by Darin Gibby
Gil rubbed his whiskers. He knew about all of this—and it was precisely what ended his baseball career before it began.
Amid all the confusion swirling in his mind, Gil knew Peck was right. He couldn’t turn back now. For some unexplained reason, a door had opened. This was his chance; his chance to take back what he’d given up two decades ago. Yes, he’d be giving up his life of safety, but this was his dream. It would be a sacrifice, but with a huge reward. He would realize a dream—his dream on his terms.
Gil’s mind swung between good and bad like a playground swing. What if I wash out at spring training, or throw out my arm like Peck? I’d be out of a job. I wouldn’t be there to coach Austin.
Gil inhaled deeply and looked the doctor in the eye. “You tell Connor that if the Rockies pick me, I’ll give him everything I’ve got.”
“I will have all the data later today, tomorrow at the latest. I’ll call you as soon as I get the results … Hope you’re ready for this, Mr. Gilbert.
8
THE MANAGER AND his pitching coach rested their forearms on the dugout railing, their skin pocked with sunspots and deep wrinkles—coaches’ battle scars. Following two weeks of snow, the temperatures shot up into the mid-seventies, and the sun’s rays felt good on the old men’s stiff joints.
“I am sure going to miss this,” Ratcliff said, adjusting his cap.
“Me too.”
They watched as DeJesus and Melendez jogged their warm-up lap.
Tajima, who had trouble speaking English instead of Japanese, was their closer, and trailed behind. A last-minute recruit, he’d never played in America. Everything about Tajima revolved around his mother country, except his diet of hamburgers and fries and his size. No sushi for this six-foot-four-inch giant who looked as skinny as Old Abe. He thrived on calories and intensity.
Juarez leaned over to massage his right knee, which was the reason he retired the previous year. He blew out the cartilage and tore tendons. He was healed now, but his speed was gone and fielding tentative. The Rockies hired him for right field mostly because he could still crank the ball into the bleachers and because he’d help fill the seats, maybe. “What a cryin’ shame,” Ratcliff said of Juarez. “The kid could have been a Hall of Famer if he stayed healthy. After the strike ends he’ll never play again in the Bigs.”
It was the last day of spring practice before the team headed to Arizona. A few hundred fans showed up to hear the team announce its roster and to cheer the one guy who really was a big league player.
Slider. Slider. Slider.
“Should be calling him Mamma’s boy,” Ratcliff mumbled under his breath. Ratcliff panned the few spectators in the sparsely occupied bleachers, filled mostly with reporters scouting out this year’s teams. Right on the front row, struggling to contain herself, was Mamma Slider, or Mrs. Treyz, Slider’s mother. Ratcliff wondered how much of Slider’s paycheck went to flying her around the country when he was on the road. Ratcliff recruited Slider straight out of high school, after he promised Ms. Treyz that she could attend every practice. Slider’s biological father was out of the picture the day after Slider’s conception. That is, until Slider’s second year in the league, when he suddenly reappeared. Slider wanted nothing to do with him.
Slider was Ratcliff’s best find, a diamond in the rough that could end up breaking half a dozen major league records, including most hits and stolen bases. The kid was fast, an aggressive base runner, and he could hit. He built his reputation by sliding into the bases, head first, the way the great Cincinnati Red Pete Rose had done. In his first year, Slider batted a whopping .386, had 223 hits and stole 66 bases, including home twice. If he kept healthy, kept his nose clean, and stayed focused, he could be a legend. Ratcliff knew it, the fans knew it, and most important, Slider knew it. He already had an attitude and had been less than gracious to fans.
“I play ball, not raise kids,” he said one day after refusing to sign autographs for a group of VIP children, all cancer survivors.
