by Darin Gibby
“Did he sign the contract?”
“Last night. Gil did some more negotiating. Worked out an ‘eat and kill’ deal. The more he kills, the more he eats.”
“So he’s got to win to get paid. I like that. But what if we don’t start him?”
“That’s the issue. We don’t want to be accused of breaching the contract by not giving him the chance to win. Plus, the front office wants him to play. Speed will sell tickets, even if he can’t win. Fans will show up just to see him crank out a hundred-and-seven-mile-per-hour fastball.”
“Damn circus is what it’s going to be. It’s like the old home run race between Sosa and McGwire, and you know how that ended up.”
“Exactly what the front office wants. You ask a hundred baseball fans, and they could never tell you how the season ended up for Cubs or the Cards, but they could tell you how many home runs they hit.”
“And what steroids they were on.”
“That’s not going to be the case with Gil. We’ll make him like Tebow, clean-cut, puts God and family first, but then God gives him this ungodly arm, right out of the blue, and he has no choice but to use it. For the glory of God, right? We can come up with some kind of prayer chant for him. He’ll whip the crowd into a frenzy.”
Connor raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure that’s what we want. No team owner wanted Tebow because the fans booed whenever he sat on the sidelines. If a guy can’t win, the fans won’t stick around forever, no matter what his charm, or his arm.”
“Let’s just hope he really is clean.”
“We’ll give him the standard drug tests that the league requires. Not sure what else we can do. Dr. Chavez couldn’t find anything. Just keep poking him, running the tests and keeping a medical log. And, his contract gives us permission to release the results to the press. No secrets here. If he’s clean, we’ll tell everyone. But even the controversy itself will sell tickets. It’s been a long time since Coors Field was packed. I sort of miss the ringing in my ears.”
“I thought we had Chavez run some additional tests, just to make sure.”
“We did, even though the rules don’t require it.”
“And the results come back when?”
“Two or three days.”
“You’re not thinking about opening day?”
“Not a chance. You know how ticked off Melendez would be? He’s going to be our ace this year, and we can’t afford to do anything to screw him up in the head. His wife’s a real mental case. He’ll never hear the end of it if he isn’t king this season.”
“Alright, if he’s clean we’ll start him for the third regular season game with the Cards. We’ll see how he throws on the road. Why don’t we get him some playing time tomorrow against the Mariners, and if he doesn’t make fools out of all of us, he may get one more start before the season opens. Plenty of time to see his stuff and get the word out.”
16
GIL THREW OPEN his hotel room door, presented himself in the mirror, and slipped out his contact lenses. He rubbed his whiskers and studied his face. His cheekbones were more pronounced. The conditioning drills were beginning to show, wringing the last ounces of fat off his already lean physique. The practices were more demanding than he imagined, much more intense than what he put his own players through.
Weight training during a high school season was almost nonexistent, but professional ball required him to pump the iron at least twice a week. Cardio drills were daily, with only Sunday being spared.
Exhausted, he yearned for his bed. Gil sprawled out, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. Keri taught him to meditate years ago to reduce the stress of coaching. Freeing his mind for just a few minutes each day brought a new perspective to life. In recent weeks, these silent moments took on a new meaning—a daily log of how much more laborious it was to breathe.
Sliding his phone off the counter, Gil fell back onto the firm mattress and dialed home, waiting for Keri’s face to appear on the screen. Keri preferred just talking, but Gil hated talking to the ceiling. The screen illuminated with the familiar bookshelf situated in his home office, and Keri, wearing a sweatsuit and baseball cap, warmly greeted him.
“Like my outfit?” she said.
“Take the dog for a walk?
“No, just haven’t gotten around to showering. We have unexpected company.”
Another face slipped onto the screen, a younger version of Keri, but with no wrinkles and dyed blonde hair.
“Alicia, what are you doing home?”
“Mom will tell you. Got to finish unpacking.” Her face flitted away as fast as it entered.
