by Darin Gibby
Slider didn’t move, keeping his feet planted on the plate. “Says who?”
“Don’t go there, Slider. We all know you think you’re above the law, and that the rules don’t apply to you. But try me, and you’ll find out.”
Slider poked the umpire in the chest pad. “I don’t think I’m above the rules. I’m just different and that’s why your rules can’t reach me.”
The umpire threw up his hand, his thumb extended. He’d tossed Slider from the game. The crowd erupted. Ratcliff bolted onto the infield. The umpire braced himself.
But Ratcliff didn’t rip into the official. He planted himself right in front of Slider. “You shoved an umpire. You can’t do that.”
“This little bad boy of yours doesn’t want to play by the rules,” the umpire said. “Says he is different. Well, he’s different now. He isn’t playing.”
Slider started for the dugout, but Ratcliff pulled him back. “I’m not done with you. I haven’t even started. What do you think you’re doing with all this Hollywood crap? This isn’t All-Star Wrestling. We don’t act like this in baseball.”
“I do,” Slider yelled back.
“We have rules for a reason, and we all keep them. We keep the game pure. Baseball is about sameness. That’s what’s made us great, and that’s what will keep us that way. So just stop with all your crap. Okay?”
“What if I don’t want baseball to be the same?” Slider said. “What if I think it’s boring the way it is? That’s why I’m different.”
“The rules are to protect baseball against players exactly like you. The game has to be the same. That’s it. Period. Get out of here.”
Slider stomped off then turned around. “Baseball pure? What about all these replacement players? What about Gil?”
Gil retired the side in both the fourth and fifth innings. The energetic Cards fans were silenced, and more began to applaud each time Gil whipped over a fastball. At the end of each inning, Gil focused on another section of the stands, intentionally trying to zero in on one of the Cards’ fans. On the third row, just to the left of the dugout, he found what he was looking for—a middle-school-aged boy, donned in a Cards cap, standing in the aisle with his camera raised. The boy reminded him of Austin, skipping school so he could see the game. Gil paused, increased the curve of his smile, and lifted his glove.
“I got him! I got him!” the boy yelled to his father, scurrying back to his seat.
In the dugout, Gil took his seat next to DeJesus, who was still licking his wounds from the previous day’s loss. “I was going to ask you,” Gil said, taking a paper cup from the batboy. “Do you think you could show me how to throw your cutter? Mine stinks.”
DeJesus kept his eyes focused on the field. “I don’t see why. Seem to be doing fine with that ungodly fastball. Putting me and Melendez to shame—we’re both winless. Besides, you’re the coach. You should know how to throw it.”
Gil swung around and lifted up DeJesus’s cap. “You’re the Cutting Cuban. Who else is going to show me how?”
DeJesus pushed him away. “Go get Castro to show you.”
“What does Castro know about baseball? Come on, you’re the best. Imagine what I could do with your cutter.”
“Then where would that leave me? You’d be the one pitching for freedom.”
“Not true,” Gil said, spinning back around. “Preacher says I have to pitch my personality. Like this.” Gil smiled until the corners of his mouth nearly reached his ears.
DeJesus finally turned and arched back when he saw the whimsical look on Gil’s face. “Pitching your personality. Sounds like Preacher. Tell me one thing, Gil.”
“Sure,” Gil said, the corners of his mouth falling.
“Why do you have to be so damn likeable? Can’t I just hate you for a while?”
“Sounds fine with me,” Gil said. “As long as you can get Melendez to like me. My family got season tickets right next to his wife.”
DeJesus laughed and shook his head. “Slider’s going to ride you hard when he sees that one. Don’t worry about Melendez. He’s an old softie. He’s just pissed at you like I am because it’s not fair you come out of the middle of nowhere and take the baseball world by storm, when we’ve busted our guts our whole life to get where we are, even if we are a bunch of replacements.”
