by Darin Gibby
“Know any of their players?” Slider said, stepping forward and slipping off his glasses.
“Just from what I heard about them—from that reality show, you know. They have some hot-shot pitcher.”
“That’s enough,” Slider said, slipping past her. “Consider myself checked in. I’ve got to make a visit.”
Slider randomly picked a room halfway down the main hall. He didn’t knock, but pushed the door open. The only light came from a window with half-drawn shades. Gil’s eyes adjusted quickly. The room wasn’t much different from Tommy’s hospital room they’d just come from—a small bed, neatly made up, with a single nightstand. A television set was mounted to the wall, but was silent. Sitting in a lone chair was a white-haired woman, staring at nothing. No crochet, no book, just blankly looking at the wall, with her arms resting in her lap. Gil wondered if they’d made a huge mistake.
She raised her eyes, and when she saw the two men, her countenance lightened. “Well hello,” she said. “I’d ask you to come in, but it looks like you already helped yourself.” The two men paused, and the woman said, “Don’t be shy now. I’d invite you to sit on my couch, but I don’t have one, so the bed will have to do.”
Slider looked at Gil and plopped himself down, like a little boy trying to see how high he could bounce. His body weight created a loud pop. Gil bit his lip.
“I’ll bet that old bed has never had its springs rocked like that before,” the woman said. “It’s about time.”
“I like you,” Gil said, holding out his hand. “I’m Gil and this here is Slider.”
She waved him off. “I know you two. Rockies players. And, the only two decent players on the team, if I may say. You look kind of funny holding that silly guitar.”
Gil held it up. “This? Long story.”
Before he could continue, the white-dressed attendant barged in. “I’m sorry, Melvelene. I’ll get them to leave.”
“No need,” she said, waving her off. “A couple of old friends.”
Slider furrowed his brow at the woman, and she stormed out.
“Melvelene. I’ve never heard that name,” Gil said. “It’s pretty.”
“I thought you were going to say old-fashioned,” she said.
“She is spunky, isn’t she?” said Slider.
“My father liked it, and he ruled the house, so that’s why he named me Melvelene.”
“So you know about baseball?” Gil said.
“Great sport for when they lock you up in a place like this and forget about you. You can kill a half a day with just one game.” Gil looked at Slider. “Oh come off it, you two. I’m kidding. I’m not one of those people who sit in here waiting to die. I love baseball. One-eleven, fastest clocked pitch ever. But I watch the Rockies because I like to watch you, Slider, all those muscles bulging in your uniform, those cartwheels; oh, I wish I was twenty years younger.”
“Just twenty?” Slider said.
“I’m only forty-four, and don’t you tell a soul I’m any older.” She tugged on Gil’s arm. “Come here to sing me a song?”
“Sure,” Gil said. “We do stuff this like all the time, don’t we, Slider?”
“Liar,” she said. “But I’m glad you came. Heaven knows we could use some excitement around here. You don’t know any of the songs we used to listen to, so I’ll spare you. But I do want to feel Slider’s bicep. I’m single, you know, so I can flirt all I want. My husband died over a decade ago.”
Slider nodded at Gil. He’d one-upped him. “Don’t need a beat-up guitar for that,” he said, flexing his arm.
They talked for nearly another hour until Gil realized they were going to be late for practice, and Slider said he didn’t care, except that if he was late one more time, he’d get a ten thousand dollar fine. They said their goodbyes and headed back to the hospital to find their vehicles.
“Tell me, Slider,” Gil said when they reached his truck, “what did you tell that little boy?”
“The kid is going to die. I entertained him, just like Eugenia wanted.”
“Come on, Slider. ”
“Don’t Slider me. You didn’t tell Melvelene anything about how you flunked out of baseball, and it’s just some freak of nature, your so-called medical condition, that got the attention of the Rockies. You know she wanted to hear about it.”
The barb stung. Slider was an enigma. One moment he was letting a widow feel his muscle, and the next he was tearing you to pieces.
“Maybe.”
“You’re funny, Gil. You love to talk, but you never say anything with substance.”