“She quit school?” Gil asked.
“She wants to take a leave, just for a quarter. Boy trouble.”
“With Zach? What happened? He didn’t do anything to her.”
“Oh no, other than putting pressure on her to get married. She wants to talk to you about it alone, so I won’t steal her thunder.”
“But why come home from school?”
“Gil, you should know your daughter by now. She can’t be pressured. She wants to have some time alone to think through where her life is going. You know how she is; she has to talk everything through. She got that from your genes.”
“And I’m not there to be her sounding board.”
“You’ll be home soon enough. That’s one of the reasons she came home. She needs some fatherly advice and with your new job, she wouldn’t be able to see you. Now she can come to all your games.”
“But she hates baseball.”
“Not anymore. Not with such a famous father. And that reminds me—Austin is really upset.”
“I am?” came a high-pitched voice.
Gil watched as his son’s face appeared next to Keri’s.
“Hi, Austin. What’s up?”
“English class,” Keri reminded her son.
“Oh yeah, Dad. You know how we are going over tall tales: Paul Bunyan, Johnny Appleseed, Jack and the Beanstalk, and that kind of stuff? Anyway, Cole said you were nothing but a tall tale. I told him to shut up, and he said you were a fake, that you were taking drugs and when the real players came back you’d be out on the street without a job. I punched him, but then one of his friends jumped on me. Half the class piled on before Mr. Stinson could call security.”
Keri rubbed her fingers through his hair. Gil could see a red welt on his cheek. “Why don’t you finish your homework?”
“I already did it.”
“Then find something else to do,” Keri huffed.
“So you want me to leave? I’m not stupid.”
“Your father and I have a few things we need to discuss.” She pushed him away and closed the door.
“I don’t have a good feeling about any of this,” Gil said. “Alicia needs me, Austin’s now throwing punches, and my body is feeling hammered.”
“It gets worse. The camera crew showed up today. They film everything, wander into our bedroom, you name it.”
“Austin’s black eye?”
“Yep. And you know Austin. He can’t stop himself. He gave me a play-by-play of his little skirmish at school. You know it’s going to be on national television.”
Gil stroked his chin. “This is all too much. Are you sure we should be doing this? I mean, look at what it did to the Kardashians. And what about my health?”
“If it helps, I found a specialist. Maybe we’re worried about nothing. I think we will all feel better if we have an expert look at you.”
Gil paused, but didn’t put up a fight. “When?”
“They’ll fit you in as soon as you are back in town. You’re quite the celebrity these days. Just let me know your schedule.”
“We can talk tomorrow. Are you still coming?”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
17
IN A NORMAL spring training game between the Rockies and the Seattle Mariners, finding a good seat was not a problem. But not when the Rockies announced that Gil was going to be on the mo
und. As Gil poked his head out of the dugout, a third of the seats were already filled. In the dazzling sunlight, he lowered his cap and trotted to the bullpen for warm-ups. Cameras were everywhere—in the team room, in the dugout, on the field, with the fans. It was crazy.
Not everyone was cheering. The fluorescent, hand-painted signs were impossible to dismiss: Go home scabs, read one billboard. Gil’s a fake, read another. Gil wondered where his family was sitting and what they were thinking.
The game proceeded to the fourth inning when Ratcliff nodded to Connor, who gave the sign to the bullpen. Gil was up.
“Go get ’em, Gil,” Slider yelled, whipping a ball to Biondi on first base. Slider punched his glove in the direction of the press box, waving for their attention. “You don’t want to miss this,” he yelled. Gil kept his focus on the green blades of grass as he plodded through the outfield.
“They’re going to clobber him,” Slider said to Manzi as he eased his way over to the shortstop. “Man, can I tell you how much I don’t like that guy? Gil Gilbert. What a stupid name. My bet is that Ratcliff yanks him before he gets two outs. They’ll have batted the lineup by then.”
