Home Run Read online

  HOME RUN

  Also by David Lawrence

  The Professor, the Emperor and the Crocodile

  DAVID LAWRENCE

  Published in 2013 by The Publisher’s Apprentice

  (An imprint of Connor Court Publishing Pty Ltd)

  Copyright © David Lawrence 2013

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorised reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the publisher.

  PO Box 224W

  Ballarat VIC 3350

  [email protected]

  www.connorcourt.com

  ISBN: 9781922168948 (pbk.)

  eISBN: 9781922168986

  Cover design by Ian James.

  Printed in Australia

  Home Run is also available as an ebook through iTunes, Amazon and Kobo.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the Way, the Truth and the Life, who reveals that all human beings are made in the image and likeness of God; that we all share the same Heavenly Father; that we must all love one another. What an incredible revelation!

  Chapter One

  Brad stepped up to the plate. His powerful physique surged with the natural confidence fortune bestowed on him from the time he was a child. This is what he lived for. Sixty feet away, the pitcher glared menacingly. The shortstop signalled when he saw Brad coming. The diamond, Brad’s field of dreams, spread out before him. His bat hovered, completely docile to finely-tuned muscle memory. Brad was aware of only one thing. He already knew the outcome of the pitch – a home run. His mind’s eye rehearsed it, imagined it, fulfilled it before it even happened. And then it happened, freakishly often, unless the innings needed a higher percentage drive through the infield.

  With uncanny precision, assisted by fanatical determination, natural athleticism, innate strength and unnatural self-confidence, Brad struck the baseball, the “clap” crisply shattering the silence. What happened in his mind now happened in reality. The ball sailed over the pitcher’s head, over the infield, over the outfield and bounced on the other side of the fence – sending batters on second and third past home base and putting the game out of contention for the opposition.

  Glowing with the thrill of his sweetly struck home run, Brad jogged past the plates, his easy smile lighting up his handsome, chiselled face. One after the other he high-fived his cheering teammates and took his place in the energised dug-out.

  “No doubt about it, your boy will be drafted before Jess gets her second face lift,” remarked the impeccably groomed Hank from the stadium. But his eyes were already glued to the next batter taking up position.

  “Too right,” Otto agreed, his cheeks glowing with pride, careful to restrict his comments to baseball when his wife was present. “Rod says the Yankees are circling.”

  “Yeehah,” cheered Hank, rearranging his cap and straightening his slick, silver-streaked hair. His focus centred on his son, Jordan, who swung powerfully at a curve ball, driving it low past third base. Jordan ambled comfortably toward first.

  “I hope Jordan gets nabbed,” Hank said, applauding, his cuff links glistening in the sun. “The pair of them; just think.” He turned to Otto and Sylvia, Brad’s obsessive parents. “I can show you the Big Apple,” he added.

  Shortly afterwards, the referee raised his hands, calling time and game. At the huddle, the coach addressed the team, reminding everyone about the BBQ at the Tory’s in Toorak that afternoon. Brad threw his arms in the air, high fived his teammates, grabbed his bag, slung it over his broad shoulders and made for his parents. Beside him walked Jordan. “We did it, Braddo,” he beamed, “unbeaten all year. What’ll you get this time?”

  Every year his parents promised Brad if his team was unbeaten he’d be rewarded. Best Player earned him $2000. National selection earned him an overseas trip. For the past three years he’d chosen New York. Jordan inevitably came along for the ride, “sponsored” by his dad’s ex-pat multinational directorship wages.

  “You’ve got the trifecta, Braddo,” Jordan said, still beaming, and playfully punching his best friend in the arm. “All-Australian, unbeaten all season and Rod says you’ll get Best Player. New York?”

  Brad dropped his bag and shadow-boxed with Jordan, clipping the cap off Jordan’s head. “Where else? You coming?” Jordan ducked and weaved before shooting out a side-kick to his buddy’s thigh. “Of course. Perfect way to get me out the house.” Jordan came in for an uppercut.

