by Darin Gibby
18
KERI WAS WAITING when the Rockies’ chartered plane landed at Centennial airport, enough time for a day off before the grueling regular season. Alicia was standing by her mother’s side in the front lobby. They both came rushing toward him when the door opened. It had only been two weeks, but that was enough time for him to forget the little sway in Keri’s hips, accentuated by her petite waist. He slung his arms around her and pulled her tight. She kissed him.
“Glad the hometown hero isn’t too cool to remember his wife.”
He smelled the sweetness of her hair. “Not this boy.”
His lips were still wet with her kiss when he noticed the camera only a few feet away.
“You’ll get used to it,” Keri said. “Just make sure you don’t come out in your boxers for breakfast like Austin did this morning.”
Gil took her hand and slipped past the film crew, scooping her into the waiting car where they rushed off to the medical plaza where Dr. Donald Doty kept his office. Keri had selected a cardiologist when Gil complained of a sore chest.
Dr. Doty ran Gil through all the standard tests: treadmill, blood pressure, ECG. After two hours, Dr. Doty was finished, but declined to give an opinion. He’d study the data and consult with Dr. Cherrie Kempski, the internist that Gil would see on his next trip back to Denver.
Keri gave Gil ten minutes to shower and change while they picked up Austin. Peck arrived, having just finished practice, wanting to hear the news. When he learned they were going to dinner, Peck invited himself along, then insisted that they drop by the school so that he could pick up a few things he’d left behind when he scampered out of practice.
The front parking lot of Prairie Ridge High was full, and cars were parked along the street.
“Basketball tournament tonight?” Gil said turning to Peck.
“Something like that,” Peck said. “Keri, can you just drop us off in front?” He then asked Gil to accompany him. “I need some help carrying a few things.”
“Sure, but I don’t know where you are going to put them.” With five people crowded into their SUV, and Gil’s gear stuffed in the back, they were at capacity.
“We’ll find room, trust me,” Peck said, throwing the door open and stumbling out.
“This can’t be a basketball tournament,” Gil said, studying the sea of vehicles. “Our team stinks this year. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cars, not overflowing onto the street like this.”
Peck didn’t stop to answer but tugged the front metal doors open. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry.”
As soon as Gil entered, thousands of voices yelled, “Surprise!”
“You left before they could all say a proper goodbye,” Peck said. “So this is our little way of sending you off.”
With this, they all clapped their hands and snapped photos. Gil’s face broke into his patented smile, and he shook his head. “I really don’t know what to say, and that says a lot for me.”
“That’s true,” a boy close to the front row shouted, “Mr. Gil loves to talk.”
“Well, all I can say is, thank you. I didn’t really know how much I would miss everyone at Prairie Ridge until I went away.” As he was speaking, he felt Keri nuzzle up to his side. He put his arm around her. “Just ask Keri. That first night I was really homesick and wondered if I’d made a horrible decision. You’ve all really gone overboard with this. I can’t believe you all came out just to wish me well.”
“This is nothing,” Peck said. “I need everyone to proceed—very slowly—to the gym. We’ve got barbeque, salads, and all kinds of desserts. Help yourself. And while you’re eating, we’ll let Gil answer a few questions about what it’s like to be with the Rockies.”
A microphone mounted on a chrome stand was perched at mid-court, ready for Gil to face the questions fired from the bleachers. He waited for plates to be heaped with American comfort food. As he stood to face the friendly faces, Gil still felt like he was their baseball coach at a pep rally. Gil snatched the microphone and moved toward the stands, catching sight of the all-to-familiar film crew. “Okay, so I guess it’s that time. Anything you want to know about the Rockies?”
“Mr. Gil, what’s it like to pitch in a real pro game?” The question came from one of the cheerleaders.
Gil rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s hard to say. I still haven’t pitched in a real game, but I’ll tell you next week when I start against the Cards.”
