by Darin Gibby
He wriggled his right foot into the freshly dug trench and nestled it against the hard rubber. He again adjusted his cap, clenching the tip of the bill between his right thumb and index finger, then let it slip free and fall into his glove, where he found the familiar feel of leather and stitches.
Gil gripped the ball along the seams and tossed the ball at Preacher, who was still standing up. He was just playing catch; there was no need to be a hero and pull out his arm.
After a few minutes, Preacher crouched down, pulled his mask over his face, and waved. “Okay, time to bring on the heat. Give me what you’ve got.”
It was a mild day, barely over seventy degrees, but Gil felt a drip down his forehead and onto his eyebrow. He flicked it away. He sensed the gaze of his teammates. His heart raced. He shook his head and took a deep breath. All was still. Eyes from the other pitchers fixed on him and the speed clock behind the backstop. Connor folded his arms across his chest, clenched his jaw and stared with the intensity of a perched eagle looking for prey.
Gil came up out of his stance. He could feel the glares. He again wiped his brow, found the grip on the laces and held up his glove to hide the pitch. Gil positioned his fingers over the seams and cradled the ball with his thumb. He’d start with a four-seam fastball, an easy pitch to control, but also an easy one to hit. Pitching is like golf. Swing a golf club nice and easy and you send the golf ball sailing toward the green. Take a big cut, and you’ll duff it. Gil told his high school players to think of the ball as an egg, one that needed to be handled softly. The grip between the ball and his palm felt right; maximize backspin, minimize friction, he reminded himself.
His mechanics worked out. Gil fired a fastball right at Preacher’s chest. Preacher’s glove exploded with a leathery pop.
The large catcher stood and studied his glove, rolling the ball over and over. “Holy crap,” Preacher said. He looked over his shoulder at the clock. 104. “Nobody’s going to hit that,” Preacher mumbled to himself.
Tajima removed his cap and scratched his head. “I swear that pitch rose. I know that’s impossible, but I swear I saw it. Fans are going to think he can make his four-finger rise.”
The Japanese pitcher was right. No one—at least no one he’d ever heard of—could make a ball thrown overhand actually rise.
“What else you got?” Preacher said, trying not to look too enamored.
Gil lifted his cap and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Used to have a decent curveball and a slider on the days it decided to cooperate.”
“Definitely going to need some good breaking pitches to complement that fastball. Bring it!”
“Let’s see your curve first,” Connor called out.
The curveball was the perfect complement to a really fast fastball. If thrown correctly, the ball would come in high, and just as it reached home plate it would suddenly dive toward the dirt, as much as two feet, causing most batters to swing over the ball. When it isn’t thrown with enough spin—or speed—a curveball will “hang’’ over home plate without falling, making an easy mark for hitters. Gil had taught lots of high school pitchers how to throw a good curveball. “Grip the ball like you were shaking someone’s hand,” he’d say.
Gil let the ball fly. It didn’t have quite enough spin, but its sheer speed created enough friction to make it dive into the dirt a foot before reaching Preacher’s mitt.
“Not bad. Let’s see your slider.”
Gil hated throwing sliders, mostly because of his inconsistency in getting the right combination of spin and speed. In college, his slider often didn’t slide, coming in straight instead, and batters creamed it.
Keeping his wrist loose, he threw it hard, like it was his fastball. Preacher dipped his glove to snatch it up before it crashed to the ground. “Nice movement. Got anything else? Knuckle, splitter, change-up?”
“Not for this old-timer. I like to keep things simple. I always tell my players that two good pitches are better than a handful of mediocre ones.”
“A lot to be said for that,” Connor said, “but for you, we’ll work on some others.”
Gil’s focus was so intent that he failed to notice that the rest of the team had stopped their drills, both outfielders and infielders, and had closed in on the pitching mound. They were all standing behind him, arms folded, shaking their heads at what they had just witnessed. Even his breaking balls were clocking in the nineties.
Ratcliff, watching from the stands, shimmied off his seat and trotted over to the fully-assembled team. Slider was feverishly kicking at the dirt. “I can see that we’re not going to get much done until we get this over with.”
Slider snatched up a stray bat. “Come on, give me your biggest and baddest fastball.”
Nobody came to Gil’s rescue. Preacher reached down and snatched up his mask. With a batter up, he’d need the protection.
Slider took two practice swings. “Okay, give me what you got.”
Ratcliff raised both hands and began waving like a football referee calling the end of a play. “If we are going to do this right, let’s take the fight out of this sandbox and onto a real field. Come on everybody. Back to the field, and Slider I want you wearing a helmet. The last thing I need is for you to get hit in the head and I get slapped with a lawsuit.”
Gil lagged behind as he followed the eager players to the main field, where the preseason games were played. Practices were open to the public, and with news of Gil’s arrival, a large crowd of fans spotted the stands. As the players huddled around second base, some of the fans hopped down the stands to get a better view.
