“When I first met you and Jordan, I felt a surge of hope, like the whole world was just waiting for me. I felt I could fly away from the prison of my life. With you I feel excited, like I never have before. You’re beautiful, and very handsome, but that’s not it. It’s something more. I don’t know what it is. I feel alive.” Azra’s lips extended their full length. In a fit of uninhibited carelessness, she revelled in the heady excitement of this forbidden meeting. “I’m going to be a doctor. I want to work for Medecins Sans Frontiers or some other NGO. I’m going to help disadvantaged and poverty-stricken kids. I’m going to do something worthwhile. I don’t want to marry a boring old doctor twenty years my senior and be treated like a slave every day of my life.”
Brad burst out laughing. “I’m going to be a professional baseball player. Do you think that’s selfish?”
“Javed says you’ll never make it. He’s jealous, though. He believes an unbeliever has no right to be a better baseball player than a good Muslim.” She laughed. Their pupils locked in a metaphysical embrace.
Brad checked the time. “I want to see you again.” “How?” “Your next music practice?” “Next week.” “Too far away. Can I call you?” “Father checks all my ingoing and outgoing calls. The bill goes to his office.” “I can get you a secret phone.” “Won’t work, he’ll find it.” “How about weekends?” “I’m going to America,” Azra said simply. Brad sat bolt upright. “America?”
“Yes. After VCE I’m flying to New York. I have an aunt who disagrees with everything my father stands for. She knows what I’m going through. I’ll stay with her. I’ve already enrolled at the university. I have my passport. Simply organising these simple things in secret would qualify me to work at ASIO or the CIA. So, Brad, it’s not possible. We may as well forget it. But thank you! I’ll never forget you! I have to go. Don’t tell Javed, or anyone. See how much I trust you?” She left.
Brad sat in the booth for half an hour, replaying back in his mind every word, every gesture, every inflection, tone and movement between them. In what was becoming a habit, life became a blur, being played out in slow motion before him like a movie. The images from the news appeared before him, images of the ambulance, the wreckage, the woman demanding that the killing of Christians should stop, the government official speaking Arabic; images of Jordan’s smiling face wearing his New York Yankees cap given by Jose De La Cruz, the cap that Brad was sure he could see covered in blood in the corner of the TV screen when a photojournalist aimed his camera at the devastating aftermath of the church bombing. More images appeared of Jessica Newton, firstly as a manicured bust sitting next to Hank just before they drove off to the airport, then on the TV screen, her smiling face and wavy, blond hair accustomed to be looked at; then images of her in a bikini. The hazy external blur droned on in slow motion, bombarding Brad with more images – images of Jose De La Cruz and his priest and pastor friend in the slums of New York, smiling and praying over him, Jordan and Rod; images of the training session with the New York Yankees and Brad being hit out of the park; images of smiling Latino kids and white eyes set in black faces, boys and girls, loving the baseball drills session, loving the attention and the thrill of a hit; images of Azra and Javed exchanging heated words in Urdu under the change-room lights before the exhibition match with their Japanese counterparts. His aunt appeared in her loose fitting dresses, smiling, singing – testifying to her joy and the faith that makes her unmarried life fulfilling, a juxtaposition to the married, unfulfilling life of Jordan’s parents; the merging of his and Azra’s desires to be free from their parents, although Brad loved and respected his parents at the same time realising their one dimensional life was centred around baseball and himself – outside of that nothing existed or held any value. Jose’s words floated in and broke the surface of a large subterranean lake flooding the baseball universe – “there’s more to life than baseball”. The question hung from the moon: When does the ‘no girls’ section of the philosophy end? Because Azra was eighteen, did that mean the ‘no girls’ part was obsolete? Maybe, Brad realised for the first time in his life, there was more to life than baseball? How weird, to have that thought the very moment his ultimate dream was about to become reality. If there was more to life than baseball, what was that “more”? Is it true what Aunt Shirley says, that only God can truly satisfy the human heart? Maybe he should take a leaf out of Jordan’s book and start saying that prayer Jose’s friends taught them. Okay, God, if you’re out there, I’d like to know who you are. His reverie was shattered when the waiter politely but firmly asked Brad to leave.
