremists to derail the stability of the new government ...” There followed the typical spiel associated with the Arab Spring and Tehrir Square. The news reader proceeded to the next topic which failed to register with Brad, preoccupied as he was with wondering how they could skip from Jordan’s death to the next subject as though Jordan was nothing more than an insignificant fly, already forgotten and succeeded by the next story.

  At midnight, Brad still hadn’t moved from his spot in his bedroom floor. His knew he must be hungry but he couldn’t eat. Sylvia slunk in, no doubt noticing the light under his door. Without looking up, Brad recommenced the tears that hadn’t stopped that night. The reality dawned on him with greater and greater clarity as the evening wore on, aided by a horribly terrifying silence. Jordan was never, ever, ever, ever going to come back. Brad burst into a new fit of sobs, and couldn’t stop, despite himself. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, even his mother. But there was nothing he could do to arrest the waves of brutal reality that refused to be deflected or dulled. “If they were here I’d kill them. I’d kill every one of those cowardly bastards.” Sylvia knelt down, scooping her son’s head in her arms and stroking his ruffled hair. Brad continued to sob. He could do nothing else. An image of Jordan’s smiling, cheeky face appeared, partly hidden by the shortstop face mask. He winked at Brad, their mutual understanding comparable to cricket’s Lillee and Marsh, basketball’s Jordan and Pippin, American football’s Montana and Rice. They would have achieved greatness together, a legendary greatness. Pain crashed into Brad’s brain and pierced his heart, physically hurting him to the point of forcing him to cry out aloud. He grabbed his chest. Sylvia pulled him to her tightly. “I’m so sorry, love.” Is that all you can say, Brad thought to himself? Is that all you can offer? What good is that?