Gil

by Darin Gibby

  6

  GIL’S TEN-YEAR-OLD Ford pickup truck jostled over the cracked driveway as he approached his home, a small three-bedroom ranch with a basement, one that he’d been promising for years to finish. On a teacher’s salary and with all the hours spent away at games, plus his weekend gigs with his band, there had been no time or money to do the job right. He imagined what kind of house he could purchase if he landed a contract with the Rockies. He’d get one big enough so that the home theater could hold his entire house.

  If tonight were normal, Keri would have dinner already dished out on a plate and covered with foil, a feeble attempt to keep it warm. She’d long given up waiting to eat together. With coaches meetings after practice, it could be dark long before he got home.

  He removed the foil and tossed the dried-out chicken breast and baked potato into the microwave, too tired and hungry to care what the plate contained. He’d barely gulped down one bite when Keri slipped into the kitchen. She was already in her pajamas, a loose-fitting T-shirt, and mid-thigh shorts.

  From behind, she put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Long day?”

  “Uh huh,” he said through another bite.

  “So tell me about it,” she said, sliding her arms down his square shoulders, pausing as she reached his biceps. “I like this new exercise program you are on. Reminds me of our college days.” Keri slipped into the chair beside him, rested her chin on her arm and looked up to him in silence.

  “What?” he said, after an uncomfortable silence.

  “Nothing, just remembering what it used to be like when you were the star of the team, the big man on campus. Those were fun times.”

  “Yup.”

  “You know what’s funny, Gil?”

  He shrugged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “All my girlfriends think you are the perfect husband. You know why?”

  “Nope, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not because you can read my mind. It’s because you are a five-thousand-word husband.”

  “Now this I’ve got to hear,” he said, shoving his plate back.

  “It’s because you are a chatterbox. Women need to get in their five thousand words a day, and with you it’s easy. Once you get going, there’s no stopping you. And on women subjects too—shoes, purses, even laser hair removal. You’ve got an opinion on everything.”

  “And that makes me adorable?”

  “That, and all that muscle you’ve recently put on. Yeah, the girls can’t wait for the pool to open. The Gaudreys even invited us to Hawaii this summer. He has extra airline miles and hotel points. It would be a free trip.”

  Gil slipped his eyes down to her bare thighs. She’d had bird legs when they first met. Over the years they had filled in nicely, after the kids got older and she got hooked on running. First a few 5k races, then a 10k. She skipped the half-marathon and went straight to the full. He imagined her in a swimming suit, slathered with oil. Her naturally blonde hair that first caught his gaze at the frat party was now streaked with brown and cut shoulder length. He knew she’d have it pulled back into a ponytail, and she’d be nice and tan. That part would be nice. The neighbors he could do without.

  “I think we’ll pass. Hawaii sounds good, but not with the Gaudreys,” Gil quipped.

  “Oh come on, it would be fun,” Keri pleaded. Gil shot her a look, shaking his head.

  “Okay, I’ll drop it,’’ she relented. “So, give me my five-thousand-word fix. Have anything you want to tell me?”

  “Crap,’’ Gil muttered. Keri obviously knew. “So, Peck opened his big mouth? He just can’t keep a secret.’’

  “Gil Gilbert. Why are you keepin’ secrets from me, especially big ones?’’

  “I was going to tell you, honest. But I needed to know for sure before I said anything.”

  “So what is going to happen to us? What about the house?”

  “New house,” he said. “I promise, first thing I will do.”

  Keri burst out crying. “Gil, that isn’t funny. We could lose everything. You know how much lawyers cost?”

  Gil immediately recognized his blunder. With all the excitement about the Rockies, he’d completely forgotten about the lawsuit. Keri was asking about the lawsuit.

  He slipped his arm around her and pulled her body close to his, getting a fresh whiff of her night cream. “I’m sorry,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I should have told you, but I didn’t want you to worry about it, or at least I didn’t want to deal with it until the fair was over.” He reached out and took her hand. “What have you heard?”

  “That her family is after big money, and they are using you to get it.”

  “I honestly don’t get it. The kids were just messing around after practice. It was just an unfortunate accident. The object of baseball is to hit the ball. I can’t help it if she got too close.”

  “Well, people are saying that it wasn’t just an accident, and that they have some evidence that proves the injury could have been avoided.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  “They say it is something you don’t want in the papers, and that it will force you and the school district to settle before going to trial.”

  Gil shrugged. “I still have no idea. We were just winding up practice, and I was teaching the guys a few pitches. Not sure how that would be something I was trying to hide. Even then, so what? You know as well as I do that we don’t have any money. Why sue me?”

  “I called Gaudreys’ attorney. He said the school is required to defend you and that the only way they could come after you personally is if you completely disregarded district policies.”

  “There are no district policies on this kind of stuff. It’s all nonsense, and you should stop worrying about it.”

  “But what if the school district has to pay up? Are you going to get fired?”

  “Stuff like this happens. Nobody did anything wrong!”

  She leaned forward and kissed him. “I guess you’re right. It could be worse. Could be one of those sexual harassment charges that are flying around.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  She stood up and he pulled her beside him.

  “Now what else aren’t you telling me?”

