by Darin Gibby
Peck grabbed Gil’s shirtsleeve and pulled him in the direction of the shortest line. The main concourse looked as full as on opening day. Thousands of people were milling about, with baseball hopefuls queued up in two-dozen lines, while staff in white and purple Rockies T-shirts collected application and waiver forms.
TV reporters posed and pontificated in front of the cameras, some interviewing would-be players about their dreams. A pretty blonde approached Gil.
“Excuse me, sir, you tryin’ out?”
Gil nodded yes.
“Mind if we ask you a few questions on camera?”
I’m never going to get back to class in time, Gil thought.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Gil told the reporter, walking away.
“Ah, he’s too old anyway,” the cameraman told the reporter. “Probably doesn’t want to embarrass himself.”
Gil heard the wisecrack, looked over his shoulder at the guy, and kept walking.
What a circus, he thought.
“Forget them,” said Peck, “and just follow me. We don’t have time to be messing with them anyway.”
Peck pointed Gil to a line of men who had already filled out their tryout forms.
“But I haven’t filled out any—”
“I told you not to worry.” Peck pulled a wad of papers out of his jeans pocket and began unfolding them. “It’s all taken care of.”
Peck handed the attendant the forms while Gil nervously waited with his arms folded.
“This you?” she said.
“Naw, they’re for my buddy, Gil. I’m his agent.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, I need Gil to sign on the last page, then go ahead and be seated in section one twenty-three. They’ll call your name.”
She shoved a pen in Gil’s direction. He snatched it and scribbled on the highlighted line. Before he knew it, they were in the bright sun, looking over the green infield grass. Peck escorted them down the stairs and onto the field.
“Wait,” Gil said. “She said to wait in the seats.”
“Get warmed up. I’ve got it all worked out. And keep quiet out there. The cameras are rolling.”
Peck disappeared, leaving Gil in left field, his mitt dangling from his finger.
When he returned, Gil was heaving some long tosses with another pitcher. Gil blinked his eyes twice. Connor, the Rockies’ pitching coach, was at his side. “I know, I know,” Peck said, “but you’ve got to see Gil pitch. Trust me, you don’t want to miss out on this.”
“This better be good,” Connor spat back. “You warmed up? All these people have been waiting in line for hours.”
“Need a catcher,” Gil said.
Connor’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Peck. “You said he was warmed up.”
Peck shrugged. “It will be worth it. Just get him on the mound.”
Connor mumbled a few profanities and turned toward the bullpen. With Gil in tow, Peck followed.
Connor stood, arms folded, until one of the mounds became available. Connor pointed to the mound, fumbled with his watch, and said, “Get warmed up. The last thing I need is another grandpa throwing out his arm. We’ve already had three this morning.”
As Gil began throwing, a woman with a ponytail and a purple Rockies T-shirt tapped something into her iPad. “So here are the rules: He gets ten pitches of his own, then Connor asks for five of his own. We clock all of them. Placement and control are usually better than speed.”
Even hurrying his warm-up, it took Gil ten minutes until he felt confident he could put on the heat. He nodded at Connor.
“Okay, get the cameras rolling,” said the assistant with the ponytail. “You, Peck, can you look into the camera and tell your friend’s story?”
The light on the camera shone red and Peck froze. “Yeah, sure,” he finally stammered. “Gil here is the baseball coach for Prairie Ridge High. He’s been a closet pitcher for years. What nobody knows is that he may have the fastest fastball in professional baseball.”
Connor stared at the ground and shook his head.
“Well, that’s quite the claim. Let’s have a looksee. Is the speed clock on? I think it is, and I think we are ready for Master Gil to show us his stuff.”
“Go ahead,” Connor said.
“Wait,” Peck said, lunging forward. “Is it okay if I catch for him?”
“As you wish,” Connor said. “We’ve already wasted thirty minutes—what’s another thirty more?”
