by Darin Gibby
Last year should have been Ratcliff’s last, but he sweet-talked his way into one more season. If the Rockies didn’t win the pennant, he promised to resign, or, more likely, retire. The real reason he wasn’t laid off was because Ratcliff was a master at playing Billy Ball, finding the right young talent at the right price. That was critical for a small-market team like Denver, which lacked the big-dollar budgets of major-market teams like the Yanks, Dodgers, Cubs, Giants, and even the Red Sox. Billy Ball was named after Yankees manager Billy Martin, who had perfected the idea of trading for players with the best on-base percentage—and the lowest salaries. The idea was to find players who know how to get on base, not who swing for the long ball.
Ratcliff won several pennants, nearly always posted a winning record, and his scrappy style of playing ball was enough to keep ticket sales respectable. But he’d never won the World Series, at least not as a coach. Just when his young players became stars, they reached free agency and the Rockies could no longer keep them on and still make payroll. So, Ratcliff was in a constant state of finding undiscovered talent.
Ratcliff cut his own salary down to the bare minimum, hoping to save a few scarce dollars for a lucky pre-season trade. Ratcliff didn’t need the money—he had made plenty. Taking the pay cut would be part of the story and a way to show fans and players that the game came before the money. Ratcliff’s face was stoic as he studied the rag-tag team the GM had thrown together, an assortment of retired players and third-tier minor leaguers. Nobody with a real shot at the majors would even consider crossing the picket lines. Minor league players with promising careers assumed the strike would soon be over and they didn’t want to be labeled a scab. That left a spattering of lackluster players to field a team.
“We are going to get booed out of the stadium with this motley crew.”
Ratcliff looked over at his pitching coach, Adrian Connor. “They’re . . . different, that’s for sure, but I think they are going to surprise us.”
“You say that every year—it’s always going to be our year.”
“Have to be an optimist in this business, otherwise it will eat you alive. Spring comes around every year for a reason.” Yet Ratcliff knew he had a serious problem.
“This tryout thing is a damn joke. It’s not going to work,” Connor said.
“The owners think it will,” Ratcliff said.
“Based on what? Show me one scintilla of evidence this cockeyed scheme is going to work.”
“They want to appeal to a new audience. There’s a different generation of fans out there. They want to see the underdog, the undeveloped talent discovered, like on The Voice.”
“Yeah, but this is baseball, not some TV circus for the Millennial crowd. There’s absolutely no precedence. They’ll screw up a hundred years worth of history.”
Ratcliff tipped his cap. “What about the teams fielded during WWII? The owners claim those teams were just as popular, if not more so.”
“Yeah, until the war was over. Then baseball really exploded. The golden decade of the fifties.”
“That’s their point. They need to shake things up, get some new blood into the game. Then, when the strike is over, baseball will be more popular than ever. Let’s face it—baseball has been beat up. Tarnished with drug scandals, overpaid players, commercialism, you name it. The game could use a fresh start.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think we’re the ones to be the guinea pigs. We’re too old.”
“I hear you, and this bit about tryouts and reality television is crossing the line,” Ratcliff said. “You may be right. This whole charade could be over before it starts.”
“I hope so. The last thing I need is for my life to be scrutinized like the Kardashians.”
Ratcliff grunted. “My wife used to watch that show. Imagine us on a reality show. Could be kind of fun humiliating some of those replacements on national TV.”
“Right now I’d settle for three more pitchers.”
Ratcliff mentally went down the list of what they had so far conjured together for a pitching staff, more than a little concerned his promise of a successful season would be anything but prophetic. He’d been handed an equal mix of lefties and right-handers, but with little professional experience.
So far, his two most promising starters were DeJesus, the Cutting Cuban, because of his nasty cutter fastball, and Melendez, who’d eked out a respectable fifteen wins in his third and final year in the majors, making him the most likely candidate for this year’s ace. Each had his own set of issues. DeJesus had spent most of his career in the minors. He’d been called up to the majors once, but after three games blew out his arm. He’d recovered, but lingered in the minors until he finally threw in the towel. Melendez lost his will to play, and rather than face the humiliation of going back to the minors, he retired and took a job as a baseball announcer. He regretted the decision almost as soon as he made it.
Ratcliff needed at least three more pitchers to round out his starting rotation. And he needed to firm up the bullpen. He had a mediocre set of mid-relievers, and the only option for a closer was Tajima, whom he found hard to understand because he had a strong Japanese accent.
He had what he called a generation-gap team. There were lots of over-the-hill veterans he was calling back and the rest were greenies. Yes, the old timers could give their sage advice and wisdom, but that advice usually fell on deaf ears. Youth always favors experimentation.
Ratcliff’s assistant, Connor, was well past his prime too. The two had been together for more than thirty years. Connor was a drunk with alimony payments from two failed marriages. He didn’t enjoy the game much anymore, but he needed the money. Wherever Ratcliff went, Connor followed.
“I hate this crappy weather,” Connor said, changing the subject from lousy pitching. “Can’t wait until we get to Arizona. Let’s just hope the snow is gone by Monday so we can have tryouts in a real ballpark.”