“I don’t need the world to know about my insides.”
“Then that makes two of us. Let’s leave it at that.”
Gil opened his door.
“Hey, you left your guitar,” Slider said.
“I know,” Gil said. “So I’ll have an excuse to go back.”
24
GIL DID HIS normal rounds before the game, signing a teenager’s bright green cast and sitting on the handle of a paraplegic’s wheelchair while he presented a baseball. Slider chased down a ground ball in front of them. He snatched up the ball and made a motion to throw the ball to a crowd of kids who’d rushed to the infield in the hopes of getting a souvenir. In unison, they held up their hands, some their gloves.
“Just kidding,” Slider said, then whipped the ball to Biondi at first.
Gil shook his head, took another ball out of his mitt and tossed it to the disappointed fans. In five seconds, Slider had managed to undo all of yesterday’s good.
“I told you, Gil,” he shouted from third base, “I’m not their role model. Never been, never will.”
Gil wandered over. “You could be.”
Gil fully expected the Yankees players to be sizing him up, watching him warm up, calculating how they would react to his pitches. But they were intentionally ignoring him, the reality show celebrity who had no business playing professional baseball. They were joking around, slapping backs, ignoring Gil, like they were completely oblivious that this guy could put to shame any of their pitchers, replacements or not. Every few minutes, one of them would turn and spit some chew onto the dirt, wipe his face, then turn back around.
Preacher too was zeroed in on the Yankees’ dugout, glancing over after throwing the ball back to the pitcher’s mound. And he surprised Gil when he called for three straight fastballs to the leadoff hitter. Three strikes and the first batter went down swinging. Preacher had Gil pitch fastballs the entire first inning, and Gil responded by striking out the side. The roar of the crowd was deafening.
When the Rockies came to bat, Slider led off with a walk, once again bringing the crowd to its feet. After the next three batters left him on first base, the crowd calmed down. They’d seen this before.
Both teams remained scoreless into the third inning, when Preacher called for an inside fastball. Preacher set up almost behind the batter’s box. Either the batter leaned forward, or Gil left it too far inside. Either way, it hit the Yankees player in the forearm with a sickening crack. The trainer came out, pressed his arm in several places then led him off the field and into the dugout. Gil stepped forward to apologize, but Preacher waved him off.
“You don’t apologize when it wasn’t intentional. Stuff like that happens in baseball,” he said when he got to the mound. “Shake it off and don’t let it get to you.”
The next batter hit into a double play. Gil followed this by a strikeout, and the Rockies were up to bat.
Gil came to the plate after Gonzalez popped out. He had barely finished adjusting his helmet when the pitcher finished his windup and hurled his first pitch straight at Gil.
The fastball struck Gil in the left forearm. Connor bolted out of the dugout.
“Is it broken?” was the first thing Connor said, rubbing his finger over the bruise.
“I don’t think so, but it hurt like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Can you still pitch?”
“No problem. My throwing arm’s fine.”
Gil trotted down to first base, and Slider took the batter’s box. So far this season, base runners were a rarity, and with Slider at the plate, there was a real chance Gil could advance to third base, if not score altogether.
“Why don’t you try that again?” Slider called out to the Yankees’ pitcher. “Then let’s see what I can do to your face.”
The umpire readied himself, and the pitcher threw right at Slider’s head. Slider hit the dirt, and the ball flew past the catcher. Gil almost walked to second base. The umpire shouted a warning while Slider brushed the red dirt off his white pants.
“Got me dirty,” Slider said while taking a practice swing, “and you don’t want to see me play dirty.”
The Yankees’ pitcher threw three more sliders, all tailing inside. Slider nonchalantly tossed his bat and began his walk to first. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until Slider was halfway to the base, when he suddenly took a left turn and bolted toward the pitcher’s mound.
Slider charged the pitcher, grabbing his arm, wrenching out his shoulder. In a flash, the entire Yankees team piled out from the dugout and onto Slider, swinging fists and kicking cleats. The Rockies charged the mound too, pulling, pushing and punching Yankees.