Preacher came up beside him. “So here is the plan: First one high and tight. Fast as you can throw it. Really brush him back, let him know you mean business. The rest, all sliders. He can’t hit low and into him. You are both righties, and he can’t hit your slider when it’s zipping down to his ankles. Trust me, I know. Got it?”
“I think so, but it doesn’t seem like such a good idea to try taking down your best batter on my first day of practice.”
“Yes it does. You’ll see why none of us can stand him. They’ll all be thanking you. And, if you don’t let him know who’s boss, he might just hit that fastball of yours, no matter how fast you throw it.”
Gil took a few more warm-up throws then waited for Slider to step in the batter’s box.
“Give me all you got, Teacher. Don’t hold nothing back. I don’t want to hear any excuses when I crank this baby over the centerfield fence.”
A few cameras popped out in the stands—incognito sports writers who now smelled a story. The filming crew set up just off of third base.
Gil kicked at the rubber, readied his glove, and gripped all four seams. Preacher crouched himself behind the plate and wiggled his index finger to Gil’s right, signaling he wanted Gil’s pitch to go inside.
“Come on, you afraid?” Slider wouldn’t shut his mouth.
Preacher’s right, Gil thought. He hurled at Slider’s left shoulder, causing Slider to jump backward, clear out of the box. Preacher’s glove thwapped.
Slider took two steps toward Gil. “So that’s how it’s going to be between you and me? Cut the crap and put one over the plate before I shove this piece of lumber down your throat, unless you’d like it up your ass instead.”
Slider made his way back to the plate and steadied his helmet. He took a few swings slicing the air with his solid arms. “Just put it over the plate. Over the plate. On the dope, aren’t you, old man?” he taunted.
Preacher set up, low and tight next to Slider’s knees. Gil nodded. The moment the ball left his hand, Gil knew he had a winner. The ball whizzed straight toward the middle of the plate, but its rapid rotation made it dive toward Slider’s ankles just as it came within reach of Slider’s bat.
“Strike one,” Ratcliff called out.
“Got lucky with one pitch. Come on, throw me something else. I want to see that fastball. None of this slider crap.”
“A slider for a Slider,” Bi
ondi said, moving toward his position at first base. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
Preacher signaled for the same pitch. Gil hurled the ball. It followed the same path, and Slider once again missed.
“Strike two,” Ratcliff called. “Throw him a fastball, right over the middle. I want to see whether he can hit it when he knows what’s coming.”
Gil could hear shouters clapping in the stands. He took the ball in his hand, rolled it in his glove and located the four seams. Gil reared back, reaching as far as his arm could go, then shot the ball forward with all he had.
Slider took a full swing, but the ball was in Preacher’s mitt before he even got the bat around. The clock read 107.
“Damn! What was that?” Slider said.
“That was our ticket to the post-season,” Preacher said, standing and holding up the ball. “I think there is smoke coming off it. Fastest pitch I ever saw.”
Slider yanked off this helmet and flung it to the dirt. He meaningfully strode up to the mound and shoved his bat into Gil’s face. “Don’t you go making fools of us. If you are on the juice, I want to know it. Right here and now. We don’t need any of that crap on this team. You can come clean now, and we’ll just forget all this happened.”
Connor ran to the mound and slapped down the bat. Ratcliff took a step then stopped. He’d let his pitching coach handle this one. “He’s clean, Slider. We checked.”
“I’m not buying it,” Slider said. “No human can throw that fast. This guy is a demon. He’s got a new drug you can’t detect.”
“No drugs,” Gil said.
14
GIL WAITED UNTIL the door to his room clapped shut before he ripped out the large envelope from his duffle bag. It was his contract. He wanted to call Peck, to discuss its terms with a former player, but he remembered his promise to Keri.
His hands were shaking as he ran his finger along the seal, tearing a big chunk of the tan colored paper as he did. Gil didn’t know why he was so nervous. He knew he would take anything they offered. But something in Ratcliff’s voice when he handed him the offer made him cautious.
“Glad to have you on board, Gil,” Ratcliff had said. “You are going to be a critical part of our success. And Lord knows we need it. This is going to be one crazy year. You understand that the strike could settle any day. And, if it does, we can’t guarantee your position. But, if you end up playing all season and do a good job, next year we’ll consider you for a permanent position.”
Gil started reading the first paragraph, something about Gil desiring to play baseball for the Rockies and the Rockies desiring to engage Gil’s services as a player. The document was loaded with legal jargon.
I should call Keri, he told himself. I promised. No, I should call a lawyer. Almost all players used agents, not only to argue for better terms, but to sort through all the confusing contractual clauses. But agents took a cut of the deal, and giving up a percentage of what was sounding to be like a meager offer didn’t sound attractive.
He collapsed on the bed and fumbled on the nightstand for the phone. He dialed his cell and waited for an answer.
“Well, it’s official,” he said when Keri answered. “I have a contract.”
“And, what does it say?” she eagerly asked. “Are you a millionaire?”
“We’re going to find out together.
“What, Gil, you really haven’t read it yet?”
“Not past the first sentence. I figured we could read it together.”
“You’re making progress. Okay, so go ahead.”
