by Darin Gibby
Keri was standing in the front room, her sash tightly wrapped about her waist. One hand was full of Kleenex.
“I can’t take this anymore. Gil, it’s not fair to me, or the kids. We can’t live like this. Can’t we have our lives back?”
Gil opened his mouth and raised his finger, like a politician looking for a sound bite. He let his hand fall. “I know. I’m going to take care of this,” he said, picking up his gym bag.
Gil shoved his truck in reverse and squealed the tires in the driveway, daring any spectator or news crew to halt him. In the street, he punched the gearshift and slammed the gas pedal to the floor, waiting for his tires to spew gravel. In his neighbor’s yard, he saw four men with familiar faces—elders at his father’s church. But they weren’t looking at him. They had their baseball caps removed, placed over their hearts, and stared steadfast at the cross etched in his front lawn.
I knew it. Pastor Ron strikes again, saving his flock from the wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Gil clamped down on his brakes, jerked the transmission into reverse and spun backward, smelling his plume of smoke. He craned his neck and squinted, trying to understand what could be capturing their attention.
Then he knew. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel.
Why didn’t I see this before?
His father’s warning, the cross in the lawn. His anger subsided as did the pain in his chest. No, this was all good. His father had opened his eyes. He’d done him the biggest favor of his life. I grew up believing that this life was all about doing good and avoiding evil. Righteousness is good, sin is bad, that kind of stuff. Life was all about going to heaven—and avoiding going to hell. I was destined to a place where the streets are paved with gold, or to this place of eternal burning with the Devil.
Now he knew that wasn’t true. It was all right in front of him, just like Preacher had said. Opposites are not ends but means to accomplishing something else, like the opposite ends of a magnet being used to generate electricity, or water falling over a wheel to grind wheat, so that the goal in the physical world isn’t to be at one of the opposites, but to use them to generate power. The world of religion should be the same as the physical world. The goal in life isn’t to try to die and go to heaven—or to avoid going to hell—because those are opposites and being at one of the opposites doesn’t do you any good.
Growing up in my father’s shadow, that’s all I thought about—going to heaven in the next life and whether I’m going to make it.
No longer. Staring at the cross, he threw the notion out the window like Galileo when he discovered that the earth revolved around the sun, or Columbus when he found out the world wasn’t flat.
But if life isn’t about going to heaven, where does that leave me?
The cross told the whole story. Opposites exist to generate an inner, spiritual power. By transcending opposites, you move to your center, where your heart is. That was the real meaning of the cross, to change your heart and live a life of compassion.
He felt a giant burden being lifted. I’m not here to earn points, or to win, or to go to heaven. I’m here to learn, to have the experience, to transcend, to be driven, and hopefully to help someone along the way.
Gil sat subdued in his truck thinking of Melvelene, the happiest person he knew. She laughed in the face of death because she was there to save him. He was going to do the same—for his father.
39
FALL WAS IN the air, and along with it, cool mornings and refreshing afternoon breezes. Austin was back in school, ending any chance of him attending another road game. Most of the home games were scheduled at night, a calculated attempt to increase attendance by not competing with work and school.
The Rockies were gaining ground on the Giants after their mid-season slump and were hoping that their home stretch would get them in contention for a wildcard spot.
They were playing the Yankees for the second time that season. The last time they’d met, Slider had taken out their second baseman. This time they were ready.
The sun had lowered past the rim of the stadium casting a shadow over the infield, but Slider kept on his sunglasses. Gil watched as Slider frantically tossed around anything in his sight in what looked like a desperate search for his batting gloves. His hands were shaking.
“You okay, Slider?” Ratcliff said.
“Leave me alone. Just find me my gloves.”
Ratcliff’s eyes and mouth simultaneously shot open but no words came out.
Slider’s right foot began to twitch. “To hell with it, I’ll bat without them.”
He took the first bat he could find and pranced up the stairs and onto the field. One of the ball boys fished through Slider’s cubby, found his gloves, and bounded after him.
Slider ripped them from the young man’s grasp, tried to tug on the first one, but his hands were so jittery that he couldn’t do it. He threw both of them to the turf. When he entered the batter’s box, it was from the left-hand side, closest to the Rockies’ dugout.
“Slider’s not a switch hitter,” Ratcliff said as soon as he saw it. “Why is he batting left-handed?”
Slider took an awkward, off-balanced swing at the first pitch, a clear half-second behind the ball.
“Want to take off those sunglasses?” the pitcher said. He was the same player Slider had unsuccessfully tried to bulldoze his way over at their last meeting.
“Shut your hole,” Slider said.
“How about the other side of the plate?”
Slider stared blankly at the catcher then back at the pitcher. He adjusted his helmet then stared at the umpire in confusion.