Ratcliff pulled Gil in the ninth inning. Tajima was pitching well and Ratcliff was worried that Gil would overdo his arm in his first outing. Thanks to Slider, the Rockies were holding on to a one-run lead. Tajima, his tall, lanky frame, gave him the appearance of a basketball player on the mound. But his sidearm throw was nearly impossible to hit. Ratcliff looked down when Tajima gave up a single with the first batter. But then Tajima managed a double play and the bases were clear. He popped up the last batter, and the Rockies had their first win of the season. But their new golden boy overshadowed the win. In eight innings, Gil had shut out the Cards, giving up two walks, striking out nine, and averaging 108 miles per hour on his fastball.
Gil hustled out onto the field with the rest of the players as they lined up and congratulated each other. He saw Keri, still clapping, and jogged over to greet his family.
“Great game,” she said from the front row, leaning over the railing. He gave her a quick kiss.
“Yeah, you were awesome,” Austin said.
Gil ruffled his hair, feeling his goosebumps. Gil turned, signed a few programs and turned for the dugout.
***
The press insisted that Ratcliff cough up his two most colorful players: Slider and Gil.
The two players sat at a table in the pressroom, microphones placed in front of each one like they were witnesses at a government investigation. Gil studied the sportswriters, trying to guess what they were going to ask him. He could handle the inevitable drug questions. He just hoped they didn’t know about the lawsuit.
“Tell us what Timber Johnson told you to settle you down in the first inning.” The question came from a female ESPN reporter with some sporty turquoise glasses.
“Preacher? Just some good old-fashioned advice—to pitch like my personality.”
She scribbled something on her notepad and sat down.
“Slider, what did Ratcliff tell you after you were ejected?” asked another reporter.
“Just the opposite,” Slider said without hesitation. “He told me to play without personality. This guy can show off by throwing hard, but I can’t express myself by sliding hard—or not sliding at all. I don’t like those rules. We’re trying to do the same thing, just in different ways. Just like baseball is always done. It lets some poor schmuck who’s down on his luck come and forget about life for a while. I’m that artist that does that and no rule should tell me that I can’t.”
“Gil, this one is for you.” It was a seasoned reporter wearing a linen sports coat. “Your fastball. How so fast? Doctors, physical therapists, and even physics professors say you can’t throw that fast. It’s not humanly possible. What gives with your bionic arm?”
Gil smiled and looked him straight in the eyes. “That’s what they told Roger Bannister when he tried to break the four-minute mile. Now we have marathoners doing it for twenty-six miles. Do you think they are all on drugs?”
The room erupted in laughter.
“I wasn’t implying you are on drugs,” the man said, still standing.
“Perhaps not you, but everyone else is. So let’s get the record straight. I’m not doing drugs. Never have, never will. I won’t even let me wife buy my supplements—even though she says now that I’m getting older, I should be taking a calcium pill.” The reporters laughed again. “But I am being serious. I have nothing to hide.”
21
THE MOMENT THEY entered the lobby, the attendant arose from her chair to greet them. “No need to check in, Mr. Gilbert,” she said. “We’ve got everything waiting. We know you have a busy day.”
She led them down a hall to an examining room. Keri, Alicia, and Pastor Ron followed. Dr. Cherrie Kemp
ski was all business. She wasn’t at all what Gil had expected—thin, wiry, well past retirement, but still running marathons. Gil fidgeted as he sat on the exam table while Keri, Alicia, and his father sat on three plastic chairs in the corner.
“I’m not sure why you’re so adamant about putting Gil through this,” Pastor Ron told Keri. “God is blessing him with this talent. Nothing is wrong with him. It’s another distraction he doesn’t need.”
Keri pursed her lips. She’d learned long ago she could never win an argument with her stubborn father-in-law.
“Ready?” Dr. Kempski said, her arms folded.
Gil nodded.
“How many strikes did you throw last game?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Baloney. Every pitcher knows his own stats.”
“Okay, I threw about sixty pitches, and I think about forty-one were strikes. But that’s just my best guess, because I really don’t know my numbers.”
