Home Run

by Dave Lawrence

  “Did he invite my parents?”

  Rod shook his head. “He’s invited the whole team. It’s on Monday at eleven in the morning. I can take you.” Brad vacantly nodded. Another blow of reality struck him in the face. Cocooned as he was staying at his grandmother’s and not going to school, Brad had insulated himself to some degree. Rod’s news opened up a raw wound. He placed his head in his hands. His elbows rested on the table. He would never get over Jordan’s death. Jordan was his dearest friend.

  Rod handed Brad a copy of the funeral invitation. Brad read it. Hank wanted the local baseball stadium where Brad and Jordan spent most of their free time to be the funeral service venue. Hank had arranged for the service to be conducted in the triangle by a funeral director. Afterwards everyone was invited to the cemetery where a burial service in absentia would take place. Following the burial ceremony, everyone was invited to the wake at Hank’s Toorak mansion.

  The weekend came and went in the blinking of an eye. Shirley called Otto to say she was bringing Brad over to collect his suit. Brad heard Shirley having to defend herself, insisting Brad had not been staying with her. Later, at the Newton’s home, Otto screamed at Brad. “Don’t you know the Area Scout has been trying to get hold of you? Are you mad? You’ve come this far and you’re willing to throw it all away, all because ...”

  Brad roared at his father. “All because my best friend was blown to pieces by a pack of gutless heroes? Is that what you’re saying? Life is more than baseball, Dad. Shut up and leave me alone.”

  Otto turned on Shirley, his broad frame not sufficiently large to obscure Sylvia, who glared at her interfering sister-in-law. “You’ve gotten to him, haven’t you, Shirley? All this rubbish about life being more than baseball, that’s you, isn’t it? How dare you poison him with your useless philosophies? What the hell have you ever achieved in life?”

  Shirley let his words pass like water off a duck’s back, or, as she always said, let it go to the keeper. She merely stood there and waved Brad on, indicating her decision not to enter into a futile argument. Brad followed her example. Moments later he returned carrying his suit, with his backpack and baseball bag slung over his shoulder.

  Otto turned his tirade back onto Brad. “What the hell are you doing? Have you moved out now?”

  “No, I need time alone.”

  “Get back here now!” Otto roared at the top of his voice, slamming the base of his fist against the door. Brad ignored him on his way to Shirley’s car. Otto and Sylvia watched their only son speed away in his aunt’s Holden.

  The day of the funeral arrived. Rod and his wife, still in her nurse’s uniform, picked up Brad, accompanied by his smartly dressed aunt and grandmother. The stadium grounds teemed with hundreds of teenagers milling around from the school and baseball club. Many parents accompanied their kids. Conspicuously absent were Jessica Tory’s family. Brad was later to discover from Rod they conducted their own ceremony. Her corpse met the same fate as Jordan’s – complete obliteration.

  A platform had been set up beside the home plate. A large photograph of Jordan pasted to a life-size wooden board on stilts bore silent testimony to the absence of a beloved friend and an only son. Beside Jordan was an equally large photograph of Jessica Tory, her attractive face under a stylish hat smiling conspiratorially at the camera. A large table placed on the platform bore five items. The first was Jordan’s heavily blood-stained and lacerated cap given by Jose De La Cruz. The second was Jordan’s baseball bat. The third was his baseball mitt. The fourth was a photo of Brad and Jordan smiling before their first international match. The fifth item was a polo club, the very one Hank held when he first met Jessica at a fund raising game in London all those years ago before the tragedy of their faded marriage.

  Hank, face half obscured by plaster, sat in a wheelchair in the front row of chairs, his face rigid. Beside him dressed in corporate finery were his business associates, friends and colleagues. Rod sat beside a tear-soaked Brad on the other side of Hank. The funeral director, clearly uneasy with the highly irregular nature of the funeral, stood at one side. Hank motioned to Brad, who ascended the platform, notes in hand. Before the dais, standing before Jordan’s friends and colleagues, Brad broke down and cried. The three pages of notes lay crumpled in his fist, notes containing a brief but rich history of friendship, baseball and love. Brad never got to deliver his eulogy, however one of his baseball teammates gently prised the notes out of Brad’s hand and read the words slowly over the loud speaker. Brad rested in the arms of four of his teammates as the eulogy was read out, a moving account of Jordan, his cheekiness, his courage, his determination to stand up for the underdog, his baseball prowess, his sadness at home and, at the end of his life, a search for the deeper questions of who he was and what life was about. “Jordan, my friend and brother, I will never forget you,” were Brad’s last words. Brad broke down for the second time.

  A small number of people made their way to the cemetery; Brad was oblivious of who they were. He couldn’t even remember in whose car he came. He found himself at an empty grave. In Hank’s lap lay a basket containing the items. Rod carried the baseball bat and polo club. Hank offered the cap to Brad, standing beside the wheelchair. “Jordan would have wanted you to have it.” Brad shook his head, his eyes watery and red. Hank wheeled close to the edge. With a slowness and hollowness, he dropped the baseball bat into the hole ... then the mitt ... but Brad hurled himself forward and clasped the cap in Hank’s quivering arm. Hank stared at Brad, his eyes dull. Finally, shivering, he held the polo club aloft. For the first time in many, many years, Hank cried. He held the polo club in both arms, regret flooding his soul like a tidal wave. He doubled over and wept. Grief mingled with hopelessness. Why did he allow it to come to this? And now it was too late. Brad placed his hand on Hank’s diminished shoulder. He knelt down and awkwardly took him in his arms. Hank continued to weep softly. The world was no longer a place for him, the tears said. Brad’s aunt and grandmother also came forward, placing their hands on Brad and Hank, rubbing in comfort, rubbing in the hope that had been lost.