The students erupted, jumping up and down on the wooden bleachers.
His shortstop, Wilson, raised his hand. “Coach, what I want to know is what is Slider really like? I mean the press makes him out to be this real jerk, but I kind of think it’s all for show.”
“Yes … Slider. Let’s just say we’re still getting used to each other.”
Gil answered a dozen more questions then said it was his turn to eat and their time to talk.
When Gil left Keri for a quick trip to the bathroom, a small, balding man approached.
“Mr. Gilbert,” the man said. “I think we need to talk, in private.” He was carrying a manila folder.
“Why should I talk to you?” Gil said.
“Sorry, I don’t think I properly introduced myself. I’m Randall Kite, Shaila’s father, and I have some information to share with you. I tried contacting you through Shaila’s attorney, but you’re a hard man to reach.”
“I’ve been a little busy,” Gil said.
“Yes, I see you’ve signed a nice contract with the Rockies. All the more reason we should talk before these get out,” he said, holding up the folder.
The door to the chemistry room was ajar, and Kite pushed it open. “It won’t take long.”
Gil didn’t want to cause a scene. His legal problems with Shaila had so far gone unnoticed.
“You’ve got one minute,” Gil said, stepping inside.
Kite slipped on a pair of bifocals, his hands trembling. “Nobody has seen these yet, but if you refuse to settle and the case goes to trial, my lawyer tells me these photos will be made public, and they certainly will be used as evidence. The jury, and everyone else, will see them.”
Gil plucked the folder from Kite’s hands. He could feel the blood pulsing through his temples. “I didn’t do anything wrong, and you know it.” Kite stepped back, and Gil flipped the file open. Gil blinked twice, hoping this wasn’t real.
The photo on the top of the pile showed a group of girls, most wearing shorts and white T-shirts emblazed with the Prairie Ridge logo. But a few had their shirts flung over their shoulders, with their shoulders bare except for their brightly colored sports bras—showing off for the boys. The picture captured one of the cheerleaders in the process of pulling her shirt above her head, and just behind her was the unmistakable image of Gil, his eyes as wide as saucers, his mouth hanging open. Gil lifted off the top photo. All the same cheerleaders were in the next photo, but one of them was now clutching the side of her face, while another had her mouth wide open observing the injured girl.
“It’s Photoshopped,” he said when he regained his composure, knowing he hadn’t been gawking as the picture implied.
“No, they are real. We’ve got witnesses lined up to testify. Any expert can tell you these photos have not been doctored.”
Gil tossed the pictures onto the closest desk. “That’s not what happened. Look, I’m not afraid of these. I’ve got to go.”
“Shaila’s asking for five hundred thousand to make this go away. Otherwise, these will be front-page news. You know I could show these to your little reality show friends right now.”
“Shaila’s asking?” Gil said, lunging forward. “No, you’re the greedy piss ant who is trying to blackmail me. It was an accident, pure and simple. If anything, it was your daughter’s fault. She’s the one that ran onto the field when Bushman was batting. Did she tell you that? Did she say how she was flailing her arms, bouncing down the baseline asking for a chance to bat? Ever been to a baseball practice? Players hit bal
ls really hard, and they go all over the place. That’s life. Look, I’m sorry this happened to Shaila, and I’m glad she’s okay now. You have your apology, now why don’t you drop this little lawsuit of yours and we’ll both get on with life.”
“I need money, not just an apology.”
“It’s not what you think,” Gil said. “I’m not paying you a dime.”
19
KERI WIPED HER forehead with the back of her hand, trying not to smear flour on her face. Alicia handed her a towel and grabbed the beaters, plunging them into the raw cookie dough.
“You spoil, Austin. You know that, right?” Alicia said.
“Of course, he’s my baby, the last to leave the nest.”
“Not anymore.”
Keri scooped up some of the stray ingredients from the counter and said, “Do you have something to tell me?”