  A shadow crossed the piercing blue eyes set in Brad’s chiselled, bronzed face. Jordan shook his head, as if to say “forget it” but found himself again touched by the humble compassion of his friend. No wonder Brad attracted such attention from sponsors and countless girls. His perfect looks came with charisma and an untainted character. “That’s not true, Jordan,” he said.

  “You know it is. Always has been.” Jordan recommenced the shadow boxing but got no response. Brad studied his friend.

  “Forget it, Brad.” Jordan picked up his cap. The pair of them shouldered their bags and ambled towards the oldies.

  Otto and Sylvia were rushing forward to congratulate their son. Brad surrendered his bag to his mother and noticed the attention she got from Hank as she bent over to place the bag inside the car. Hank patted Brad on the shoulder. He grabbed Jordan in a playful headlock, careful not to crease his sports jacket. “Well done, boys,” he said in his strong New York accent. “Hop in, Jordy.” Addressing the Newtons, he said, “See you guys at our place.”

  Jordan’s body language in the headlock was unmistakable. The easygoing playfulness formed part of his father’s long-standing charade. Jordan lived with it daily, biding his time till he could legally leave home. “I’ll go with Braddo,” he said, heading over to the Newton’s car. “See you there.” It occurred to Brad that it had been years since Jordan referred to his house as “home”. It was always “their place” or “my folk’s place.” When Jordan was particularly cutting it was the “whorehouse”.

  “No problem, junior,” Hank Tory said with forced cheerfulness. Moments later he yelled: “I’ll pick up the grog on the way home,” and screeched out the carpark in his latest model fire-engine red Porsche.

  “Loser,” Jordan said as he climbed into the Newton’s Holden.

  Otto revved his engine noisily, his imitation of Hank transparent to all but himself. “Give it a break, Dad,” Brad said good-humouredly.

  Sylvia turned and grabbed her son’s chin affectionately. “He’s happy because we think Rod’s got some good news.” But she refused, as did her husband, to say more, despite the boys’ pleas. On the way, Brad and Jordan exchanged expectant glances. Their fisted knuckles met. Was their dream about to materialise?

  Otto slowly drove through the large, open security gate down the long driveway of Hank and Jessica Tory’s spacious Toorak mansion. Off to the left stood a high fence surrounding the tennis courts. Off to the right rippled the architecturally designed outdoor swimming pool, complete with waterfall flowing down a tastefully constructed arrangement of plastic boulders. Attached was a spa, jacuzzi and indoor sauna. On both sides of the driveway leading up to the mansion a manicured garden edged with English box hedge beckoned the visitor to render the hosts the attention they craved.

  “I never get tired of coming here,” Otto said, salivating at the property’s undisguised wealth.

  “It’s a morgue,” Jordan said.

  “Brad, darling,” Sylvia said, “you’ll have something like this one day.” She was referring to the annual seven fi
gure salary she and her husband had envisioned for him since the days he first started showing signs of exceptional sporting prowess.

  “It’s no big deal,” Jordan replied. “There’s got to be more to life than this.”

  “Oh, Jordan,” Sylvia playfully scolded him, “your parents can give you anything you want.”

  “Please, mum, let’s not get into this again.” Brad was over it. The four of them had engaged in these conversations for years – Brad’s parents envious of the Tory’s wealth and lifestyle; Jordan’s loathing of his parents and everything they stood for; Brad’s parents defending the Torys despite their very separate and salacious private lives; Brad wanting his parents to shut up so they didn’t have to rub Jordan’s face into the reality of his parents’ unconscionable negligence.

  “In any case,” Otto persisted, “it’s generous of your dad to open his house to the baseball club. It’s like a second clubhouse.” A conspicuous silence filled the car as Otto pulled into the gravelly carpark in front of the house. Everyone, including Otto, knew the reasons why Hank was so “gracious”. He loved to flaunt his wealth. It also expanded his opportunities in his insatiable hunt for more conquests. Otto breathed in impressively. “I’d love to know how your dad earns so much, Jordan.”