“Yeah, right. It was exactly forty-one, and that’s about how many times I’m going to poke you with a needle today. I hope you’re not pitching soon, because I’m going to draw about a pint of blood. We’re going to keep the lab about as busy as your bullpen when DeJesus is pitching.”
“I like you,” Keri said, her legs crossed while she sat in the lone chair tucked in the corner of the office. “You talk faster than Gil.”
“Strip down, except for your undies, and put this on,” she said, tossing him a light blue drape. “Then go ahead and sit on the table.”
The family excused themselves. Gil obeyed, and a minute later Dr. Kempski was listening with her stethoscope while she poked and prodded. He breathed deeply, coughed and complained when she smacked his knee to check his reflexes. Then she put on the blood pressure cuff, measured his pulse, and studied his pupils. Then she asked questions about his diet, how many times he visited the bathroom, any difficulty in breathing and how many hours he slept.
“Fit as a fiddle,” she said, pulling off her gloves, “at least on the outside. You’re middle-aged, but have the body of a twenty-year-old.” She drew the front of his gown shut like a pair of curtains and invited the visitors back into the room.
“Nicest chest I’ve ever seen, and believe me, I’ve seen a lot. Keri must be a happy woman.”
“It’s not his outsides that I’m worried about.”
“I’ve got the first test back from Dr. Doty. Let’s see what we have.”
“Did you notice Gil’s right shoulder is a little bit bigger?” Keri said.
“What?” Gil said.
“Of all people, I should know.”
“I wish I knew what size it was six months ago, but we’ll just have to use this as a baseline. It’s not unusual for a person to have uneven muscles, especially associated with their dominant arm.”
Dr. Kempski slid her clipboard on the desk and tapped out a few keystrokes on the keyboard. She ran her finger down the monitor, studying the test results provided by Dr. Doty. After a couple of minutes, she looked up from the screen.
“Gil, your initial numbers are all out of whack. Your proteins, white blood cell count, enzymes—they’re all over the board. The problem is that I don’t know what any of this means.
“What is more problematic is that your muscle and bone tissues appear to be excessively dense. We’re going to have to dig a lot deeper, Gil. I’m going to have my assistant take about twenty vials of blood. I’m ordering every test imaginable. From allergies to cancer, I’m running it. Oh, and I need to check your skeletal structure. I can’t figure out how the bones in your arm are handling the stress produced when launching a hundred-and-ten-mile-an-hour fastball. I’ll need you to run over and get an MRI.”
Gil shifted his gaze, searching for a clock. Doctors’ offices never seemed to have any.
“I’ll send all the results to the Mayo in Rochester. They’ve got a good doctor there, a clinical virologist, who has asked to see it. There’s no evidence of cancer anywhere, but the growth of your tissues is concerning. We’ll take the blood tests every week for the foreseeable future. I’ve already set an appointment for you to see Dr. Kusha at the Mayo. By then, we should have enough data to make some predictions.”
“Predictions?” Gil said. “No diagnosis? And blood every week? I can’t keep losing that much juice and still keep pitching. And what about when I’m on the road?”
“I’ve already spoken to Dr. Kusha. Medical science hasn’t advanced far enough to tell us what all these chemical variations mean, other than we know the data is troubling. We’ll just need to track it and look for trends. That should tell us something. If I were to tell you anything else right now, it would be pure speculation. Is there some mutation in your DNA that is causing this? Or is one of your organs malfunctioning? Could it just be a dysfunctional thyroid? We don’t know, and I’m certainly not qualified to give an opinion. That’s why you’re going to the Mayo—no exceptions.”
“I agree,” Keri said with a scowl.
Gil shrugged. “I’m not arguing against it.”
“And,” Dr. Kempski continued, “I’m going to give you a stronger steroid. I think you’ve got some inflammation in your chest. It should take it down, loosen up your muscles, help you breathe a little better.”
“Are you sure?” Gil said. “I can’t take steroids.”
“It’s either that or … ”
“What?” Keri asked.
Dr. Kempski looked at Alicia.
“You can tell us,” Keri said.
“I’ll put you to bed.”
“No baseball?” Pastor Ron interrupted.