  The moment came for the two shovel-bearing men to do their job. They waited respectfully till Hank threw the polo club in. Hank watched the polo club spiral down a bottomless pit, the same pit that swallowed any hope for marriage renewal, the same pit that would forever swallow his only son, Jordan – the pit that he wanted to fall into and never return. Brad fell on his knees and cried out aloud, “Jordan.” His grandmother and aunt held him as the men shovelled dirt-load after dirt-load into the grave, covering the items until Jordan’s favourite mitt blacked out.

  Brad slowly lifted himself. Azra stood before him. Beside her stood Javed. Azra’s beautiful face carried him in its concern. Javed extended his hand, “I’m sorry, Brad.” Brad took it, not knowing what else to do.

  “What are you doing here?” Brad asked, confused at seeing the Pakistani siblings together at the cemetery, especially after his last conversations with both of them.

  “I wanted to pay my respects to Jordan,” Javed said. “I always said neither of you would make it, but I was jealous. And now...” Javed trailed off. “I want to apologise for how I spoke to you.” Gran and Shirley excused themselves politely, smiling at the teenagers. Javed continued. “I know you must be wondering what gives. You’ll think this is crazy.” Javed cast a glance at Azra. Obviously she didn’t think much of what Javed was about to say. “I had a dream. Jesus was cradling Jordan in his arms. I would have passed it off as some crazy once off thing, but it happened the next night ... and the next ... and the next.”

  Azra smiled, her compassionate eyes lighting her face. “I think he’s crazy, but he’s the nicest crazy I’ve ever seen him. He’s covering for me. He told the school we had an emergency.”

  Javed nodded. “I knew she wanted to come. There’s no way my parents would allow it.” Brad nodded his thanks. “I don’t approve of you dating her, but you can still see her. Not that I like your chances. My father
is on the warpath. It’s jihad against the infidel.” Azra and Javed exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Although, if I keep having these dreams I’ll end up becoming an infidel myself.”

  Azra’s face turned ashen grey, the seething anger hardening her voice. “He can’t let my parents know if he does. Their Islam preaches the death penalty for apostasy. How’s that for tolerance and religious freedom?”

  Further away, his aunt and grandmother waited. Hank was being wheeled by a man in a suit. Several baseball players stood around chatting with Rod. “Thanks for coming,” Brad told his new-found Pakistani friends. “I appreciate it.”

  Azra advanced. She wore the same pink headscarf. Her gracefulness swept Brad off his feet. “I’ve never kissed a boy before.” She kissed Brad softly on the cheek. Javed took her arm and lead her away, punching Brad gently on the shoulder.

  Brad told his aunt and grandmother he’d stay for a while. Shirley lead her mother past the group of teammates and obviously relayed Brad’s wishes, for they all made their way slowly back to the carpark. Alone, Brad returned to the grave. For the first time he noticed the gravestone: “Here lies Jordan Tory, beloved son of Jessica and Hank. Here lies Jessica, beloved wife of Hank. Both killed by a terrorist bomb in a Cairo church.” Carved beneath the words read the dates. Brad fell on his knees. He became aware of the bloodstained cap in his hand. Inside it, he read:

  Dear Jordan,

  Rule one: Train hard

  Rule two: Trainer 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

  Brad exited the cemetery on foot and wandered aimlessly through the streets. Walking past a crossroads he noticed what looked like a church way over in the distance, past a small shopping strip. He wandered toward it. Yes, it was a church. Suddenly a little boy rushed out the fruit shop behind him. Brad turned. The boy had dark eyes and a dark mop of wavy black hair. His jaw was square. He possessed a short, squat frame. Brad stiffened as if electrocuted. The boy was the spitting image of Jordan, yet couldn’t have been more than four years old. Brad’s heart beat wildly. The resemblance was uncanny. The boy faced Brad, a huge smile on his face. The mother rushed out in a panic screaming: “Jordan!” Brad stepped back as if hit. “I’m here!” Jordan said. “I’m here,” Jordan said. “I’m here,” Jordan said. “I’m here,” Jordan said. Brad stumbled back and fell. The woman scooped her son in her arms and carried him away.

  “Jordan,” Brad whispered to his friend, “you’re telling me you’re alive, aren’t you? That was you, wasn’t it?” Brad got out his mobile and called Otto. “Dad, I’m coming home. See you tonight.”

  Brad made his way into the church, pausing reverently before crossing the threshold. Deliberately, joy filling his heart, mind, and soul, a joy that came from somewhere out of this world, Brad fell on his knees. The Baptist minister, the Orthodox priest, aunt Shirley and Gran, Pastor Terry Finn, Padre Juan Carlos and Jose De La Cruz all paraded before his mind. Smiling, Brad said simply: “Yes, Jesus, I believe.”

  The End

  About the Author

  David Lawrence is a freelance Melbourne writer. He has worked in various capacities for a range of large and small organisations, in Australia and overseas, and is currently employed as an educator. Home Run is his first venture into teenage Christian fiction and his second published novel.