Gil flung his arms back and forth, while Peck took over catching duties. He then reached into the bucket and pulled out a brand-new white baseball with deep red laces and let out a deep breath. The display screen cleared and Gil knew it was live. This is crazy. Gil kicked the dirt in front of the rubber, secured his hind foot and took a full windup and let the ball fly. He casually looked at the red numbers: 72. That was horrible. He was right. He shouldn’t be here.
This time he put everything he had into it. As soon as he let go, he knew he was in trouble. Everything felt off, like a golfer who can’t find his swing. He didn’t dare look.
Peck saved him from the bother. “Come on, Gil. Eighty-one. You are throwing like a granny. Come on, get mad like you were the other day.”
Gil shook his head and gave Peck a mean stare. The old coot … This is embarrassing, he thought. Gil barely eked out a windup and flung the ball at Peck. This time the clock read 85. That wasn’t a big-league throw.
He didn’t dare make eye contact with Connor, who said nothing and shook his head.
“Dammit, Gil,” Peck grunted through gritted teeth, “get pissed off. Think about how much you are going to have to pay that lawyer.”
Connor raised his eyes then moved his gaze from catcher to pitcher.
“Speeding ticket. Okay then, just think about the entire student body of Prairie Ridge cheering for you.”
“Peck, just clam it, okay,” Gil said.
Gil collected himself. Maybe he should get ticked off, work up his anger to a boil. He flashed back to what had happened on the practice field just two weeks ago.
It was all innocent enough. The day was warm, one of those freakish March days in Colorado when the temperature spikes to near eighty, usually right before a massive blizzard is about to strike. Gil had taken the team outside for practice. He handled infield practice while Peck took the outfielders and pitchers. Gil stood at home plate, bat in one hand and glove in the other. He would hit a grounder, wait for the throw to first, and then catch the ball when it was thrown back. The trick was being able to toss the ball from his glove to just the right location in front of him so that he could sharply hit a grounder.
The practice was routine until Peck called him over to help explain how to throw a curve ball. Gil turned over the batting to the catcher, Trent Bushman.
“I need to go work with the pitchers. Keep things going, Trent.”
Gil walked toward the outfield.
The girl’s tennis team had just finished practice and they were lackadaisically skipping toward the baseball field from the tennis courts. Gil saw them coming and didn’t want the distraction. He called out to the approaching tennis players: “Please, ladies. We’re practicing. I’m sure the boys will be happy to mingle when we’re done.”
He hadn’t noticed that one of the players, Shaila, had slipped around the fence and dashed toward first base, waving her racket.
“I want a turn. I want to hit a home run.” Instead of getting a turn at the plate, she was tagged in the face with a shot from Bushman’s bat, an apparent attempt to scare her that did more than just that. Gil heard the scream, a bloodcurdling cry before she collapsed to the ground.
Flashing back to that moment made Gil sick. Stupid Bushman; that no-brained idiot, he thought. If I’d been paying attention, Shaila would never have been hit. Gil grew angry with himself and the situation that now had him on the receiving end of a major lawsuit.
Gil took a full windup and in a rage threw the baseball directly at Peck’s unprotected face. T
he speed gun clicked 87. Peck’s glove popped enough to get Connor’s attention.
Gil wiped his upper lip with his forearm and hung his head.
Connor made his way to the mound. Gil jerked to life when Connor put his hand on Gil’s shoulder, then gently squeezed it.
“Just as I thought. You are wound up tighter than my ex-wife’s ass. Come on, just loosen up and relax. I am going to go over and turn that machine off and you just throw like you are having fun. Isn’t that what you tell your own players, to have fun?”
Connor’s gentle hand instilled a new sense of determination.
Unconsciously Gil wound up, letting his mind go. Make the team or not, just having the chance to throw a ball was the real satisfaction. At least he had the chance to throw on a pro team’s field. Gil brought his arm back, then let it fly, allowing his body to take control and effortlessly project the ball.