Chapter Nine
As expected, his parents left messages all day, threatening to release a missing persons notice. Brad texted back saying he was at a friend’s house. Gran was surely targeted for a visit that night if they didn’t hear from him. His text would put them off the scent. To play it safe, Brad decided to return later in the evening. That meant he had time to kill. This was almost the first time in his life he could think of where he could use the expression “time to kill.” Invariably, if he wasn’t at school or doing the everyday things of life, he was playing or practicing baseball, always with Jordan. Jordan, Brad whispered to the sky, are you still somewhere? Is there life after death, as Aunty Shirley says? Have you met God yet? I miss you so much. Can you hear me? God, if you are real, can I see Jordan again? Silence, except the noisy school kids chirping with the humming and bumping of the train. The longing for Jordan weighed more heavily now that his days were empty. Never in his life had he spent so long without a baseball in his hand. Never in his life had baseball held so little meaning. At the end of the day, what really was life about?
Aunt Shirley picked him up from the train station and took him to a hamburger joint for dinner, his first bite since breakfast. Shirley described the look on Otto’s face when he and Sylvia rocked up looking for Brad. “He was black with rage and worry. I’ve never seen him like that in all my life. I laughed. Not to be mean, of course. I told him not to worry, that this was your way of coping with the grief. He warned me to tell him if I knew where you were. As if.” Brad interrupted. His desperate ache for Jordan inspired him to ask his Aunt whether her religion could make that happen. She shook her head. “We’ll trust him to the infinite mercy of God. Jordan’s in good hands.” Brad confided in his aunt his desire to know what the meaning of life was. She smiled. “Love God and love others. Use the gifts God has given you to enjoy life, serve others and do the right thing. It’s the simplest, most practical, most fulfilling doctrine known to humanity. Christians believe Jesus is God who came among people to show us God’s love and gather us into our heavenly home for eternity. That’s good news, sonny Jim, and that’s what I’m talking about. Christianity isn’t about doctrines and laws, it’s an encounter with Jesus, and this encounter changes you forever. This relationship he wants for everyone. That’s you, too, young Bradley and it brings joy, peace and love; within the soul and between people. Amen.”
Brad smiled at his aunt’s enthusiasm and commitment to her Christian faith. This was all well and good, but there were many religions, philosophies and belief systems out there, some not even acknowledging God. Who says Shirley is right? She may be misguided. Good-intentioned and sincere, no doubt, but not all religions and belief systems can be right. Some outrightly contradict each other, as far as he could tell. But if all these adults who were so much older, smarter and wiser than him couldn’t agree, how could he know for sure which was right? These are the thoughts he expressed to Aunt Shirley who laughed. She applauded Brad for his honesty and told Brad that in the final analysis, all a person can do is go on a sincere quest for the truth. The good news from Christianity’s perspective is that if Jesus is who He says he is, a person who seeks will find, a person who asks, will receive, a person who knocks on the door will have the door opened. Jesus promised to send his Holy Spirit to guide people into the fullness of life and truth. It makes sense, too, Aunt Shirley explained, because if God wants us
to have a relationship with him and know his love, he needs to reveal it, and reveal it he has in the teachings of the church and the Bible.
Brad countered his aunt’s view by saying Christians believe lots of different things. Christianity has been responsible for lots of bad things, now and in the past. Shirley agreed, saying Christians were people, after all, and subject to all the weaknesses and evils of the world just like everybody else. But Christianity was also responsible for more loving and goodness in the world than any other group of people, in her view. “Bradley, these are exciting questions you’re asking. They will lead to God. But you need to find him for yourself. Don’t take my word for it.”