  He had never lied to her, at least not about anything that mattered, and he didn’t want to start now. But his pitching escapade needed to stay a secret until he was sure it was for real, so he changed the subject. “So your friends really want to see me with my shirt off?”

  She reached around and pinched him from behind. “You know what I think? I think you are sneaking off and going to the gym. This thing is as hard as a rock.” Then she rubbed her hands across his chest. “Your pecks are bigger than mine.”

  “Just making sure you don’t have any incentive to run off with the milkman.”

  “I just hope you are doing this for me, and not some fling. You would tell me if you start going through some midlife crisis, right? I just read this magazine that says now is the time for most men.”

  He pulled her tight, feeling her body mold to his. “No chance of that. I’m not that stupid.”

  That prompted a kiss.

  “Go watch SportsCenter. I know that’s what you want. And don’t forget about lunch tomorrow. Wait until you see my idea for this year. I think you are going to like it.”

  With all that was going on, he had forgotten. It was a tradition between them. On the day of the fair she always came to school for lunch then stayed the rest of the day to oversee decoration of the gym before the students arrived.

  “Right,” he said. “At noon, just like always.”

  He found Austin doing homework in front of the TV, watching SportsCenter highlights. They were winding down a story about how March Madness was just around the corner, and then went on to a segment on the developments with baseball tryouts. Gil paused, hoping the big media teams, like the Yankees or Giants, would lead the story.<
br />
  “Hey, Dad,” Austin said without looking up.

  “I see you’re getting a lot of studying done.”

  “Enough. Hey, did you know someone threw a hundred-and-five pitch today at the Rockies tryouts? Said it was some old guy.”

  “Didn’t hear,” Gil said. “How was practice today?”

  “Boring. I wish I was a freshman, then you’d be my coach.”

  “No. Coach Peck runs the freshman team.”

  “Yeah, but you’d be on the next field.”

  “You need to get into high school first, so hit the books.”

  “Okay, but I want you to coach me. You gotta get me ready to play for the Yankees. I’m gonna get a contract for ten million bucks, and then I’m gonna buy you and Mom a new house.”

  “We don’t need a new house, but I’ll help you get that big contract, sport. Now hit the books.”

  7

  THE MEDICAL OFFICE of Dr. Michael Chavez was located in a low-rise in the heart of Cherry Creek, near the posh shopping mall and mansions. That’s where all the athletes chose to settle down, amid country clubs and quaint boutiques where their wives could spend their money. Chavez was more than just an orthopedic surgeon; he was the first point of contact for any medical issue facing Rockies players. From strep tests to migraines, all the players went to Chavez, the best in the business. The other professional teams used his services as well. Football and hockey injuries kept him busy most of the year. Once you are the official doctor of a sports team, everyone wants you, from weekend warriors with a blown ACL to high school kids with broken limbs. Gil nervously fidgeted in the waiting room, studying the signed jerseys and sports memorabilia, from autographed footballs encased in glass to photos of Denver’s most memorable victories. Alone, he could sense the gaze of the receptionist, an obvious patron of the plastic surgeon’s services next door, with pouty lips, a petite nose, and an oversized chest—one that even his couldn’t compete with.

  If all went well, Gil would be back at school by lunch, ready to help out organizing the science fair tables in the gym while Keri took care of the decorations; then baseball practice, a quick change of clothing, and back to the gym for a final review before the guests arrived. Dinner would happen when he got home.

  “Mr. Gilbert?”

  Gil looked up, expecting to see an attendant ready to escort him in. Instead, he was greeted by a middle-aged man with a deeply tanned face, devoid of wrinkles. He was wearing a crisply pressed light-blue shirt and a yellow patterned tie. He was holding out his hand.

  “I am Dr. Chavez.”

  Gil shook his hand. “You can call me Gil, everyone else does.”

  Dr. Chavez escorted him into a small room with a reclining table and stool. “Have a seat,” he said, watching as Gil shimmied himself onto the tissue-covered table, then sat himself on the round stool.

  “Okay, here are the ground rules. We are both busy men, and there is no need to waste each other’s time or the team’s money. As a doctor, everything between you and me is confidential, at least for now. Before I begin the examination, I am going to require you to sign a release so that anything I discover, or anything you disclose to me, goes straight to the front office. But for now, it is all off the record. Comprehend?”

  “Look, if you think I am on drugs, I can save you a bunch of time.”

  Dr. Chavez raised his hand. “No need to take offense. I have been in the business a long time. I ask everyone, no exceptions. You could be the NBA MVP and I would still ask. I have been burned too many times.”

  Gil flashed a warm smile. “Oh, I understand. You should teach high school. The excuses those kids come up with.” Gil looked at his watch. “I have nothing to hide. Let’s get going. I will sign anything.”

  “We will start with you reviewing and executing the paperwork. Then, I will do a full physical. After that, the lab work.”

  “And you can do that here?”

  “Yes, the initial urine and blood samples we take here, then send them over to the lab. The results will be in by tomorrow.”

  “Then I guess I am ready.”

