Gil

by Darin Gibby

  Peck nodded to Gil. “We have some photos of our own.” Gil reached into his pocket and slipped out a folded piece of paper, then handed it to Kite who opened it and studied the picture.

  “That’s your daughter, in case you can’t recognize her,” Peck said. “She’s jumping on a trampoline. Not something a teenager with a serious concussion would be doing.”

  “But---”

  Gil held up his hand. “I don’t need to hear an explanation. We know you lied about the extent of her injuries. Now why don’t we see if we can’t put this behind us.”

  Kite closed his eyes. “Okay, what if we go down to a hundred grand?”

  “Are you crazy? I didn’t do anything wrong, and you know it.”

  Snot was oozing out Kite’s nose, and he vigorously sniffed it back in. “I can’t just let you walk. It’s more complicated than just the money.”

  Gil stooped down until he could smell Kite’s stale breath. “The players’ union. They got to you, didn’t they?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Peck raised his clenched fist in a sign that he still meant business.

  “It’s time to start talking,” Gil said.

  “Please, you don’t know who you are dealing with. I can’t simply drop the lawsuit, as much as I would like. I’d rather have Peck knock all my teeth out than risk what they could do.”

  Gil nodded to Peck to back off his threat.

  “I knew it,” Gil said. He stood and rested his hands on his hips. Kite was being incentivized to keep the pressure on Gil. They didn’t want him to settle. “That’s your problem. I need out of this lawsuit, and I don’t really care what kind of arrangement you have with them.”

  “Please, at least pay me something so they will think I have a real settlement.”

  “How much do you owe your lawyers?”

  “Sixty already, but if they get out of this with fifty, they’ll be happy.”

  Gil looked up to the sky, paused in thought. “Okay, but I’m going to need you to publicly state that you’re withdrawing the lawsuit because it doesn’t have any merit.”

  Kite shook his head and wiped his nose. “I won’t mention the money and just say that we’ve settled our differences. That’s the best I can do.”

  Gil looked at Peck, who rolled his eyes, then back at Kite. “I don’t know why I should do anything to protect you, but I feel sorry for what might happen to your family. So, I’ll pay you the fifty and you keep your mouth shut. That’s the deal. Okay?”

  Kite nodded. “I guess we have a deal.”

  36

  GIL FELT LIGHTHEADED as he approached Cindi’s home. She had left three messages, urging him to come see her mother before it was too late. But with the Rockies on the road, there was nothing he could do. There was so much he’d wanted to tell her since they’d last met, about how he’d followed her advice and really began to live.

  The sun was blaring down, and wet stains had already formed under his arms. He had never witnessed death firsthand. He wiped his brow and steadied himself on the porch.

  When the door swung open, he was stunned by the scene he entered. There lay Melvelene in a monster of a bed, with its shiny metal rails, taking up Cindi’s entire front room. His lightheadedness came rushing back, and he reached out for the wall to stabilize himself.

  This was a hospital bed, not her cozy mattress tucked away in her bedroom. He just walked in the door and there she was.

  The room was spinning. He went to his knees to keep from passing out. He paused then he removed his shoes.

  “Melvelene,” he whispered through dry lips.

  Her daughter escorted him to her bedside. Shaun, her son now home from Afghanistan, stood behind them. Gil grabbed the rail and clung to it.

  In silence, Gil watched as Melvelene reached out into thin air for some unseen being.

  “Mother,” she called.

  “It’s almost over,” Cindi said. “That’s what they do. The hospice nurse said it’s common in a person’s last days to cry out for a close relative.”

  “Sure,” Gil said, pretending to know all about what Melvelene was experiencing.

  Her face was pale and gaunt, her hands black, her breathing raspy, just a faint figure of her former self.

  “Is she in pain?” he asked.

  “We don’t think so. Thank goodness for morphine.”

  Gil reached out and softly laid his hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t help himself as he leaned over her ghostly face, now devoid of any smile. Nor was there any more laughter. He kissed her forehead. “I will miss you,” he whispered.

  They’d had their last laughs together. Now there was only a sacred silence.

  Quietly, he wished her well on her own new phase of eternity, then slipped out into the blistering sun. As soon as he reached the porch, tears filled his eyes. He was going to miss his new friend.

  At home, the image of Melvelene in that cold bed, reaching out to some other realm, remained etched in his mind. Mindlessly, he shoveled in Keri’s meal.

  They had just finished dinner when Gil felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He excused himself and went into the bathroom. Cindi broke the news. Melvelene had just passed away. No plans had yet been made, but she’d be sure to let him know.

  ***

  When Gil arrived at the ballpark, the press was so thick that the Denver police had to escort his car through the melee of bodies and equipment. It had been two weeks since the photos had been published, and Gil had yet to make a statement. With the lawsuit behind him, he was ready to fire back.

  He rolled down his window and three microphones were poked inside. An officer stepped forward and pulled them back.

  “It’s okay,” Gil said. He shut off the engine and got out of the car. “I only have a few minutes, but I’d like to answer as many questions as I can.”

  “Is it true that you are pitching toward your death?”

