I was not only angry about being here, about having my predictable life, such as it was, so rudely, so permanently interrupted; but now these guys were telling me I had no chance of getting back to where I was. Yeah. No. I dont know. Maybe something like that. But this is like New Jersey or maybe the East Village. So how about it: any way I can go back for a while? If its all the same to you, Ive got a life, and I really dont want to be here right now.
Now Leonardo spoke for the first time. His voice was clear and deep; full and rounded. Through the thicket of his long, white beard it poured like honey. You need to get your thinking straight on this, Barry. First, no, you dont have a life anymore. Second, nobody would believe it if they knew exactly how this place is. Its one of the rules about being here. You cant go back and tell them how things really are.
OK, fine. Cross my heart and hope to die, I double-dog promise not to tell a soul. Like you said, who would believe this? I really want to go back. I dont want to be dead, and no offense, I dont want to be in heaven.
Sorry, Barry. We cant take that chance yet. President Lincolns compassion was almost a physical presence.
OK, I said, letting my initial anger fade for a moment and hearing my fathers voice saying, No problem, Barry, you can do this.
I gathered myself, trying for a moment to forget who these guys were, sitting at my table. Im enough of a realist to know that getting used to being dead is the first thing. You guys are nice and kind and all, but I still dont want to be here. Ive got people depending on me. Ive got places to go, things to do, people to see. Man, Ive got the back nine to play!
Socrates laughed as he held up his mug in a toast, Not any more you dont! And no rain checks either! To Barry! And they all clinked their glasses again.
Leonardo continued, Third, its more than a little strange when you first arrive. We were all just as surprised as you are. None of this fits with what youve been taught to expect. However, if you suddenly showed up and appeared in the middle of what we call Downtown, where the light and majesty and glory of God radiates and permeates everything, you would never survive it. It would be like a newborn baby arriving in mid-town Manhattan. Youve got to learn to crawl, then walk, then run before you can fly. So we start everybody off down here.
A more or less somber mood settled over the table while the music twanging from the jukebox switched to John Denver singing Almost Heaven, West Virginia. I was surprised and laughed out loud when Uriel fumbled in his large leather bag and pulled out what was unmistakably a baseball. He held it up to the light like it was the Hope Diamond, turning it, studying the faded red vs of its zippered stitches, and admiring its one scarred flaw.
St. James buried his face in his hands and shook his head.
The Duke whispered to me, Sit tight. Youre gonna love this.
Groans flowed around the table like The Wave.
Uriel addressed the table like a college professor. The baseball, perfect in its spherical purity, the game sublimely subtle in its conception. All the numbers that work together to run the creation are there. The baseball has 108 stitches, the same number of beads on a standard Rosary.
And its double bogey, I blurted out.
Yes. Golf, intoned Uriel. If ever there was a game made precisely to enlarge the spirit, reveal ones character, and physically challenge the player, it is golf. Barry, youll get your golf lesson later. But now you must notice carefully. This particular ball is Babe Ruths first homer. September 5, 1914. The Babes pitching in Rhode Island for the Providence Grays. Ends up he throws a one hitter. But in the bottom of the fourth with runners at the corners, he steps to the plate, taps it twice, and facing 0 and 2 he zings this smoking stinger over the left field fence. His first and only minor league homer. You gotta love this guy. And I really dislike tenors.
With this Uriel stood up, and turned his back to the jukebox. He rubbed the ball, getting a feel for its leathery smoothness. Hes a lefty. Now he faces the juke, stares it down, his glowing and eerily red eyes icily alert and blazing with focus, the ball behind his back, curling catlike in the palm of his hand. A final loosening stretch, a check of the corners, and then in a motion more liquid than muscular, he throws a perfectly motionless knuckleball right through the face of the music machine. The glass crashed, the music shattered, and John Denver scurried off down some hillbilly country road. He was immediately replaced by Johnny Cash doing a poignant cover of Dylans immortal Knockin on Heavens Door. The place was silent for a second or two, then there was some friendly applause. Uriel took a broad, sweeping bow, and sat back down.
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