Chapter 4 – Chapter 4

Chapter Four

We went on like that, working together and talking. Luke was no convert. He read a lot, and he brought arguments to our conversations that I had never considered before. He wasn't going to convince me, and I wasn't going to convince him. But, the discussions were good for our souls. It's valuable to question what you think you know to be true. It's even more valuable to understand you may be completely wrong about what you think you know to be true.

Luke did not last in the CSA. He agreed with me. They were too judgmental. They wanted Rice to be Liberty. If they wanted to go to Liberty, they should have gone to Liberty. Most of the students at Rice wouldn't want to go to Liberty, and they certainly didn't want Rice to become Liberty. The CSA walled itself off from the rest of the student body, an island of judgment unto themselves.

By Thanksgiving break, I had given in and had started using "Jet." In return, he called me "Ev." I hated Evangel, he said Evan was "too gay."

Jet had also started to intrude on my solitude. For my Sophomore year, I had insisted on a single room. I had missed being alone as a Freshman, and I didn't want to share a room with anyone as a Sophomore, even if he was a friend.

Jet now routinely stopped by, unannounced. If I was out, he waited against my door or left a note. If I was in, he plopped down on my bed or in my chair and started talking, no matter what I was doing.

I asked that he at least text first. He refused.

During one of his visits, he asked when I had first realized I was gay.

"I don't really know, actually. It's such a different story when you grow up in a house like mine. Gay was so out of the question, there was no way I was. And, it was nothing anyone talked about. Everything went unsaid. So, I didn't know every other boy wasn't feeling exactly what I was feeling. I assumed they all were. I was stunned and troubled when I found out in high school they weren't. So, I guess I was in high school when I first realized what my feelings meant. But, I'd had them all my life."

"Did you date girls?"

"No. I have never been attracted to girls. But, I was enough of a recluse no one noticed."

"I've never dated anyone," Jet admitted. "It wasn't allowed. My mother's motto was that 'temptation leads to trouble.' So, it's better not to put yourself in the position to be tempted."

It's no wonder she had forced him to Rice. My email to her about Austin had hit a sweet spot, echoing her motto.

"How is she controlling you while you're here?"

"I think she thinks you are."

"Oh, boy."

"Exactly."

When it was time for Jet to leave, he gave me another bro hug. "I'm glad we're friends."

"Me, too. But, Jet, you need to start texting before you stop by. You can't just show up announced."

"Sure I can. It's worked so far. And, I like surprising you."

******

When we got back from Christmas break, baseball began in earnest. It was all Jet talked about. He tried to interest me in it, but he failed. I couldn't have cared less about how he was strengthening his arm or about any of the other baseball things he was so excited about.

When the season started, Jet insisted I go to Reckling Park for the home games. When I demurred, he reminded me I was his Sammy and I was supposed to owl him. He also pandered, suggesting there was a lot of math in baseball. He had researched it, so he was armed with facts about angles of incident and refraction, force and velocity, and the calculations required to hit a first baseman in the chest with a throw or to track a fly ball and be camped under it when it fell.

Jet had wanted to be a starter, but Rice was stacked, and Jet was a Freshman. He became the Owls' closer.

As asked, I was at Reckling Park for every home game, rain or shine. Baseball cemented our friendship. Jet taught me to keep score, so I would learn the game and understand his fascination with the game.

By the time the NCAA tournament started, I understood the basics of the game. I also got a little chill every time Jet entered a game. He walked in to the sound of a jet engine revving. Rice always had the lead when he did, and he generally overwhelmed the other team. I was thrilled for him.

Rice played its way to the championship of the CWS, and it seemed like the entire university was in Omaha with them. I certainly was, sitting with Jet's parents in Rosenblatt, which was hosting its penultimate series.

In the deciding game, Rice led by one as the teams headed to the bottom of the ninth. A jet engine roared over the loudspeaker as Jet took the mound. He threw six consecutive fastballs, none of which the LSU hitters touched. After two more fastballs, Rice was one strike away from a National Championship. Jet's ninth pitch sailed, hitting the LSU batter in the wrist. The tying run was on, but no one fretted. Jet had been almost perfect all year. The HBP appeared harmless.

Jet's tenth pitch was a 100 mph fastball. Unfortunately, it was down and in, and LSU's hitter – a stocky lefty – dropped the bat on it. The sound the ball made hitting the bat was terrible, and the trajectory of the ball was worse. It landed well into the right field stands, just fair and breaking every Owl heart. To my surprise, I cried as I watched LSU celebrate its miracle win.

Jet's post-game interview went viral. In it, he seemed nonplussed by the failure. He spoke of his relationship with his Lord and Savior and his family. He explained that the rest was just noise, that the winning home run could have curled foul and been nothing more than a long strike, and that the next two pitches could have resulted in a third strikeout. The outcome would have been different, but he would not have been. His faith and his family defined him, not what happened on the field.

The questions then turned personal, as reporters wondered whether Jet had "someone special" to console him. No, he said. He had never dated. He was waiting until he was out of college to marry, and he saw no reason to tempt himself before he was ready to take that final step. He'd date then, not now.

The Religious Right ate it up. Luke Black followed that Florida quarterback into the pantheon. Pat Robertson lauded him. Mike Huckabee cited him. He was an overnight sensation. He was the stunningly handsome star in waiting, chaste and grounded and proving that, with discipline and faith, you could live the life of Christ, even in the modern world.

He was also a liar. When he saw me after the game, he burst into tears and buried his face in my shoulder. He cried all the way back to Houston, riding with me and his parents to avoid being seen. He had been dominating hitters since he could remember. He had never failed. He couldn't believe he had failed when it mattered most. His aura of invincibility was shattered.

The media was not around to see that. It had its story, and it was not going to let the truth get in the way. They didn't see him break. They weren't there to comfort the broken boy. I was.

Jet basically moved into my room. He told me I was the only person who could see him like this. He cried himself to sleep in my bed (I slept on the floor). He ate little. He listened when I talked, but he didn't hear anything I said. I stopped talking. He'd lie on my bed, and I'd sit next to him, holding his hand or stroking his hair.

After about a week, I'd had enough. It was, after all, just a game. I understood it was an important game, to the extent there was such a thing, but it was still just a game.

I tried to convince Jet to buck up, but he was wallowing. I couldn't pull him free, and I was worried the CWS failure had unleashed things that had been bottled up and that I was ill-equipped to handle. I wanted to know what, but I was afraid to inquire. I wouldn't have to.