The officials had to call security to clear the players. When Slider got up from the dirt, blood was pouring out of his nose, and his eye was red. And, he had a giant smile. The pitcher was escorted off, with the trainer supporting his wounded arm.
Gil stood on second base, hands cupped to his mouth, shouting at the players. He wanted to join the melee, but thought of the example that would send his high school kids. Gil hated fighting.
Play resumed, and at the bottom of the sixth, both teams were still scoreless. Gil could sense his throwing arm tightening—and his blood pressure rising. The Rockies needed to score, and nobody was stepping up. Gil put on his batter’s helmet and yanked out his bat.
Gil took his stance, squatting low and leaning over the plate. If he couldn’t put wood on the ball, he was ready to get hit again. He must get on base.
On the first pitch, Gil punched his bat. It was an ugly sort of half-swing, half-bunt. But it was enough to loop the ball over the first baseman’s head. His adrenaline flowing, he glared into the Yankees’ dugout and pumped his fist as he stood on first base.
“That’s what we need,” Ratcliff shouted to his players. “Get some fire in you like Slider. Yeah, he’s in a whole boatload of trouble, but at least he’s passionate. If you have no passion then get off my team. I want to see some kind of fire in the belly. A passionless person is useless. Yes, Slider gets tossed, gets into trouble, but at least he plays out of his heart.”
Boclin took to the batter’s box, swung his hips like he was dancing to a Brazilian hip hop song, and slugged out a base hit, advancing Gil to second. Manzi then loaded the bases. It was up to Juarez to deliver some runs. Favoring his good knee, he advanced to the batter’s box and tagged a line drive into the corner in left field, clearing the bases and putting the Rockies up three to zero. The roar through the stadium was deafening. Banners waved and fans jumped on their seats. They realized that their ragtag team might be going somewhere.
Ratcliff kept Gil in for all nine innings. He finalized his decision when, in the top of the eighth inning, Gil kept his fastball above the century mark. Preacher managed to homer in the top of the ninth and the Rockies won, four-zip.
As the umpire belted out the last called strike, the entire Rockies organization sprinted to the mound to shake Gil’s hand. Security guards, waving their batons, blockaded the aisles to prevent the onrush of spectators from bolting onto the field.
“It’s only April, and we’re all a bunch of misfits,” Gil said as he shook Preacher’s hand, “but it sure feels good.” They walked side by side to the dugout, savoring the cheers of the lingering crowd.
Preacher poked Gil with his elbow, nodding to the darkest corner of the dugout. In the shadows, Slider, dressed in street clothes, pulled his cap over his eyes.
“You stole his show,” Preacher said. “And the reason we got all those hits was probably because Slider took out their pitcher.”
Gil leaned over the railing. “Hey, Slider. I owe you one.”
Slider flicked the brim of his cap, raising it a quarter inch. The whiteness of his eyes glowed in the dimming light. “Sure do.”
Gil raised his finger. “Wait. I’ve got an idea. This one’s for you.”
He sprinted back onto the infield, and in full stride, raised his arms, flung himself into the air and managed an awkward looking cartwheel, nearly landing on top of one of the grounds crew who was busy raking the baseline from third to second.
As soon as he caught his balance, Gil wheezed then coughed. He tried not to put his hand to his face, but habit overtook him. He whipped his head around, hoping that no cameras were focused on him, but he knew that was impossible. He breathed out deeply, and when he did, he noticed that his chest hurt. Yes, it was usually tight, but not like this. He quickly rubbed his breastbone, then began a slow jog to the dugout. Slider pumped his fist, pointed to Gil, then slunk back into the locker room.
25
COLORADO SCHOOLS LET out for summer the first week of June, and Austin and his grandfather had already planned out their summer. Attending all of the home games was a given, but Austin also had plans to go on the road. After all, Peck would be flying to see them. Keri put her foot down, and Austin threatened to run away, although Keri and Alicia both knew he’d end up at Peck’s place if he ever skipped out.