“This morning, I made my decision final. I’m breaking off my relationship with Conklin and coming home.”
“For how long?”
“At least until the baseball season is over.”
Keri’s face fell.
“I thought you were struggling with boy problems and finishing your education. Have you been talking to your father? You’ve never liked baseball.”
“We had a good talk last night.”
“And?”
“He had some good ideas. I mean, you know how he is, always kidding around and never being serious. But this time he really listened to me. He wanted to know more about Conklin and his MBA plans and what I thought about picking up and moving halfway across the country when we weren’t even married.”
“And your career.”
“Of course he asked me about that. You know how Dad thinks we all need a PhD.”
“So what made you decide to come home?”
“I asked Dad how he knew it was right when he asked you to marry him.”
Keri held her breath. She’d never told either of her children the truth about her pregnancy, but she always wondered if Alicia knew. The math told the truth.
“It wasn’t at all what I expected,” Alicia said. “He just said you two were so in love you couldn’t pry yourselves apart.”
Keri smiled. That much was true, at least when they were in their twenties.
“Dad told me that I should take my time and get it right. ‘Unless your heart says jump, just keep hiking up the mountain,’ he said. Eventually, I would get to the top and then I’d be ready. When I thought about it, that all made sense. I remember hiking Mt. Bierstadt with Dad when I was little. When we got to the summit, it felt like I could just hold out my arms and jump, and that I’d really be flying. It’s that really special feeling you get in your stomach when you’re peering over the edge of the cliff. When I think about spending my life with Conklin, I realized I just didn’t feel that way. Yes, he could provide for me, but I wasn’t about ready to fly. That’s when I knew I had my answer.”
Keri scooped out some dough.
“But you know what my heart also told me?” Alicia said.
“What?”
“I had this gut feeling that I needed to be with Dad this summer … it’s hard to explain.’’
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Keri opened the door and was greeted by an oversized envelope centered on the doormat. She returned to the kitchen and opened it. The contents were thick and stiff. On top was a handwritten letter. Beneath it was a photo of Gil, his eyes wide open, gawking at a high school girl taking her shirt off. Keri curled it back only to be greeted by another picture of Shaila holding her head while a crowd of cheerleaders in sports bras huddled about her. Keri’s hands were shaking.
20
TENSIONS WERE MOUNTING between the striking players and their replacements. At first, the strike games were a novelty. Now that it was clear that MLB would proceed without its stars, baseball fans and player sympathizers turned ominous. There were attacks on players showing up at stadiums and even threats on their families.
The Rockies had dropped their first two regular season games to the Cards. DeJesus and Melendez had respectable outings, but the team was far from jelling. Starting the season with two losses chilled the team’s initial optimism. As with the first two encounters with the Cards, the players showed up at the gates on team buses, unloading together and quickly being escorted by security guards making a protective line. As Gil stepped off the bus, he was pelted by an egg.
“How’s that for a fastball, you stinkin’ scab,” the fan yelled.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ratcliff said, when they entered the locker room. “You’re here to do a job. Just focus on that. Half these people yelling and screaming would kill to trade places with you.”
As Gil entered the field he kept his eyes from wandering in the stands. He wanted no distractions. He had warmed up in the bullpen and was ready for his debut. His day had finally arrived. He tapped the ball in his mitt three times, and let the first pitch go. It clocked over a hundred, but it was high and outside. Preacher called for a fastball in the middle of the strike zone. This time, Gil hit one hundred and nine, but it was low, almost in the dirt.
That didn’t matter. He’d already made history. Nobody had ever thrown that fast. Cards fans began clapping.
Gil remained wild, and when he walked the leadoff batter, Preacher made his first trip to the mound.
“I’ve got lots of velocity, but I’ve lost my control.”
“You’re playing like a robot,” Preacher said.
“A robot?” Gil said. “Just trying to be serious.”
Preacher shook his head. “What made you a successful high school teacher?”