3
RON GILBERT, KNOWN to his parishioners as Pastor Ron, had been a mainstay of the Centerpoint Church of Christ for more than three decades. The Gilbert family home, a single-story rambler with a carport, was a short two-minute walk away from the church. The Shady Brook subdivision was constructed two years before the church, and was now truly shady with its soaring maples and blue spruce trees. It was Gil’s only childhood home.
Gil pulled the family car onto the driveway as Pastor Ron, navy tie swaying with his stride, crossed the front lawn. Sunday dinners following Pastor Ron’s sermon were a weekly ritual rarely missed. Keri, Gil’s wife, didn’t mind because she didn’t have to fix dinner and none of her close relatives lived in Colorado. Austin, Keri and Gil’s son, had the habit of slipping into Pastor Ron’s recliner and watching whatever sporting event he could find.
Keri reached over and slid her hand over his. They had a good life together. Keri’s life was just how she wanted it. It wasn’t without challenges, but they were all within what she could handle. Their oldest child, Alicia, now a junior at CU in Boulder, was pulling straight A’s, had a serious boyfriend, knew she wanted to go to medical school, and had already taken two prep classes for the MCAT. Except for the typical high school irritability, Alicia had been the easy one, the model child. Austin was their challenge. Although fourteen, he was still in middle school. Based on his age, he should have been a freshman at Prairie Ridge, but Keri and Gil had held him back because of how he struggled with school, and he was even more socially behind than academically. It was only Austin’s involvement with sports that ended up saving him. What he lacked in academics, he more than made up for on the court, or the gridiron, or the ice, or the field. Gil wasn’t the only coach at Prairie Ridge waiting for Austin to become a freshman. But they all knew that baseball would take priority.
Austin swung open the door and stumbled out onto the grass. He ran up and hugged his grandfather.
“How was the first week of baseball?”
“Okay.”
Ron pointed to the front window. �
��I still remember when your dad broke that window with one of his fastballs.”
Keri, now beside her husband, gave him a wink. Gil couldn’t remember how many times the story had been repeated.
Austin scampered ahead and swung the door open, holding it ajar as his grandfather, assisted with the handrail, ascended the stairs.
Sandra, Gil’s mother, already had the table set. Steam was rising from the mashed potatoes, and she lifted a silver lid from the pot roast.
They were seated, and Pastor Ron said grace before Austin dove in. Keri had long given up trying to tame his table manners.
“Nice sermon,” Keri said.
“Thank you. After all these years, hopefully I can get it right.”
“You’ve reached a lot of people during your ministry.”
“Speaking of … I’m looking forward to presenting that scholarship at your science fair this week.”
Ever since Gil started his science fair, the church had garnered donations to support the cause. The pot was now up to twenty-five hundred dollars for the winning project.
“Keri has gone way over the top this year,” Gil said. “We’re focusing on opposites in nature, and Keri has been very creative in her decorations.”
“When hasn’t she gone the extra mile? And Gil, we can’t say just how very proud we are of you and what you’ve done at Prairie Ridge.”
Austin took this as his cue, hopped up and turned on the TV.
Keri coughed loudly.
“Oh yeah, thanks Grandma.” Austin scooped up his plate and slipped it into the sink before plopping himself into the recliner.
The rest of the family finished their meal with ESPN blaring from the other room. Pastor Ron slipped behind his grandson, listening to the latest update on the baseball strike.
“This is awesome,” Austin said as he looked up behind him. “Every team is going to have tryouts on TV to find the best players. It’s like American Idol or America’s Got Talent.”
Pastor Ron shook his head. “These times are a changing. Seems like a crazy idea to me.”
“I think it’s a great idea. I hope they still do it when I get old enough,” said Austin. “I’d love to try out. Every team has to have playoffs for at least one starting position. They are going to show the playoffs on TV, and the fans get to vote for their favorite player.”
“And that’s who starts?”
“No, the teams decide on their own, but everyone sees the vote, so it would look really bad if all the fans wanted a player but the manager picked someone else.”
“That might be interesting,” Pastor Ron said.
“The Rockies say they may do more than one player. The reporter said they hardly have a pitching staff right now.”
“Well, good pitchers are hard to find.”
“Dad,” Austin turned to the kitchen. “I wish you had played. Grandpa, tell me what happened? Dad always says we’ll talk about it later. I know he was good enough to play, but why didn’t he?”
“Because he met your mother and had two beautiful kids. Isn’t that good enough?”
“But lots of baseball players have families. Why couldn’t he do both?”
“I think God had another path for him, and look at what he’s done with it.”
4
ROOM 203, BETTER known as Gil’s lab, was where Prairie High students got their fill of earth science, chemistry and, for the lucky few who got accepted, physics. Or, as most of the kids called it, Gil’s Show and Tell. “If you can’t see it, you can’t understand it,” Gil would tell his students the first day of class. “And, you are going to understand everything I show you.”
Physics was meant to be physical, and that meant Gil had to come up with a contraption to physically demonstrate every law of physics that the district expected him to teach. The room was dotted with lab stations, large enough for eight students to huddle around watching their Bunsen burners bake away some concoction, or their scales swing in and out of balance.