Gil came up with a compromise: The family would go on one road trip each month while Austin was out of school. But when it was time to hit the books, home games would have to suffice. When Pastor Ron heard about it, he offered to take Austin to an additional away game each month.
That didn’t end the matter. Home games were not just games for Peck—not something where you showed up halfway into the second inning and left before traffic got too bad—but an all-out event. He made his appearance when the gates opened at ten in the morning and stayed until the last fan left and security escorted him out. Austin was determined to go with him. Peck offered to drive them all, but three hours in a ballpark were plenty for Keri and Alicia. At least for today, Austin won, but only because grandpa agreed to be an escort. After breakfast, Austin filled his backpack and waited for Peck’s honk.
The Rockies had meshed and now had a winning record of twenty-eight and twenty-four, only five games behind the divisional leaders, the Diamondbacks. Today, DeJesus was on the mound, but Gil still had to attend team meetings and pre-game practice. He left thirty minutes before Peck pulled his battered pickup into the driveway and rapped on his horn.
The families of the Rockies’ players had jelled more than the team. Bunched together in three rows, nobody cared about assigned seats. They plopped themselves down wherever suited them. Peck strategically positioned himself right in the center. Pastor Ron and his grandson took the seats closer to the field, away from the constant focus of the reality show cameras.
At first, Keri worried that this big oaf would offend the women, and she’d be the one stuck asking him to find a seat elsewhere in the stadium. But there was a hidden side to Peck that nobody, not even Gil, knew existed. The first game he sat with them, he pulled out his tablet and went to his Pinterest site. He still wore his sleeveless shirts, and by this point in the season, his oversized shoulders were a dark brown with thousands of black freckles. He managed a two-day shadow on his face, and constantly rubbed balm on his chapped lips.
“I can’t stand my curtains,” he said after DeJesus struck out a batter in the first inning. “Haven’t changed them since I bought the house.”
Rosie DeJesus stopped her clapping. From the row behind, she peeked over his shoulder. “I love those,” she said, pointing at some satin panel curtains.
The cameraman moved closer. Peck, the replacement baseball coach for the Prairie Ridge High School baseball team, had become a star o
n the weekly show.
“I agree they are cute,” Peck said, “but I’m going to start with the kitchen. Maybe some blinds would be better.”
“I love my kitchen blinds,” Trista, Melendez’s wife, said. She reached over and took Peck’s tablet. “Here, I’ll show you what I just got.”
Trista tapped the screen a few times. “No way, she’s got extensions.”
Peck snatched his tablet back, noting the model on the curtain advertisement. “Everyone has extensions these days. Fake boobs used to be a big deal, but now it’s all about the hair. They’re getting better, but I can still spot them a mile away—that, and an actress with an eating disorder.”
“What about me?” Rosie said, drawing her fingers through her silky black hair. “Is mine fake or real?”
“Real,” Peck said without even looking up. “I noticed your hair the first day I sat here. Love the full body, really healthy.”
Alicia leaned over and whispered to her mother, “Sometimes I swear Peck’s gay, but Dad says no way. He really likes women. I can’t believe he can’t stay married.”
“Look at how he keeps himself,” Keri said. “His beefy arms are always hanging out, usually sunburned, and he’s got hair all over him. He’s kind of like a scary truck driver.”
Trista stole the computer back, and Peck nonchalantly waved her off. “Keep it for a bit. I’m hungry.” Peck waved down the concessionaire and paid for two hot dogs and a bottle of beer. “Can I get a glass for the drink?” he said, handing over a twenty-dollar bill. “Anyone else want something? I’ve got some carrots and broccoli in my cooler if you’re on a diet.”
Keri usually took him up on the fresh foods, especially by the fifth inning, when her stomach began to gurgle. Peck reached into his bag and pulled out a plastic bag and handed them to Keri. “How many miles did you run this morning? Got to keep that body fueled up.”
“Just six,” she said, smiling for the camera.
Peck snatched back his bag of vegetables. “You need to put some meat on those bones.” He tore off half of his hot dog and shoved it toward her face. “Open up if you don’t want to be sorry.”