“I’ve never really thought about it. I’d like to think it’s because my students like me.”
Preacher reached up and put his arm around Gil’s shoulder. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Gil, that’s exactly right. People like you. You’re warm, personable, fun to be around. Now, the secret to pitching is to pitch your personality.”
“Pitch my personality?”
“That’s right.”
“Kind of like, just be myself.”
“No, more than that. Pitch like you’re in front of your class explaining some scientific principle. Imagine the students in your class, how you’re trying to connect with them, to keep their attention while also helping them to understand a difficult topic. Give your pitches some personality, some feeling, like a concert pianist playing a concerto. You’re a musician. You should understand that.”
Gil nodded. “I can do that.”
Preacher called for a fastball, low and inside. Gil kept his routine, but put a little rhythm into his ball tapping. His windup had a little beat to it, and he let go with a smile. The ball slammed into Preacher’s glove at a whopping one hundred and ten. The replay made it look like the batter swung a full minute after the ball passed home plate. Following Preacher’s lead, Gil whipped over two more strikes and registered his first major league strikeout. He popped up the next batter, followed by another strikeout to end the inning.
Nearly every pitcher has a way to exit the field, by lowering his cap and avoiding any fan interaction. In spring ball, Gil had done the same, figuring this would keep his focus. But that wasn’t his personality, and not what Preacher had just admonished him. He couldn’t keep from smiling and letting everyone know he was having the time of his life. So he tilted up the brim of his cap, flashed his gleaming teeth and sparkling eyes, not caring who was snapping photos. It felt good to be Gil, pitching his personality.
Both teams remained scoreless through the second inning. Slider got the first hit in the top of the third inning. He looped the ball over the first baseman’s head and into shallow right field. Most players would have taken the single, and the first base coach assumed that’s what Slider was going to do. But Slider ignored the coach and rounded first base at full speed. He lowered his head, churned his muscular legs, and took off.
The Cards’ right fielder casually scooped up the ball
then jumped to action at the sight of Slider, chugging to second like an out-of-control train. He wound up and threw the ball so hard that he lost his balance and landed on his hands and knees. The throw was dead on, but Slider did one of his famous head slides and slipped underneath the tag. He hopped up, spat out some dirt and called himself safe, sweeping his arms in a flowing motion.
Gil watched Ratcliff’s jaw muscles tighten. NFL players could get away with antics like that, but it was taboo in baseball. The owners refused to let their sport turn into the pro-wrestling circuit.
The crowd booed, prompting Slider to flex his bicep. While Gil understood that Slider was showing off his tattoo, his yin and yang, it looked more like he was flipping off the Cards’ fans.
Ratcliff signaled Manzi to get into the batter’s box, hoping this would take the spotlight off of his problematic shortstop. The crowd kept up their racket, turning their hatred of Slider to that of Manzi, who most felt should be out of baseball after his sex scandal while he played for Chicago.
Manzi took two strikes, ignoring the taunting fans. He fought off a few pitches until the count was full. Then he lined one into right center. The ball took one bounce and leapt over the wall, a ground-rule double.
The crowd watched in silence as Slider rounded third. That he was going to score was already concluded when the umpire signaled Manzi to stop at second, declaring a ground rule double. Slider was going to make a statement. Everyone sensed it, like a basketball crowd waiting to see how LeBron James would dunk the ball on a fast break.
Slider kept up his trot toward home plate, and when he was halfway there, he shortened his stride, increased his speed, then did a cartwheel, followed by a backflip, landing perfectly on the white pentagon-shaped plate. He held up both hands like a gymnast who’d just nailed the perfect landing.
All sorts of garbage, bottles, popcorn containers, even half-eaten corndogs were hurled onto the field.
The umpire was in Slider’s face, his mask thrown to the dirt. “Who do you think you are? This is baseball, not some Cirque du Soleil act. This is your final warning, Slider. One more misstep, and I’m tossing you.”