Brad suddenly needed fresh air. Shirley dropped him off at Gran’s. Brad picked up his training gear before Shirley dropped him off at his regular indoor stadium where he and Jordan spent so many hours. He hired one section setting up the nets around the plate, measuring the distance before setting up the temporary mound. A padded wooden target had been specially made for him. Brad set it up behind the mound. Large bucket of balls placed by his feet, Brad pitched, pitched, pitched, pitched; fastballs, sinkballs, curveballs, forkballs, cutters, sliders, splitters, slurves, change ups, palmballs, knuckleballs – he threw them all, dozens of times till the final mixed netballers left the stadium and the first of the lights went out. Rage at Jordan’s gutless murderers motivated this throw, sorrow for Jordan’s death motivated that throw, frustration at Brad’s helplessness to do anything about it motivated this throw, his most painful personal loss ever motivated that throw. Jordan would never again stand at the plate and amaze everyone with his defensive skills. No more would he drive a ball out the stadium with a dazzling home run, filling him with the greatest satisfaction. It was Brad that started the nickname “Moose” yet Brad hardly ever called him that. In primary school he told the class his name was Jordan. Brad called him that ever since, even when they fought. No-one else used ‘Braddo’; that was just for Jordan.
Without transportation back to his grandmother’s and not wanting to disturb her further, he called to say he wouldn’t be sleeping there that night. She informed him Otto had appeared to make sure he wasn’t staying there. Brad called Rod and asked to stay over, and while he was at it, could he pick him up from the indoor sports complex? “What am I mate, your personal chauffeur? I’ll be there shortly.”
“You okay?” Rod asked after Brad buckled up in the passenger seat.
“Not really.” Not another word was spoken.
They made their way inside Rod’s small wooden house. “Have you eaten?” Mrs Sullivan asked kindly. Brad nodded. She left, leaving the two standing in the lounge, the silence deafening. Jordan was all both could think about. Rod associated Brad with Jordan, like they were one person. Rod ranked as Jordan and Brad’s favourite person, their baseball coach, mentor, sounding board, friend and protector. Rod was always there for them. Neither seemed complete to the other without Jordan.
Brad stood, so Rod invited him to sit, himself plunging into his favourite old armchair. They sat in a comfortable silence, a shrieking possum coming from somewhere far away. Occasionally the old house creaked in the rapidly cooling night air.
“I want to hunt them down and kill them.”
For Brad’s sake Rod determined to stay calm. He couldn’t. “Hateful, spineless pieces of crap.”
“My aunt reckons I have to forgive them.”
“Never! If I smashed their worthless heads in with a baseball bat, it won’t bring Jordan back to life. Nothing will.”
Rod’s words recalled the Christian belief that death is not the end. It’s the beginning. Brad couldn’t recall the exact words, but the idea had lodged in him that Jordan’s existence wasn’t over, that he was with God; something about Jesus rising from the dead and therefore we can all be with God. He couldn’t remember what the logic of it was, but their belief was clear. It gave them hope, even in the face of death, and his grandmother had gone through the death of her husband, in similarly tragic circumstances, yet there she was, as hopeful and joyful as anyone could be.
A clarity of purpose suddenly slammed into Brad like a fastball crashing into his helmet. Whatever else happened, he must find out about this invisible dimension to life, a dimension that didn’t seem to exist when baseball and everyday life was humming along. Was Jordan still alive in some way, as his Christian aunt and grandmother believed, or was that religious nuttism? Does God really exist, as proclaimed by his grandmother along with all these priests and pastors and Jose De La Cruz, or was that some superstition carried over from prehistoric times when people knew little about science and the universe? Was Jesus really who these Christians said, God himself? What about Azra’s religion, or Buddhism? What if they’re the right religion? Who would know? Everyone believes their religion is right. Is there a way to find out? I want to know, Brad demanded of life.
Brad thought of where he could start. Of course, he could go to his aunt or grandmother, to the Greek Orthodox priest or the Baptist minister and ask them, but they’ll just give the Christian view. He’d already heard about Islam. It seemed so intolerant. If Javed and his father were anything to go by, forget it. What about Buddhism? They seemed peaceful people. What about Aboriginal religions or New Age? Where does one begin to work out which is truth?
Rod’s eyes drooped as he sat opposite Brad in the armchair, sinking further and further into it. “You should go to sleep, Rod,” Brad suggested. “I’ll just sit here for a while.” Rod sized up Brad, checking for any worrying signs. Satisfied, he slowly got up. He placed his hand gently on Brad’s shoulder on his way past, taking his wife’s hand as the two disappeared down the corridor.