  “He’s just a bunny of the Big Business system,” Jordan replied with disgust.

  “Leave it, can’t you, Dad? We’re here for the end of season meeting. Then I want to go.”

  “There’s a BBQ afterwards,” Otto reminded Brad. “You don’t want to miss that. Hank’s pulling out all stops – prawns, lamb, gourmet sausages, exotic beers and all the trendy salads for the lady folk.”

  “Oh, stop it, Otto,” Sylvia chuckled, slapping Otto on the knees but catching his ever-expanding belly in her downward stroke. At the same time she was secretly excited at Hank’s solicitous care for her needs.

  One hour later, the caterers were under way barbecuing the lashings of food on the three heavy duty BBQs and spit roasts set up behind the mansion under one of the marquees. Those exotic salads Otto was referring to, and which Sylvia wouldn’t touch if her life depended on it, were neatly arranged along sumptuously furnished tables.

  Inside the formal dining room chairs had been placed in an auditorium style. Rod Sullivan, the coach, creases lining his weathered face, sat facing the audience with his coaching staff and club officials. Behind him lay a table decked out with glistening trophies and a shield reflecting the ornate chandelier light that shone from the impossibly high ceilings.

  Filling the chairs sat the audience of baseball players, parents, friends and family. Rod stood up triumphantly with the premiership cup in his hands.

  “I acknowledge all my players. They won this cup.” He held it aloft. Cameras clicked and recorded. The entire baseball club cheered and applauded. Brad and Jordan, sitting up the front, pointed to each other and winked as if to say, “This was your doing.” The coach continued: “This has been unprecedented in the history of junior baseball in this country – four years on the trot without a loss; four years in succession winning the cup; four years in a row breaking batting and pitching records. I congratulate each and every player involved, and also the parents and families who have supported your sons and helped them to achieve such a remarkable milestone. To you all, I say, this cup also belongs to you.” He held the cup aloft a second time, soliciting more clicks and flashes from mobiles and cameras, more cheering from the players and parents. “Before we continue with the awards,” the coach shouted over the ruckus, “I’d like to present our club president and senior officials who have worked so tirelessly ...”

  With his plate and mouth filled to capacity, Otto bragged loud and long to anyone who would listen about his son’s Best Player and Best Pitcher awards. Brad determined to stay well away from his dad for the remainder of the evening, preferring to hang out with Jordan and his teammates.

  “Where’s your mum, Jordan?” someone asked.

  “Not here. Who gives a ...?”

  “Jordan, can we have a swim?” asked a group of giggling girls, the younger sisters of the players.

  “Go for your life,” Jordan said.

  They cast glances at Brad when they said, “Why don’t you guys come in, too?”

  “No thanks,” Brad said casually, and turned back to his teammates.

  “You lucky bastard, Brad,” a team-mate said to Brad. “You always get the girls’ attention.”

  “And he never gives them a second look,” Jordan said. “They’re all too stupid – such giggling imbeciles. They’re not good enough for him anyway, are they, mate?”

  “Cut it out, Jordy,” Brad said, stuffing half a potato into his mouth.

  “You know what?” Jordan asked the group. “One big brand offered him $10,000 sponsorship over three years if he wore their gear and appeared on an ad. Ten thousand bucks!”

  “And ...?” Gary asked on behalf of the four others standing around by the pool.

  “His old man refused.”

  “What?”

  Brad interjected. “My dad doesn’t want me to get involved in anything. He reckons it could interfere with my baseball.”

  “That’s crazy,” the others protested in unison, half drowned out by the high pitched shrieks of the girls as they jumped into the water only metres away. Getting attention from everyone within earshot except Brad, who waited patiently for his buddies to turn their attention back to the conversation, the girls continued to scream and splash. Brad finished his potato.

  Jordan turned his attention away from the girls. “That’s nothing. He’s had three sponsorship offers this year and a TV commercial, all turned down.”