  It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. Gil chuckled. “I think everyone is. I mean isn’t every step you take another one closer to your own grave?”

  Several reporters laughed with him.

  “What I meant is, do you have a disease, ailment, I don’t know what to call it, but something that is causing your muscles to become more dense, and that if you keep pitching, that may take your life?”

  Gil removed his sunglasses. “It’s true I have something, as you call it, but the doctors don’t know what. And it’s also true that if they can’t find a cure, my life could be shortened. By how much? Nobody knows.”

  “But pitching will accelerate it.”

  “We also don’t know that, but it’s easy to jump to that conclusion. My family and I decided that I will finish the season, and we will reevaluate after that.”

  “What about your lawsuit?” another reporter shouted.

  “It’s been dropped. I’d love to comment further, but you know lawyers. That’s all they will let me say.”

  37

  A WEEK HAD passed since Gil had last spoken to his father. By now, he was hoping Pastor Ron’s piety had subsided. They’d gotten over rockier times before. But he wasn’t here to apologize.

  He found his father in his office, Bible opened, and a single bulb lamp shining on the worn papers. His bifocals were perched on his nose.

  When Gil entered, the pastor didn’t stir. After a moment, he ran his finger along a verse on the open page.

  “I came to tell you that I’m taking a break from church for a while.”

  “So I see,” his father said, without looking up. “People have been asking where you’ve been.”

  “I’ve had a lot going on.”

  “I do what God expects of me, and so should you.”

  “I think God wants me to play baseball without being a religious icon, some kind of a public spectacle.”

  “You’re being childish. I’d put you in the class with Slider.”

  “That’s not going to change my mind.”

  “If you’re trying to
hurt me, you need to realize you are only hurting yourself and your family.”

  “Church doesn’t speak to me like it does to you. I need some time off, to be away for a while, to figure out life on my own terms.”

  Pastor Ron nodded at the chair across from his desk. “Sit down.”

  Gil obeyed and rested his arms on his thighs. He knew what was coming. He’d listened to decades of his father’s sermons.

  “How can you say that God doesn’t speak to you? You’ve never given it a chance, always wanted to kick against the pricks.”

  “I think God does speak to me, just not through organized religion. Look, I’m not here to pick a fight. I just wanted to say that church doesn’t mean the same thing to me as it does you. I need some time away to experience life in a different way. It’s something I should have done years ago.”

  Pastor Ron spun his head, his eyes narrowed. He pounded his fist on the table. “You can’t leave the church. You can’t run from God. Why don’t you give an apology for this little incident, then see if you can’t get another teaching job.”

  “You’re not hearing me. Church doesn’t speak to me like it does to you.”

  “Because you never let it speak to you. You’ve always done things your way. And look where it’s gotten you. That alone should be a sign you should come back and confess your sins.”

  “I’m not alone. Lots of people can’t relate to organized religion. That’s why our churches are empty.”

  Pastor Ron stood and paced.

  “So then, you’re going to be an atheist, profess faith in nothing but yourself.”

  “I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth. All I said is that I need a—”

  “ … yes I heard you, a break,” Pastor Ron interrupted. “You want to know why churches are empty, Gil? Because Satan has created false churches. People worship evil: actors, athletes, and musicians.

  “Think about your own sport, Gil. Baseball is a system of modern day opposites and symbols, used to mimic those of God. Fair and foul, strike and ball, safe and out, all these little rules that provide this microcosm of opposites so we can compete on the field. And we build massive stadiums, cathedrals, to worship. We make pilgrimages to billion-dollar sports facilities. Can’t tear down the old ones fast enough.

  “Our sports stadiums, that’s where all the churchgoers have gone. No more bread and wine, just hot dog buns and beer. It’s pure counterfeit. Satan’s followers have created a set of rules so there will always be a winner and a loser, just like in real life, but with no God in the picture. And they’ve created this culture, all of these rituals that teach us incorrectly about how to deal with modern life. Instead of clergy robes, we use uniforms. And fans show up donning their favorite player’s jersey. It’s just like going to church in your Sunday best.”

  “Dad, don’t you think you are stretching things a bit. And aren’t you being a hypocrite? You’ve been pushing me to play ball, to use my God-given talent. Now you’re telling me I’m evil for doing what you’ve wanted since I was in college.”

  Pastor Ron ignored Gil’s words and continued his rant.

  “If you win, you get to baptize your coach in Gatorade.”

  “I’d prefer champagne.”

  “Please don’t mock me. You’ve got guys giving the sign of the cross, kissing their fingers and raising them to heaven.”

  “Come on, it’s just a way to relax and enjoy life for a bit.”

  “No, you can’t avoid the fact that people attend these events to see who’s going to win. Two teams war with each other under a system of rules to see who will conquer. It’s all calculated to steal people away from true religion where there are real winners and losers.”

  “You mean the ones who will end up going to heaven or be cast down to hell.”

  “That’s right. And you were to show them by your example. Until—”

  “To me, baseball is more than about winning or losing. It’s about being on the mound, digging deep into yourself to find out who you really are. It’s about discovery.”