  Gil was supplied with a mountain of papers—waiver and consent forms that were so hard to decipher he felt like he should have brought an attorney. He pretended to read each page, shuffling through them like he’d seen his own students do when they weren’t prepared for a test and were merely going through the motions. Then he signed them all.

  Dr. Chavez had him strip down to his underwear, then ran a routine physical, poking him, feeling his prostate and listening to his breathing through a stethoscope, all in silence.

  “Have you always been in this good of shape?”

  “I try to keep fit, being a coach and all.”

  “I understand, but you have the physique of a man half your age. To maintain this level of conditioning takes a lot of work.”

  “Well, I have been a little more intense the last several weeks.”

  “Like? Be a little more specific.”

  “Lots of push-ups and sit-ups, and I have been throwing a lot more in practice.”

  Dr. Chavez frowned. “Tell me about how you are feeling. Any changes in health, illnesses, do your bowels move every day?”

  “I’m good, really.”

  Dr. Chavez ripped off his stethoscope. “Gil, you need to understand something—you and I are on the same team here. I’m not the enemy.”

  “I understand, but I am not hiding anything, even if you do control my destiny.”

  “That I do, but believe me, with the strike and the Rockies’ desperate need for a starting rotation, I would love to do anything to help them. You see, you have got to give me something to work with here. I can’t go back to Connor without some kind of explanation on how you out of the blue start throwing a baseball faster than anyone on the planet. I’ve seen the film maybe fifty times. Your mechanics are solid, but I am here to tell you as a sports doctor that the human arm was not made to throw that fast. With the kinds of forces you are generating, bones snap and tendons tear. If you aren’t doing drugs, then what on God’s planet is going on inside of your body?”

  Gil slumped his shoulders. “Honestly?”

  “I’ve got to know the truth. Otherwise, I can’t let you within five hundred miles of training camp. When the press hears about a guy throwing close to one-ten, they are going to swarm here like flies on crap, and we’ve got to have something to tell them. And if it isn’t drugs, then we’d better have a darn good story … I need the truth.’’

  “The truth is that I have no clue what is happening to me.”

  Dr. Chavez grabbed a writing pad and slipped a pen out of his shirt pocket. “Continue.”

  “Four or five months ago, I started noticing changes; I started to gain muscle all over.” Gil gestured with his hands as he spoke, making curvy lines all over his body. “You know, like when old people start growing hair in unwanted places? But for me it was muscles. It was weird. I’ve stepped up my push-up and sit-up routine, run a little more and things like that, but that’s all. I am baffled, and frankly, a little bit scared. There is no way I can tell Keri.”

  “Your wife? I can’t believe she hasn’t noticed.”

  “Oh, she’s noticed, her and half the women in the neighborhood. My wife thinks I have been hanging out in the gym, some sort of mid-life crisis, but that’s not true. I can’t explain it. Frankly, one of the reasons I agreed to meet you was because I need some answers.”

  “Tell me anything out of the ordinary, besides the muscle growth.”

  “There’s not much to tell. Maybe a little tightness in the chest, but nothing a normal body wouldn’t experience. Feels kind of like the day after a good bench workout. You know, a good kind of stiff, something you would expect. And I probably eat a little more, but I just figured that my appetite tracked my running.”

  Gil searched the walls for a clock, but realized that doctors never put clocks where patients can see them. He checked his watch. It was almost eleven thirty. I
f he left now, he would barely make lunch. When he looked up, Dr. Chavez had placed his notepad next to the sink and had crossed his legs. “You’ve looked at your watch a dozen times.”

  “Busy day today. I run a science fair. Tonight is the grand finale, parents come, the press send a few notables, and we award some great scholarships.”

  Dr. Chavez nodded at his file. “I ran a Google search on you. Didn’t realize how popular your science classes were. Lots of local coverage on the science fair.”

  “I enjoy it, most of the time. Teenagers in America these days are falling behind the rest of the world in math and science. Whatever I can do to help.”

  “I am going to need to do a CT scan, and I don’t have that in my office. Can I get you to run down to the medical center?”

  “Right now?”

  “I am afraid so. The start of the preseason is just around the corner, and the starting rotation has some gaping holes. The Rockies need to make a decision by tomorrow.

  “Before you go, I do have one more matter of business. Go ahead and sit down. I need to know why you want to be a major league pitcher. Are you really ready to turn your life upside down, because, if they sign you, everything will change.

  “Your life as a teacher and high school coach will be over. You’ll be on the road, living in hotels, hanging out with players half your age, most of whom think life owes them a living. There will be temptations, lots of women. And the pressure—the media will uncover every stone, find every skeleton. You think I am hard on you, or that Connor is in your face, just you wait. There will be cries for drug tests before and after every inning you pitch. They’ll want a private investigator following you around twenty-four-seven, picking your turds out of the toilet to see what in your system is making you pitch so fast. Think of it. You can’t even take a crap in peace. And this is all off the field. Wait until your own fans start booing you, or the catcalls you will get in New York. Can you emotionally handle the life of a big leaguer? Can you keep it together while pitching with the bases loaded, with Connor telling you that you are off the team unless you can pitch yourself out of the inning? Can your wife handle the tabloids? What is she going to do the first time a woman claims she is carrying your baby?”