His follow-through was so complete, his arm was a mere few inches from the ground. Gil didn’t see the ball strike his glove, but he did hear the sharp smack of leather on leather. How fast was it? It was impossible to tell with the radar turned off. Gil wasn’t thinking of that, only how good it felt for his body to flow so smoothly, like a gently meandering stream. The serene moment didn’t last.
“Holy shit!” Connor threw his hat down.
The exclamation jerked Gil to attention, back into reality. Then he saw why, the moment he glanced at the set of numbers emblazoned on the screen. Connor had intentionally left on the radar. But it wasn’t the glowing red numbers alone that bolted him upright out of his recovery stance. It was that he could see an extra digit. On the clock were three numbers, not two.
It had to be wrong, he thought. “Keep throwing Gil … Just relax,” he called out.
The ball thwapped into Peck’s mitt. “Damn!” he shouted. “You’re gonna blow a hole in my hand.” The speed clock read 105.
“I can’t believe it!” Connor sputtered.
Peck rose from his crouch and stood speechless. All pitching on the adjacent mounds came to a screeching halt, and an eerie silence fell over the bullpen. Then, a few fans in the stands who could see the clock began clapping.
Connor hitched up his sweatpants, shuffled over to the clock, and ran his index finger along each number, slowly tracing out a one, then a zero and finally a five, shaking his head each time. “Okay, cut the cameras. You heard what I said, cut them. Now!”
The cameraman flipped a switch and let the camera slide off his shoulder.
“Take another.” He flipped the switch and the red LEDs went dark.
A smile crept on Gil’s face. This was for real. Whatever was happening to turn his muscles rock solid, it was turning his arm into a superhuman pitching machine. He was being given a new chance at life. Gil plucked up another ball and rubbed it like he was polishing an apple. Okay, this time I’ll really show him, he told himself. Another full windup, a mental release of all his worries, followed by a lightning-fast rocket. Gil didn’t bother looking at his clocked speed. He knew this one was even faster. He had felt it.
“One-oh-eight,” Peck said. “This kid is for real. Nobody has ever been clocked that fast.”
Connor hurried and cleared the screen, then he made a beeline straight to the mound.
“So tell me this—have you always pitched this fast?”
“That’s a hard question. I haven’t been clocked since I pitched in college.”
“Don’t make a fool out of me, Gil. What is really going on here?”
Gil shrugged. “I really don’t know. I have noticed that I’m getting stronger. For kicks, I put up a two eighty-five on the bench the other day.”
Connor folded him arms. “How am I going to explain this?” he muttered.
“If it helps, my wife is kind of baffled too, especially with how much I eat.”
“How do you feel? Any fatigue? Insomnia? Shortness of breath?”
“Great. Fantastic, actually. Maybe a little tight every now and then, but I figured just regular soreness. At forty-four, my body doesn’t recover as fast after messing around with the team in the weight room.” That was a lie. Besides a few reps on the bench or challenging his players to a squat contest, the most he had going on exercise-wise was a mild routine of pushups, sit-ups, and light jogging. Gil massaged his chest and let out a breath. His arm did feel a little tight.
Connor stepped closer and poked his finger into Gil’s chest. “You’ve got the bicep of a twenty-five-year-old. What gives? What kind of new steroid are you on?”
Gil shrugged. “Unless the city is putting something in the water, nothing is going into this body.”
“Not bullshitting me?”
“Swear on the Bible.”
“Alright, stay right here. I can’t believe I am doing this.”
A few minutes later Connor returned with Ratcliff at his side. The two were having a heated argument, with Ratcliff’s mouth only a few inches from Connor’s ear.
“Well hurry up and throw it. I don’t have all day,” Ratcliff said, still twenty yards away.
Now it really was fun. Gil let another one rip, and it registered at 105.
Ratcliff whispered something in Connor’s ear and approached the mound.
“I want to know what you are taking, even if it is prescribed.”
Peck sprung up, threw down his glove and sprinted toward his friend. “Gil, we don’t need this kind of harassment. We’ll just go find another team.”
Ratcliff held up his hand as if he were a policeman halting traffic. His eyes were both foggy and bloodshot. “These days we’ve got to ask the question. Just keep your shirt on.”