By the time Gil made his way to the mound and kicked a few sprays of dirt from in front of the rubber, he could hear the shutters clicking. He tried not to look up, but to focus his gaze on the catcher’s mitt. The tosses were soft, just enough to loosen his shoulder. The heat wouldn’t come until he was facing a batter. His chest felt a little tight. He threw one a little harder, wondering if this was going to be a repeat of when he’d frozen on his first day of tryouts.
Before the umpire called for the first batter, Connor took off for the mound. “Okay, here’s the deal: We’re taking a big chance on you, and you’ve got to deliver. Just remember that baseball isn’t about throwing fast. Pitchers get us outs. That’s what we need—outs. So don’t try to be some hotshot and throw your arm out on the first pitch. This is preseason ball and a chance for you to see what it’s like with some real hitters. Get your rhythm down and everything will be okay. Got it?”
“Got it,” he said, feeling like he was in the shoes of one of his own high school players. The game never changed, even at the professional level. The speeches were the same; egos on the field. That’s why he loved baseball.
He felt Connor’s bony arm reach over his shoulder. He could smell the tobacco on his breath as Connor pulled Gil’s ear down. “But this is business too. Show business, I hate to admit it. When you’re warmed up, give it a good hurl. Lord knows we could use some excitement around here. You throw over a hundred and the press is going to start to buzz. Over one-ten and I’m buying rounds for the whole team. You throw like we all know that you can, and that will make all of our lives a whole lot easier. Got it?”
Gil smiled. “Of course.”
Gil couldn’t help but scan the bleachers while waiting for the first batter to enter the box. Clearly, more than two-thirds of the dark green seats were filled—nearly 8,000 spectators. He found his family, all standing and wildly clapping.
Preacher sat quietly in his stance, waiting for Gil to settle himself. But the calmness of his catcher didn’t stop the butterflies.
The leadoff batter for the Mariners was their first baseman, Cory Spangler. Gil had studied their lineup. Spangler had led his team with a .311 average—before his knee surgery. The Mariners released him, figuring he’d never be much good in the field again because he couldn’t run. But he could hit the ball and would likely cream the inexperienced mediocrities playing strike ball.
Gil let out a deep breath and waited for Preacher, who signaled for a fastball down the middle. The sweat was beading up on Gil’s upper lip, and he wiped it with his forearm, sliding his arm across his face like a little kid wiping smeared catsup from his lips. Rules prevent pitchers from touching their face with their hands, but not their forearms.
“Hey batter-batter, hey batter-batter.” It was Slider, acting like they were playing a little league game. Gil couldn’t believe it. Nothing like this ever happened in the majors. What was Slider thinking?
Gil nodded, tapped the ball three times, silently chanting to himself, and took a full windup. He felt awkward, tight and tense, but there was no turning back. Spangler jumped on the pitch, a little too eager and pulled it foul. Gil looked at the clock, a measly eighty-seven.
When Preacher called for another fastball high and inside, Gil waved him off. Instead, he threw it outside, making sure Spangler couldn’t put wood on it. The ball tailed so far left that Preacher, sprawling out, couldn’t reach it. The ball sailed all the way to the backstop. The clock measured just eighty-four.
Preacher didn’t wait for the next pitch. He slipped off his mask and hand-delivered the new ball he’d taken from the umpire.
“What’s going on?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. The speed isn’t there today. I just don’t want to let anyone down.”
“You can’t be afraid; be a major league pitcher. Nobody can intimidate you. Hear me? The batters will smell you all the way to centerfield. You can throw faster than anyone on this planet, now get to work.”
His father’s last words popped into his mind, about God giving him a second chance to redeem himself, so he could be God’s emissary. That’s who he couldn’t let down. But he knew that he couldn’t pitch for God back then, and he couldn’t now.
He remembered the evening he’d gotten Keri pregnant. After two decades of reflection, he wouldn’t change that, not when that union had given them Alicia. Keri was right. He needed to pitch for himself, not for what his father wanted him to be.