“I’m a switch hitter now.”
Seeing the confusion, the pitcher put two fastballs right down the middle of the plate, and Slider was behind them both.
Slider set up for another pitch. “Go take a seat,” the catcher said.
He took another practice swing and waited for the pitch.
“That’s three,” the umpire said.
Slider didn’t move until Boclin came to the plate. “Slider, my turn,” he said with his Brazilian accent.
Slider slipped off his glasses and blankly stared at Boclin. His pupils were dilated, and he blinked rapidly.
“No kidding?” Slider said.
Boclin placed his hand on Slider’s shoulder to lead him back to the dugout, but Slider shoved him away. “Don’t jerk me around that like. I only swung at two pitches.”
Seeing the commotion, Ratcliff bolted from the dugout. “Slider,” he called. “Come on. You’ll get them next time.”
Grabbing his bat at both ends, Slider cracked it down on his leg, shattering the shaft into pieces. He tossed the remnants onto the dirt and stomped away from the plate. Ratcliff strode after him and spun him around. “Wrong dugout, Slider.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“Gotta take a pee,” Slider said, tossing his helmet to the batboy. He turned and headed for the locker room.
It was then Gil noticed the back of Slider’s uniform.
“He really did it,” Gil said.
The entire team watched as Slider stumbled through the dugout, their eyes focused on the black letters on his jersey. The familiar “TREYZ” had been replaced with “ME.”
“That’s his new name?” Manzi said to the general manager.
Ratcliff resumed his position on the railing. “Legally changed it yesterday. I couldn’t keep it off the uniform.”
“Was that a tattoo on his cheek?” Gil said to Preacher.
“I think so. He’s crying out for your attention.”
Melendez spoke up. “My father was the same way, but I didn’t end up like that. I know just what it’s like to have your father abandon you then come back into your life just because you get famous and have money.”
“Maybe you should be the one to help him,” Preacher said.
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” Melendez said. “But he won’t talk to me. He hates everything I stand for: married w
ith a nice family, fancy home in the ’burbs with the rich folks. I don’t think anyone can help him right now. He’s unreachable.”
Gil pitched a scoreless first inning. In the second, the batter took a check swing, trying to foul off one of Gil’s low fastballs. The slight contact lifted the ball down the right field line and into the corner where the ball’s motion suddenly died. Juarez, hobbling with his bad knee, skipped toward the back fence. By the time Juarez got to the ball, the batter was well on his way to third. The Yankees’ coach spun his arm like a propeller, waving his batter toward home.
Juarez still had his arm, and he rifled a shot to home plate. His throw from right field was perfect, and Preacher’s glove was stuck just in front of home plate.
It was payback time for what Slider had tried two months ago. But the batter didn’t try to smack into Preacher. He was too small. So he dropped onto his buttocks and slid, lifting his right cleat into the air. It cleared Preacher’s glove and sliced into his arm, leaving a six-inch gash that immediately began oozing blood.
Out of his peripheral vision, Gil saw Slider tearing down the left field line. He’d already shed his glove and his fists were clenched. Gil intercepted him, throwing both arms around Slider’s chest. “Easy, Slider. We’re going to need your bat today. We can’t afford to have you getting tossed.”
The umpire ejected the Yankees’ runner, and that seemed to settle Slider. Gil let him go and walked him back to third. Gil put his arm around Slider’s shoulder. His shoulder muscles were twitching. “You okay, Slider?’
“Hey, don’t ask me any more questions, okay? I know what I’m doing.”
Gil let go and ventured toward home plate where the trainer, Briscoe, was attending to Preacher with his first aid kit. Preacher shooed away his trainer and began arguing with the umpire.
“Naw, you’ve got to sit out a bit and get that stitched up,” the umpire said.
Briscoe agreed and began to escort Preacher off of the field.
The game remained scoreless until the fourth inning. Juarez got a double, but Gil struck out, leaving him stranded at second. Slider passed Gil on the way back to the dugout. “If you can’t get the job done, then I guess I’ll have to do it.”
Slider took two quick strikes, staring into empty space. Confident, the pitcher threw another fastball over the plate, and Slider pounced on it, punching the ball into left center. Juarez easily scored, and Slider was held up at first. But he didn’t stop. He was ready for a repeat. His stocky legs spun, and he wheeled his way to second. The throw was in plenty of time, and the second baseman, fully expecting Slider to try to take him out, blocked the base, steadying himself for a collision.