Why had Brad not told Azra he was going to America? Did some subconscious inhibition prevent him because deep down he really didn’t want to see her again? But he did want to see her. So why didn’t he mention it? Brad imagined her sheltered, protected life and felt for her. Her parents suffocated her to death while Jordan’s, until just before he died, neglected him to death. Otto and Sylvia gave him everything he needed, however they failed to expose him to any spiritual reality. Instead they preconditioned him to reject anything to do with God and religion. Why were parents so bad at being parents, Brad asked? Surely somewhere in the world parents existed bringing up their children with the right balance?
Chapter Ten
For the second time in as many days Brad woke up on a couch. The weak sun made its way without effort through the scrappy curtains of Rod’s living room. Brad checked the time. Ten o’clock. Rod had left. An empty, pointless day lay before him. Jordan’s absence made it impossible for Brad to rejoice in the news of his draft selection. He could not think of going to America feeling like this. At some point Hank Tory would be coming home. The news reports indicated he insisted being flown to London for additional surgery and medical care soon after he regained consciousness.
Brad still balked at returning to school. Azra! He had to see Azra again. He could pull another stunt like last time and incur the wrath of her father and Javed. He thought better of it. It was too much effort, and the school wouldn’t allow it, anyhow. They’d probably call the police. In any case, there was no guarantee Azra would want to see him. She seemed to end it the previous evening. Brad couldn’t believe she’d just cut him off like that. The spark between them was undeniable. She rushed back to make it look like she attended music practice; that’s why she seemed so quick to end their session. He had to see her again. Why should he let her go like that? No girl ever made him feel like that – she was so intriguing, so different, like an unfathomable ocean, each layer more beautiful than the next. He wanted to protect her from the dangers of the world, even though she knew more about it than he did. That formed part of her attraction.
With nothing better to do, Brad opened Rod’s yellow pages, eventually alighting upon clairvoyants. He analysed each advertisement searching for the most authentic person who could put him in touch with Jordan. What did he have to
lose? He called a Master Channelist who confirmed he could put Brad in touch with Jordan. Brad made an appointment for 3pm that day. The session could last for an hour and would cost $250. Brad’s appearance would offset any doubts about his age. $250 seemed a small price to pay to speak to Jordan. This would prove if an afterlife existed. The second Brad hung up his grandmother rang.
“Brad, darling, are you okay?” “Sure, Gran.” “You’re not at school?” “No.” “What are you up to?” The question appeared uncharacteristically intrusive. “Why, Gran?” “I had a strong sense to pray for your protection today, Bradley. I’m concerned, darling, that’s all.” “I’m okay, thanks, Gran. I’ll see you later this afternoon.” “I’ll have a nice hot steak ready for dinner.” Brad thanked her and hung up. The phone rang again. At first Brad thought it was a prank, but the voice and expressions were unmistakable. “Hombre, Brad, is that you? It’s Jose De La Cruz from the Yankees.” Brad spun around. He didn’t know what else to do. He crouched like a tiger, figuratively pinching himself. What on earth was Jose calling him for? To congratulate him? Would Jose know he was drafted? “Brad! Brad, can you hear me?” Brad realised he hadn’t been listening.
“Jose, yes, I can hear you.”
“I’m deeply sad about Jordan, Brad. Your friend, Rod, he called the club. I heard what happened.” The unthinkable unlikelihood of the world’s greatest baseball player ringing to offer his condolences on Jordan’s death, as if Jose was just another of Brad’s friends, made Brad stagger. He dropped onto Rod’s armchair, tears filling his eyes. The waterfall of tears was damming up; he could feel them. He needed to hold it together; no crying on the phone with Jose. The tears gained momentum. His lips quivered. Inexorably, the tears streamed down his cheeks; he knew if he spoke they would overwhelm him. “It’s okay,” Jose’s compassionate voice came through the phone. That did it. Brad broke down, crying like a baby, sobbing, doing everything possible to stop. He couldn’t, embarrassed beyond description. The more he tried to apologise, the more incomprehensible his blubbering became. Brad seldom found himself at a loss. He couldn’t possibly hang up on Jose, yet here he was on the phone, inadvertently forcing the champion to hear him balling his eyes out like a baby.
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