The most levelheaded and experienced in Ratcliff’s makeshift lineup was Timber Johnson, the veteran catcher and general advice giver. He had retired after nearly a twenty-year career in baseball. When it became apparent that the Rockies needed to field a new team, Ratcliff begged Johnson to come back, at least for a month until they could get the strike settled. Johnson agreed, but only because he’d poorly invested his retirement and needed more of a nest egg. And even if he wouldn’t admit it, he missed being part of the game. He followed his teammates in tow, warming up his large, muscular thighs. He had nothing to prove.
“Good old Johnson,” Connor said. “Whatever happened to guys like him who came out every day, worked hard, got along with teammates, and stayed out of trouble?”
Ratcliff shrugged.
Johnson, who everyone called The Preacher, or just Preacher, hefted his bulky frame fully upright, still sucking in air from the wind sprint.
“I hope to God he doesn’t have a heart attack on us,” Connor quipped. “I’m getting too old for this. I’m sarcastic, politically incorrect, and will probably do something to get me thrown out on the street. You should just let me go before I say something stupid and get us all sued.”
“Can’t do that,” Ratcliff said. “Who would I find to replace you? You’re the only one I know who will work for free.”
“You know how many hungry MBA types would kill to be part of this organization? They’d pull out their computers and run numbers until the cows come home—and would do it for free. We get a handful of resumés every day.”
“I don’t need a number cruncher. I already rely on them too much. What I need is someone who can manage with his gut, tell me inside of here what I should be doing, when to pull the pitcher, when to hit and run, that kind of stuff. Besides, it’s nice to have another old-timer around. The world may have changed and passed us both by, but the game doesn’t. Never will. Baseball will always be baseball. Keep wood for the bats, horsehide for balls, and cups to protect the jewels. As long as the distance from the mound to the plate is sixty-five and you have to run ninety between bases, life will be okay.”
“And, they don’t blow up Fenway,” Connor said.
“Right. And they don’t blow up Fenway. The day the Green Monster goes, we all go.”
Preacher led the rest of the outfield, including Gonzalez, the center fielder rookie they had just obtained from Cal State Fullerton. Decent bat, worked hard, rifle of an arm, and didn’t mind getting advice from Juarez. Boclin, the only Brazilian in the majors, was slated to play left field. He’d been in the States for just under a year, desperately hoping for a career in baseball. After every at bat, Ratcliff swore he was going to cut him. But he never did. He knew he couldn’t find anyone better—and he was always good for drawing in a few South American fans to the games.
Besides Johnson and Juarez, the only other player with any real experience was Biondi, who’d been camped at first base for almost a decade. Like Juarez, Biondi had retired the year before, but had come begging for a spot on the roster after he’d discovered his accountant had embezzled his retirement. Ratcliff was only too happy to take him back. His speed was still respectable, but he too could stand to lose a few pounds. In the past two weeks, they had picked up a new second baseman and shortstop. They got Trudeau for a steal from the New York Yankees, which had dumped him at the end of the season when his contract was up. With the strike looming, no team wanted to take a chance on the aging player with a high salary. That all changed with the strike. The Rockies landed Manzi from the White Sox when he was let go after a career-ending sexual scandal in Minneapolis—and after learning the DA’s office wasn’t going to prosecute. Ratcliff was confident the change of scenery in the Rocky Mountains would pull Trudeau out of his slump and keep Manzi’s nose clean, or at least his zipper up.
Ratcliff and Connor watched as his players tossed a few balls, loosening their throwing arms.
“A bunch of misfits,” Connors huffed. “Wannabes. Brok
en-down old men. Gimps, hotheads, criminals, and a mamma’s boy.”
“I’ll be glad when tonight’s over,” Ratcliff said. “We need to fill our final spot and get down to Arizona.”
“What’s the story with that miracle man, Gil?” Connor asked. “He for real? Or did doc find out he’s juicing?”
“The preliminary test all came back clean, and trust me, we ran everything. Scoured his urine, tore apart his every red and white blood cell, even took a tissue sample. All clean. But the whole thing is weird as hell. How can some middle-age guy suddenly start throwing like that?”
“Think he’s on something undetectable?”