As Gil labored through the language, loaded legalese, Keri didn’t speak a word, but he could hear her breathing.
“They are screwing us, Gil,” she finally interrupted. “How much, Gil? What’s the number?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand?”
“That’s it?’’ she said, exasperated. “That’s next to nothing. They’re going to plaster you all over TV, make you pitch a whole season, and then dump you when the real players come back.”
“I am a real player,” Gil said sheepishly. “And one hundred and fifty grand is three times what I make now; and I only make that much because I coach and teach. Remember, I’m a replacement player. I don’t really have a choice.”
“That’s a tenth of what the pitchers who have an ERA over six make. And what is the crap about only giving you five thousand a month and holding the rest until you finish the season?”
“ERA? I didn’t know you knew what that even meant.”
“Give me some credit, Gil. You know how many of your Friday afternoon games I’ve watched over the years?”
“But they did give me an incentive, and I really do think they are running low on cash, what with the strike and all.”
“Until you show up and fill the stands,” Keri huffed. “I say turn it down and look for another team. Read it to me again. What incentives are they giving you?”
He reread the contract, speaking slowly and letting Keri absorb their future. When he’d finished, she spoke. “Okay, now what was that about drug tests and moral turpitude? That worries me more than anything.”
“Moral turpitude is no big deal. I’m sure every contract has this. The owners require this so if the player does something really bad, like statutory rape, they can cancel the contract.”
“So why don’t more get canceled, with all the off-field antics, I mean?”
“Because if a player can win games, a few flings on the side isn’t going to get him fired.”
“Are you worried about the lawsuit?”
In the suddenness of what had transpired in only a few days, Gil had completely forgotten about his own legal problems. He’d made no attempts to settle the case. Even worse, he refused to contact a lawyer, assuming the school district would defend him. The pretrial conference, a meeting where the judge scheduled discovery and a trial date, was rapidly approaching. Normally, nobody other than the lawyers showed up for these meetings, but if Gil signed a contract with a major league team, that could all change. Lots of people would be interested.
“I’m hoping that all goes away. I didn’t do anything.”
“You know that it won’t. With this, it will only get worse.”
“That just means the Rockies have an easy out if they want to get rid of me.”
“And what about these drug tests? You told me you were cleared.”
“After the steroid scandal, every player has to consent to this. They want to check my urine once a week, and make me take a blood test once a month. That’s what our world has come to, unfortunately.”
“You also said there was also something about being healthy?”
“That’s got to be standard language. If you are too sick to play, the team doesn’t want to pay you to sit on the bench. It’s all just lawyer stuff. They are just covering their bases.”
The line momentarily went silent. “Promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You promise?”
“Sure.”
“Well, actually two things—that you won’t get mad at me, and that you will go see another doctor.”
“How many doctors do you want me to see? Between you and the Rockies, when am I going to have time for baseball?”
“You promised.”
“Can’t we count my physical from the Rockies’ doctor?”
“No, I found my own.”
“Keri.”
“You promised.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No yeah buts.”
“Let’s not get hung up on this. I want to talk about my contract. Is all this really worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
“Alright, if they are going to gamble on you, let’s raise the stakes a bit. Don’t change anything, but just add a few more incentives.”
“Like?”
“If the strike doesn’t end and you have a twenty-game season then a two-hundred-thousand dollar bonus, and throw in another hundred if you take the Cy You
ng Award. And let’s talk playoffs. I think a cool two-fifty if you win the first round, another five hundred for the League Championship Series, and a million for the World Series.”
“Are you serious? I don’t think they will go for it. They know they’ve got me. I’ve quit my job, and they have me hostage here in Arizona. It’s take it or leave it.”
“I am dead serious. If the Rockies make it, it will only be because of your arm. And you can’t tell me they won’t have the cash to pay.”
“You really think I’m going to win, don’t you?”
“I have always believed in you, Gil. I thought you could go pro out of college, but now I can see why I wasn’t so excited about it. It’s funny how life has a way of working things out. You stay home, raise a great family, have a great career, then when you least expect it, your dream comes true.”
“You’re just trying to butter me up so I will ask for more money.”
“That too. But I do think you are going to take baseball by storm and be the hottest thing since the Golden Boy.”
“You know about Mantle?”
“I told you I know my baseball.”
15
“SO WHEN ARE we going to start him?” Ratcliff asked Connor. “First game of the preseason is tomorrow, we’re only two weeks away from the season opener, and we are still in the dark as to whether he’s any good.”
“He’s so green, I just can’t see putting him in yet. If this were a normal year, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. He’d spend the entire year in the minors.”
“You’re forgetting that everyone is green, except for the ones that are already over the hill.”
“True. Maybe we’ll try him a few innings this week.”
“The front office is putting pressure on me to give him the nod. Full start, not just an inning here and there. He’s already got an incredible fan base. Twenty thousand followers on Twitter, and he isn’t even tweeting. If we put him on the mound, all these seats are going to fill up. And isn’t that what it’s all about anyway?”