  “Interferes?” Sean stammered, wide-eyed. “Imagine getting all that money at sixteen?”

  “Brad’s dad has a much bigger goal than puny little sponsorships,” Jordan explained. “Doesn’t he, Braddo?”

  “Yep.”

  “But whatever his folks want, Braddo and I are shooting for the Yankees.” Brad softly punched the knuckles on Jordan’s waiting fist. “We’re aiming for the US majors. Nothing’s gonna stop us.”

  And so the conversation went until the early evening. The girls kept finding new ways to interrupt, but Brad only wanted to see his coach who, when Brad and Jordan were eventually able to find him, told them he’d catch up during the week. “You want to sleep over?” Brad asked Jordan, knowing the answer.

  “I’ll get my stuff.”

  Chapter Two

  Brad and Jordan hopped on the crowded school bus and found two seats on either side of the aisle. As usual, the boisterous atmosphere jarred the windows. Brad pitied the bus driver landing the early morning school shift.

  It was Wednesday and neither boy had heard from the coach. It was the unspoken question both had on their minds since Jordan came over on Sunday evening. He’d been at Brad’s ever since, not going home or calling once in that time, although he did get a message from his mother on Monday asking him when he’d be coming home. Jordan ignored the text.

  “Can’t wait till I turn seventeen,” Jordan began. “I’m outta there.”

  “I reckon your parents would let you move out now if you wanted,” Brad said. “Surely they’d set you up.”

  “No way. My dad loves the baseball too much. You know he wants me to play professionally in America. He reckons it’ll be too disruptive if I move out. Show you how much he knows. I’ve practically moved out already.”

  “But if you move out at seventeen, will he support you?” Brad asked. Before Jordan could reply, a commotion from the back of the bus caught everyone’s attention. They turned to see a smaller boy toward the back surrounded by bigger boys pulling his school bag. The kids on the bus watched on. The adults ignored the commotion, deciding it was better not to get involved.

  Brad and Jordan exchanged looks and nodded. Jordan moved down the aisle toward the back of the bus. Brad followed. “What’s going on?” Jordan asked, his short but powerful frame filling out his
school clothes. He was in no mood for jokes. That was clear by the expression on his face.

  The little boy, decked out neatly in his private school uniform, and probably in year seven by the look of him, was now in tears. The other boys, four in total, let go of the bag. The leader, nose ring and three earrings partly obscured by long, unkempt hair, turned around and faced Jordan, his white shirt untucked and already sporting a grass stain. “Piss off! We’re just having fun.”

  “Fun, is it?” Jordan asked, feet astride and holding onto one of the handles. “Four thugs against one little kid – that’s fun, is it?”

  “Rack off,” Nose-ring threatened, taking a step forward, expecting Jordan to back down.

  “I don’t think so,” Jordan shot back, taking a step forward.

  Nose-ring took out a pocket knife. A girl screamed and the rest of the bus went deathly silent. “Rack off, I said.”

  “Stop the bus,” Brad yelled to the driver. Brad spoke to Nose-ring calmly but with the quiet air of authority that came naturally to him. This was the temperament that helped steer his team out of many pressured situations: “Put it away.” Nose-ring flicked it back and was about to put the weapon back into his pocket.

  Jordan turned quietly to his mate. “Braddo, he’s not going to get away with this.”

  “Ball,” Brad said, their code word for letting sleeping dogs lie. The last time Brad used it with Jordan was when the pair feigned their way into a fancy nightclub. They spotted Mrs Tory dancing with a guy that didn’t look much older than Brad, who was often taken for a bloke in his mid-twenties.

  The bus pulled over. Nose-ring and his three bullies sat back down. The rest of the bus watched Jordan silently, their eyes glued to the fiery look in his eyes. Jordan breathed in through his nose loudly and cast a glance at the year seven boy who was wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “What’s for lunch?” Jordan asked Nose-ring.

  “What?” Nose-ring spat back.