“He didn’t strike me that way, but you never know these days. Still, the tests all came back negative. Chavez wants him to see a specialist, but says from a liability point of view we are okay to bring him on.”
“A specialist?”
“He said we don’t need to worry about getting blindsided. He is more interested in seeing if he can find a reason for this guy’s strength. Maybe be wants to do some genetic testing. The guy’s a freak.”
“So what are you thinking?’’ Connor asked.
“I’m thinking we’ve got a pathetic pitching staff, our attendance is as low as it’s ever been, and now I’ve got a guy to fill some seats. I really don’t care if this Gil guy is some kinda mutant … and I certainly don’t want to know. Ignorance can be bliss. We’ll just put a clause in his contract that if he can’t pitch, he’s out. And if we find he’s on drugs, gone. Not much different than how we treat all the other players.”
“So I guess we have nothing to lose. Float him a few hundred grand for the season. Even if he washes out, it wouldn’t matter. We spend more than that on players we don’t even want.”
“Good point.”
9
KERI ARRIVED A few minutes before noon. She liked being early, as much as being neat and tidy. It was a way to control her life. It was fine if Gil’s life pulled him from baseball field to Saturday night gigs, but she preferred routine: morning exercise, get Austin off to school, pick up around the house, take care of a few bills, run some errands, wait for Austin to come home, and then deal with Gil. She could be spontaneous and strike up a conversation with anyone about anything. Teenagers loved her, especially Gil’s players. She was outgoing, seemed cool, and she was hot, especially for a middle-age mom. She had been a cheerleader in high school, a social butterfly, and in her mind nothing had changed since then. Her arms were still toned, she bore no wrinkles, and she could still do a string of backflips.
Keri’s social calendar only got busier when she attended ASU. Her first two years she majored in boys, dating, hanging out, and barely scraping by in classes. At the beginning of sophomore year, she had to declare a major and picked business, but it could just have easily been political science or art history.
She checked her watch. Five minutes past noon. Gil’s late again, she thought. He always had his reasons: a student needing help with homework, a problem with his lineup, a gig that went late. A group of about ten girls were huddled about the first table, shoving fries into their mouths while gossiping. She tapped out a quick text to Gil: I’ll be at one of the tables.
“Let me guess.” She turned to the familiar sound of Peck’s deep voice. “Stood you up again?”
“I’m afraid so. You know Gil.”
“I’m sure he’s got a good excuse. Mind if I have lunch with you?”
“Sure, I could use the company.”
They stood in line, amused by the latest trends in teenage fashion and how most kids tapped out messages on their smartphones, never bothering to speak an actual sentence.
“You sure you don’t want to eat with the faculty?”
“No, this is great. I love being with the students. Keeps me young.”
Keri picked out a chef’s salad when they reached the food stand, some iceberg lettuce with a chopped egg and some bacon bits on top. It came with a side of salmon-colored Thousand Island dressing. Some things never change.
Peck snatched up a hamburger, slopped on some onions and ketchup, and tailed behind Keri as she made her way to the far corner of the cafeteria, where there were still a few open tables. She’d always had a soft spot for Peck. Like Gil, his baseball career had been cut short. But unlike Gil, who had planned for a future outside of baseball, Peck had never considered that he wouldn’t always be playing ball. Peck had eked out enough credits at ASU to get a degree in psychology but in that field you needed to go for a doctorate. His undergraduate degree was essentially useless if he wanted to be a serious counselor.
Gil had managed to get him on at Prairie, mostly because Gil was desperate for a good assistant coach and Peck was willing to take the job with a meager salary. Peck taught physical education his first three years and morphed into an armchair psychologist to friends.
“I’m worried about Gil,” Keri confided. Peck raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Anything in particular?”
“All the stress about this lawsuit.” Keri shook her head. “He’s never faced anything like this.”