“Look,” Connor said, “we’ve got this three-ring circus going on, and the last thing we need is some sensational story to get leaked. So here’s what we’re going to do: I want you to throw another and I want to catch it, see your control. Fastball, a little high and inside. Brush away pitch. And turn off that clock.”
Gil watched as Connor snatched the catcher’s glove from Peck then squatted his wiry frame behind the plate. Gil wondered whether it had enough mass to stop the momentum of his throw.
Another pitch, high and inside.
“Never caught a pitch that fast before. Really not on drugs?” Connor said, standing up straight and shaking his glove.
“That’s not, Gil. He’s clean. He’ll take any drug test you want. He doesn’t even drink alcohol,” Peck said with a glare.
“Would you submit to a physical?”
“Anything you want,” Gil said, “but in case you don’t already know, I’m a high school teacher. I don’t do drugs.”
“Was a high school teacher,” Connor said. “You’ve pitched before?”
“Four years at ASU.”
“What years?”
“Early nineties.”
“With an arm like that, how come nobody has ever heard of you?” Connor asked.
Ratcliff remained silent and looked straight at Gil.
“It’s a long story,” Gil said, “and I need to get back to the school.”
“Connor, see when Dr. Chavez has an opening,” Ratcliff said.
They all waited in silence as Connor whipped out his phone and placed a quick call.
“Ten tomorrow morning. That work?” Connor asked.
“Perfect,” Peck said, holding out his hand. “I will have him there.”
“Wait,” Gil said. “Can we make it another time? I have to teach my physics class.”
Connor shook his head in disbelief. “Most guys would give their left arm for this chance, and you want to negotiate. Alright, when would his royal highness like us to schedule his appointment?”
“School is out at three, but I coach—”
“Of course,” Connor said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Peck stepped between the two men to stop the bantering. “Do you have time to take a look at his slider?”
Connor pushed him aside. “One step at a time. Let’s see what the doctor says. An
d not one word of this to anyone.” Connor turned to the other pitchers who were still watching in awe. “That goes for all of you. And that footage better not leak. I’m covering my bases on this one.”
5
GIL WATCHED IN silence from the bench as his players practiced taking ground balls. After the afternoon’s excitement had worn off, giving up his life at Prairie Ridge didn’t seem like such a good idea. He loved watching his players mess around, remembering what it was like to be so carefree. They made him feel young.
“All set for tomorrow?” He felt Peck’s massive paw on his shoulder.
“I’m all set for the science fair. Look, I’ve been thinking since we got back. Yes, I’m flattered the Rockies are seriously looking at me. Yes, I’d love to be on the mound again. Yes, I’d love to be on television and all that stuff, but it’s not for me. This whole thing about me being able to pitch like a rocket isn’t for real. It can’t be. I just want to forget the whole thing and go back to my life. And please don’t tell Keri about this silly idea.”
“Now you really are crazy. You’ve got to pitch for the Rockies.”
Gil shook his head. “No, I’ve made up my mind. Even if they want me, I’m not going to play. I made my decision nearly two decades ago, and I think it was the right decision … I don’t need the sound of screaming fans in my ears to fulfill my life.”
“That’s not how you felt about it yesterday, Gil. Admit it, your life changed the minute you went to that ballpark this afternoon.”
“As I recall, you dragged me there on false pretenses.”
“No matter. You can’t go back. If you tell Connor you’re backing out, they are all going to assume you’re on the juice. The players will find the film. Trust me. And they’ll leak the film to the press, say the replacement players are all a bunch of druggies, and you refusing to take a drug test proves their point. Not to mention what the school district might do. You don’t want that.”
Gil’s jaw muscles tightened. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t go there.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He held up his hands. “If you don’t want to play, just say the word. I’ll never tell a soul.”
Gil pulled down his cap and trotted onto the field. “Hey, Sanders. That’s the way to scoop up the ball. Everyone, watch Sanders.”