Preacher headed back down the mound, paused and returned. “And one more thing—
Remember the first time you threw to Slider?”
“Yeah, I threw it right at him.”
“So do it again. Get him off of the plate. It’s your plate, not his. You want to win at this game, you’ve got to dominate. ”
Gil wiped his face again and nodded.
Preacher sat in his crouch, not bothering to flash any signals. Gil wanted to look over to the dugout for some kind of assurance from Connor, but that almost seemed like tattling. So, he tapped the ball three times, took his windup, and aimed for Spangler’s left shoulder.
How the pitch didn’t hit Spangler, Gil never knew. In a flash, Spangler was sprawled out on the ground in a puff of dust. Preacher had managed to get some leather on the ball, but it squirted past him and crushed into the fence. Gil peeked at the Mariner’s dugout, wondering if the bench was going to empty. It would have except that the batboy started shouting and pointing at the clock.
In blazing lights it read: 109.
“Brilliant!” came Slider’s voice from behind.
The umpire rushed the mound. He poked his finger hard into Gil’s chest.
“If you ever try that crap again while I’m on the field, you’re out. Got it?”
Slider spoke something inaudible into his glove. Gil turned and glared.
The crowd was silent, their eyes still glued to the three shining digits on the scoreboard. It was history in the making, and they all knew it.
Preacher didn’t wait for any kind of celebration. He set up, inside, right next to Spangler, signaling to the leadoff batter what would happen if he tried to crowd the plate. Then he motioned for a fastball right down the middle of the plate. Spangler backed off, even only a few inches, enough to let everyone know he was scared, as scared as a little leaguer. The momentum of a leather baseball with that much speed could do some serious damage to human flesh and bones.
Gil took his time, letting the crowd refocus while Spangler stood at attention. Gil was no longer thinking about pitching, just playing the game. The speed gun flashed 107, a dead-centered strike. He followed it up with two more. Spangler struck out, looking shaken. The entire crowd was now on its feet.
When Gil reached down for his rosin bag, he caught sight of a familiar-looking bald head adorned with oversized, discounted sunglasse
s, popping up and down as the man sought Gil’s attention. Gil squinted. Peck was sitting next to Austin wearing a cutoff Prairie Ridge T-shirt, and the tops of his pale white shoulders were a bright red. Gil tossed the bag onto the turf and nodded. Peck signed back, lifting his thumb to the sky while his other hand held a foot-long hotdog hanging out of what looked like an entire loaf of bread. Gil shook his head.
You don’t get many friends like that, Gil thought. It was only a few weeks ago when he’d wanted to kill Peck, first for bringing him to the Rockies’ training facility, then for announcing to the whole school that he was going to be the Rockies’ newest pitcher, even before he’d discussed it with Keri.
He wondered what she was thinking at this very moment. He knew he was being televised, as were they. Yes, this was just a preseason game, but everyone in the nation now knew about his incredibly fast fastball, and now the media melee had started. Commentators even started speculating that maybe there could be a season with replacement players, fueling the animosity between the replacements and the regulars.
Ratcliff kept him in for another inning. Two players managed to get wood on the ball, a slow grounder to Slider and a pop-up to Trudeau at second, but that was all. That was enough to let the sporting world know the nuclear arsenal now in the Rockies’ lineup.
“Rest your shoulder. You’ve earned the right to a start before the season begins,” Ratcliff said.
“We got lucky with this one,” Connor said when Gil sat.
“Yep,” Ratcliff said. “Two weeks ago we thought our careers were over. Now, this could be our best season.”
“At least in terms of ticket sales.”
“No, I think he’s going to be more than just a fascination. Look at how all the other players are stepping up. Did you see that throw from Gonzalez from center?”
“Except for Slider. He hates Gil.”
“Of course,” Connor said. “Slider hates everyone.”