“I guess the stress is getting to him a little,” Peck said. “Like a few days ago, I caught him pitching balls against the backstop like the world was coming to an end. Nearly tore the leather off those balls. Tell you what, that man can throw. If I could pitch like that, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”
“He was throwing baseballs? Against a backstop?”
“Yeah, really throwing them.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange?”
Peck slid his coffee cup back and forth. “Yes and no. Like you said, he’s under a lot of stress. Better those baseballs than you. A man’s got to work off steam somehow.”
“So has Gil been working off a lot of steam lately? His middle-age tire is suddenly gone. He looks like a Roman statue. He never liked working out before. Is he trying to impress someone?” She regretted the question immediately. She’d never suspected Gil of infidelity, and she didn’t want to imply as much to Peck.
“You’re not complaining, I mean, about his body?”
“Not at all, just a little concerned. I know what it takes to look like that. If he’s not working out three hours a day, then the only way … ”
“No, Gil’s not popping pills if that’s what you think.”
“Forget I said anything. I know Gil better than anyone. You’re right. That’s not Gil. But he is stressed out about the lawsuit,” Keri said. “I was waiting until after the fair to bring it up. He can’t deal with anything else right now.”
“Okay then, let’s talk about how you are feeling,” said Peck.
“Changing the subject on me. Playing Dr. Psych again?”
“Just being a good friend. If Gil’s too busy to ask, I certainly can. Tell me about your life. Alicia’s away at school, and it’s got to be hard with her away. You spend twenty years dedicated to the kid, then all of the sudden she’s gone and you have all this free time. Thought of what’s ahead? Go back to school, pick up an advanced degree, do some travel?”
“You forget. I still have Austin.”
“Fair enough, but after that? I mean most women look to something else when the kids leave. You went to college. Don’t you want a career?”
“I used to, but Alicia changed all that.”
“But now she’s gone.”
“I don’t know. I can work that all out when Austin is finished with high school. For now, I enjoy my volunteer work.”
“But wait. You said before you had Alicia you had a career planned. If that’s what you want, why not go for it?”
“I’m not sure. When you’re young, you think lots of things.”
“But Alicia wasn’t planned.”
She didn’t know whether she should reach over and slap him across the face or just stand up and walk out. But she knew his brashness. He was going to work her over until he felt he’d uncovered every part of her soul. “Not exactly. Did Gil tell you?”
“I did the math.”
“Probing, aren’t you? You’re not going to give up until I tell you. If you think I was abused or rebelling from my parents, it wasn’t anything like that.”
“Really? That’s where I think you are wrong. Everybody runs from something.”
“Not me. I was a normal college kid coming from a normal family, if there is such a thing. Probably drank a little too much and slept through a few too many classes … and did a few things during spring break that hopefully my kids will never hear about.”
“And that’s why you exercise two hours a day, sporting a leaner figure than any girl here? You can’t tell me there’s nothing behind all that.” Peck held up both hands. “Not jumping to any conclusions, but sounds like you’re being defensive.”
“Look, I don’t have any skeletons in my closet. I exercise for the fun of it.”
“Don’t regret giving up your youth?”
“Come on, Peck. You’re not still talking about Alicia.”
“No, but since you brought it up, here’s what I think: You were loving college, being a normal, fun-loving coed, but then Gil came along, and you had a night of passion and got pregnant. And that was the end of your carefree life. You had to grow up and be responsible, and your running is your attempt to recapture what you gave up.”
“You know, Peck, I think you’re about the only person who could get away with a mouth like that. I don’t know how Gil puts up with you.”
Peck shrugged. “What did your parents think?”
Keri slapped down her fork and a boy with freckles and a mouth full of silver braces shot them a glance. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Okay, if you really want to know what happened, Mom cried and Dad was upset, but they came around, especially after they met Gil. Nothing like how Gil’s father reacted. Anyway, over time, they saw it was the best thing that ever happened. Mom is very close to Alicia, and Gil is a great father. Sometimes things just seem to work out for the best, even if we do slip up.”