Today, all of that equipment was gone, stored away in some back cabinets. In their place, the countertops were cluttered with all sorts of science projects, awaiting Gil’s final inspections before the official fair opened, when they would be showcased in the gymnasium for eager parents to gawk over and for the local media and scientists to cast their votes.
Gil was perched over a kind of winged contraption, fiddling with a round knob.
“Don’t break it, Mr. Gil.” A heavy-set teenager with a bright yellow T-shirt lumbered forward. “Here, let me show you how it works.”
The rotund boy twisted the knob and a stream of high-pressure air hissed out of a nozzle that was pointed straight at the suspended wing. Just as the air came out, the wing rose about four inches.
“I call it fast and slow. It’s based on Bernoulli’s Principle. The wing is curved just like an airplane. I suspended the wing so it can move up and down on this vertical track. The curved surface on the top of the wing causes the air to cross the top of the wing faster than the bottom. And that causes a lift, just like a plane taking off.” The boy folded his arms with an air of satisfaction. “Uh huh. Fast and slow, it gets you to fly, higher than a kite,” the boy said proudly.
“Nice job, fat boy,” someone called out. “Too bad you’ll never be light enough to fly.’’
Gil whipped around in search of the loudmouth who spouted off the insult. His reaction only caused hushed laughter among his class.
“Hey, Gil.”
The awkward silence was broken by Peck, his large shoulders filling the doorframe. “Class is over. Got to go.”
“What’s that?”
“Got you that appointment. Come on, let’s go,” Peck said.
“Appointment. What appointment?” Gil said.
“Just, wrap up this dog-and-pony show and come with me,” Peck huffed.
“You guys hang out for a few minutes until the lunch bell rings. And don’t think of skipping out early. I have this place under surveillance.”
Peck grabbed Gil’s arm and pulled him toward the door.
“Can you tell me what this is all about? What appointment were you talking about?”
“Just get in my car,” Peck snorted. “There’s a lawyer downtown who says he’ll handle your case for free. He called it pro bono.’’
They drove for nearly fifteen minutes, with Gil occasionally looking down at his watch.
“Don’t worry, you’ve got an hour lunch break, then your off-period. We have two hours. I’ll get you back on time,” Peck said.
“But all the way downtown? That’s more than thirty minutes away, if there’s no traffic.”
“Trust me, Gil. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“You’re asking the wrong question. Have you ever steered me right?”
Peck exited the freeway and turned toward the line of skyscrapers. Just then, Peck swerved the car into a nearly overflowing parking lot; one reserved for Rockies baseball games. News vans intermixed with hundreds of other vehicles from future Rockies hopefuls filled the lot. The previous week’s snow was dissolving in the hot sun.
“Peck, I don’t like this. Not one bit. I know where we are, and the Rockies aren’t in the business of defending people. You can’t be serious. I’m not going to clown around with these guys.”
“Ah come on, Gil. The Rockies need pitchers. Today is the first day of tryouts. You can’t pass this up. Besides, I know the trainer. He said he could get you to the front of the line. It’s the only way I could get you to come here. Trust me. Fate is on your side with this one.”
“No way. Just turn this boat around and sail back home. I need a lawyer, not to be made fun of on some outlandish reality television show.”
Peck shut down the engine and popped out of his seat. “They’re waiting for you. Don’t let him down. Last year the Rockies donated five thousand bucks to our athletic department. You owe it to them.”
Gil slowly got out and slammed his door shut. “Owe them what? A thank you, yes,
but free entertainment? Of all the stupid ideas.” Gil hesitated and reopened the car door, slipping his foot inside. “Peck, I am forty-four years old. That’s an old man in baseball. I am not going to make a fool out of myself.”
“I’m just doing this for you. It’s about time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself and did something about it. What have you got to lose? If it doesn’t work out, you can cross over to singing country music and write a sad song about it. Then you will have an album of your own. Seriously, Gil, this is what you have always wanted, and for some freaky reason it’s being handed to you. A gift from the gods I think.”
Peck had hit him right where it counted. Gil knew he couldn’t turn back. He clapped the door shut and started for the main gate of the stadium.
“You know this is absolutely crazy. How many forty-four-year-old pitchers have ever played in the big leagues? Maybe two?”
“But there’s never been anyone who can throw a one-hundred-and-ten-mile-per-hour fastball.”
“Peck, don’t exaggerate. I wasn’t throwing that fast.”
“That’s what we’re all about to find out.”
Gil hesitated, not sure whether he wanted to follow Peck through the giant metal gates. His head started spinning with “what ifs.” What if this baseball thing is for real? I couldn’t just leave Prairie Ridge. Peck is out of his mind. This is nothing but a pipe dream, he thought. Even if I can throw fast, I need a full package—curve ball, slider, change-up. I haven’t thrown those for twenty years.
Gil wondered—and worried—most about the recent changes in his body. He was getting stronger, his muscles firmer, and his thoughts clearer. But why?
He suddenly felt a wave of nausea. None of this was real.