“Let’s run the tests and stick with the steroids for now.”
22
OPENING DAY IN Denver was a time-honored tradition, at least for the relatively few years that the Rockies had been a chartered professional team. Businesses emptied, kids skipped school, and the bars on Blake Street filled. Game day turned out to be perfect, in the mid-sixties with a slight breeze.
Opening day tickets usually sold out. But this year with the strike, there wasn’t much hope of that—not until Gil Gilbert came along. Sports commentators and writers were all over him, constantly calling, showing video clips of his lightning-speed fastball, having fun with speculating on how an old man, a simple high school coach, was breaking one of baseball’s most coveted records.
The Gilberts showed up two hours early. Keri finally relented after Austin nearly drove them crazy asking when they could leave. Peck called in sick and found the Gilberts already seated. He took Austin to the concession stands and bought him a slice of pizza and a drink.
In the locker room, Gil was lacing his shoes—for the third time. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied the other players, watching their routines, wanting to make sure he looked like he knew what he was doing.
Ratcliff entered toting his clipboard, and called for a team meeting. He stood in the center of the locker room, resting his shoe on the wooden bench. The players circled around their coach. Following tradition, he spoke to each player in turn, starting with the down-and-out player he’d just obtained from the Cubs.
“Manzi, this is payback time. The Cubs threw you into the flames and the best way to make them hurt is by driving in some runs. Are you up to showing what your bat can do?”
The new shortstop nodded.
“You young guys, Gonzalez, Slider, we’re going to need to count on you both if we’re going to get anywhere this season.”
Slider looked away and rolled his eyes. Gonzalez, the center fielder energetically said, “You can count on me for a hundred and ten percent.”
“And you veterans—Preacher, Biondi—you’re the heart of this team, and we’re going to lean on you for your leadership. Let’s show this team what we can do this year.” Preacher nodded while Biondi smoothed his goatee.
“Trudeau, you got your head in the game?” The second baseman winked.
“Alright. Juarez, we all know your knee is shot, but that shouldn’t stop your
bat. And Boclin, you’ve had four years in the majors. It’s time to make a name for yourself. Let’s see what you can do.”
Both men nodded.
“And Gil, you’ve brought new life to our team. Take your lead from Preacher and stay tough. Rockies, we’re going to win this one.”
Before Gil went to the mound, he wandered over to where the players’ families were sitting. He waved at Keri, Austin, and Alicia. Peck gave him his usual thumbs-up sign.
“It’s going to be a great season together,” Peck said. Melendez’s wife gave him a sour look. “Don’t worry, we’ll get along famously. I like chick stuff. You know, the Twilight series, Nicolas Sparks.”
A dozen kids scampered down the aisle, holding out any piece of memorabilia for Gil to sign. He took a marker from a freckled-face boy and signed his glove. He put his signature to a cap, a program and even a bare hand.
“Okay, I’ve got to go pitch,” he said with his familiar smile, his teeth gleaming. “Wish me luck.”
As Gil approached the mound, he noticed Slider standing on third base, hands on his hips. “Why do you bother with those people?”
“It’s good for the game,” Gil said.
“No, I’m good for the game. I leave my signature on the field, not on some piece of paper.”
Gil shook his head.
After warm-ups, the two teams lined up on the baselines, removing their caps for the national anthem, which was sung by a local country singer. The roar of a fighter jet from Buckley Air Force Base rang in their ears, followed by the booming and crackling of a wall of fireworks that shot up from behind the left field bleachers. The mayor of Denver threw out the first pitch then shook hands with a group of returning soldiers and a few disabled fans—all a calculated marketing effort to make everyone feel good, like this was the most charitable way to spend their afternoon.
The loudspeakers began to blast the latest top-forty music while the giant LCD screen streamed highlights from last year’s lackluster season. Beer guys began scaling the stands. “Ice cold beer! Get your ice cold beer!” Dinger, the Rockies’ mascot, ran down the left field line while live cameras tried to capture little tykes attempting to touch their mascot.