  “You’re missing the point. You play this little game of baseball, feeling what it’s like to experience opposition, and the exhilaration that comes when you win, to become a great sports hero that everyone worships. You replace that feeling with the real purpose for being here on this earth.

  “We don’t want to spend the effort to understand what the old symbols mean. Instead of trying to reinterpret them, we have converted them into pop culture, into sports rituals so they are easy to understand. But our sports symbols aren’t giving our souls the right message. All they seem to do is to turn people inward, to put the focus on themselves. It’s all about notoriety and money. They should be telling us to lead a spiritual life, outside of today’s world of electrical gadgets and television, to turn outward to help others, not inward to self-centeredness. They simply don’t want God to lead them back to him.”

  Gil stared past his father’s probing eyes. “Look, I don’t have all the answers. All I know is that I’m on a journey, and I’ll let you know when I finish. I’ve got to play baseball right now to figure it out.”

  “Satan is deceiving you. If you keep pitching, you’re going to die. You’ll end up dying in vain.”

  “I don’t think so. I think God did this to me so I could discover the meaning of life for myself. And I’m going to keep pitching until I find out, die or not.”

  “I’m warning you. Don’t tempt God. If you try to fight Him, you’ll learn what he has in store for you. That I can promise you.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  “Fine, have it your way. God works in mysterious ways. One way or another, you won’t be pitching for long.”

  Gil stared coldly at his father. “It’s time for you to stop meddling with my life.”

  “This strike could settle, you know. Then this little charade would be all over.”

  “I think it’s time for me to go.”

  38

  GIL HAD JUST finished tucking in an extra pair of socks into a side pocket of his gym bag when Keri appeared in her robe and tossed the morning paper at his feet.

  “They’re out there again,” she said with a smile. “I’m glad you get to deal with it.” Keri turned and silently disappeared. Gil looked at the headline then pounded his chest with his fist. A sharp pain stabbed somewhere deep within him, and he struggled for breath.

  The media wasn’t going to leave him alone. With all the advertisements and special sections, the Sunday paper was nearly an inch thick, but all Gil saw was the bold headline:

  CONSERVATIVE CHRISTIANS CALL FOR

  GIL TO STEP DOWN

  The full story ran in section E, the weekly detail on religion. Gil’s hands were shaking, and the papers rattled as he opened the full spread. He scanned the article, picking up key words here and there. It was something about several right-wing Christian organizations calling for a boycott of every Rockies game where Gil took the mound. For what? The allegation was that he was a fake Christian, that he’d been secretly teaching his high school students that there isn’t a heaven. They had a direct quote, taken from his science fair, “that there wasn’t a heaven,” and he thought “everyone was a fool to believe in such a place.”

  In a rage, he threw the paper aside and scampered toward the front door. He flung it open, ready to take on the first reporter. A mad scramble ensued as three different camera crews jockeyed for the best shot. One ran up, not much older than high school age, and shoved a piece of paper in his face. “I’ve been asked to deliver this to you.”

  Gil was furious that he’d taken the bait. He should have ridden out the storm in the inside.

  “That’s the letter,” she said when Gil snatched it from her, “but there’s the message.” The punk pointed to Gil’s front lawn.

  His eyes widened and his chest tightened. In two perfectly carved out trenches a foot thick was the shape of a cross. Someone had removed sections of sod then had chalked in two interse
cting lines as if these were baselines on the baseball field.

  Gil couldn’t help himself. He yanked the letter from the envelope.

  You’re no role model for our youth, just a Satan worshipper. May you burn in hell—a place you’ll soon believe in.

  The camera lenses kept clicking. Gil had an uncontrollable urge to punch someone. That was what they wanted. All he needed was another well-placed photo.

  A female reporter in jeans and a light cotton sweater stepped forward, lowered her microphone, and signaled behind her for the cameraman to cut filming.

  “This is nonsense. How could you stoop so low? This isn’t news.” Gil foamed.

  The reporter nodded in apparent agreement. “I’m not talking about all of this noise.” She swept her arm in a full arc.

  “Then why don’t you all pack up and get out of here?”

  She stepped closer and moved her brightly painted red lips close to his ear. “I know about your illness. I know about Dr. Kusha. I don’t care about your religious preference. This story is so much bigger than whether your agnostic beliefs are ruining America’s youth. This is even bigger than performance-enhancing drugs. Do you want to comment before we run the story?”

  “You don’t know anything,” Gil said through clenched teeth.

  “I know enough, and if you don’t comment I’ll write it with my own spin on it. I’ve consulted experts, Gil. The disease could be transmittable. Look at what HIV did to Magic Johnson’s career.”

  “You’re wrong,” Gil said. “Don’t go there. I’ll sue you for defamation. None of it’s true. I’m perfectly healthy.”

  She didn’t budge. “I’m not here to be spiteful,” she said. “America is all about baseball, and you’re one of their heroes. If their knight in shining armor is going to die in battle, don’t you think they have a right to know?”

  Gil reached for the door handle. “Don’t run the story, not until we have medical evidence. It won’t be good for me, for baseball, or America. You understand?”

  The reporter kept her blue eyes focused. “I’m sorry Gil. Your fans have a right to know.”