When Slider lowered his shoulder, the second baseman jumped out of his way, tagging Slider on the arm and avoiding the collision. The umpire stuck up his thumb and called him out. Slider skidded, widened his eyes at the umpire then flipped him the bird. His nostrils began to flare, and he turned to keep running the bases, but he became disoriented and his line angled away from third base and into the outfield. Upon realizing that he was going to miss the plate, he changed directions toward the closest Yankees player, the beefy left fielder. When Slider was within five yards, he started wildly swinging his fist.
The Yankees’ left fielder deflected the first round of punches with his glove then landed his own right hook dead center in Slider’s face. His nose popped, and blood sprayed from his nose. By now, the center fielder had arrived and lunged at Slider, taking him down with a full body slam. In a matter of seconds, most of the Yankees had piled on, punching and kicking Slider from every angle.
None of the Rockies came to Slider’s aid. The entire security detail descended and broke up the melee. In the end, five Yankees players were ejected. Slider, his face bloodied, curled up on the turf and shook uncontrollably. He was carried off the field in a stretcher like a football player being courted off the gridiron. With her head hung low, Slider’s mother silently crept out of the stadium.
Gil pitched the following inning then went straight into the locker room. Slider was still in uniform, curled up on the exam table, still shaking. An IV was stuck in one arm and the doctor was monitoring his heart rate.
“Just trying to stabilize him,” the doctor said. “Then he’s off to Swedish Hospital. The ambulance is ready to go. It would help if you could get him to tell us what he ingested.”
Gil kneeled down so that his eyes were level with Slider’s. His pupils were the size of saucers.
“My season’s over, Teacher. They’re going to ban me when they see all the gunk in my blood.”
“Why, Slider? You had so many things going for you.”
“Why? You, of all people, you should know. It’s because of you. I couldn’t compete with you. I’m supposed to be the star of the team, but you come out of nowhere and steal everything. I figured you were doing drugs, and I needed to keep up.”
“You got it all wrong, Slider. I’m not on drugs. What the papers said is true. I’ve got this wacko disease that most think is going to kill me. Trust me, you don’t want to compete with me. I may not even be around next season. The team will be all yours.”
Slider reached out for Gil’s hand. “That’s the truth?”
“The truth. You’ve got to clean yourself up. Fall on your sword. Maybe they’ll let you come back. We’re going to need you if we’re ever going to make the playoffs.”
Slider let go and curled up tighter. Gil could see the goosebumps on his skin. “I never asked you about Melvelene’s funeral.”
“It was nice. I told the story of our first visit. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have never met her.”
Slider closed his eyes.
“Time to go,” the doctor said, “and you’ve got to get out on the mound.”
Gil looked up at the television monitor. The inning had ended, and he was up.
***
That evening, the doctor led them down the hallway. Gil’s shoes slid along the glossy, white floor tiles. The smell was familiar, a pungent odor of antiseptic and body odor fused together. As he passed the heavy wooden doors, he peeked through the cracks. He wished he had time to make a surprise visit to some unsuspecting patron, just like he’d done with Slider when they discovered Melvelene.
They found Slider robed in a cotton shield, his arms bare and an assortment of tubes were pumping mysterious fluids into his bulging veins. Gil could see his tattoos better now—a cross on his cheek, a skull and knife and his right shoulder, and a broken heart on his left.
Slider’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing with the rhythm of the ventilator, which, through a nosepiece, injected oxygen into each nostril. His eyelids flipped open the moment Preacher thanked the doctor. Once wide as saucers, they’d shrunk to the diameter of a pencil lead.
Gil walked to the far side of the bed, leaving Preacher closest to the door.
“Thanks for coming, guys,” Slider said, propping his head to focus on his visitors. “Sorry you have to see me this way. I guess I finally hit rock bottom.”
“I was just thinking about the last time we were at Children’s Hospital, about how we snuck out.”
Slider smiled. “I remember. Now I’m the patient.” He swallowed and focused on Gil. “Do you know how much I hated you? Sorry, but I did.”
Gil slid a chair next to the bed. “Don’t worry. That’s all behind us now. We just want you to get better. We’re like family. We need you back.”
Slider closed his eyes, and a tear seeped through his eyelashes. “The drugs. I started taking them to give me an advantage, but then the drugs kept getting better. I went way past steroids. Coke, acid, you name it. It took me to this place I never wanted to leave. I could run from my past, from my future—now that Gil Gilbert was snuffing out my career. I wanted what you had, the experience you felt when you pitched your no-hitter. I won that game for our team as much as you did, but nobody even mentioned my name.”
“It’s funny,” Gil said. “Right before that gam
e, I had a long discussion with Keri. I wasn’t sure I wanted to pitch, but she said I had to, even if it killed me. She said that she finally realized that if I didn’t pitch I’d die inside, and she couldn’t stand to see that happen to me.”
“But you didn’t take drugs.”
“Slider, don’t give up on yourself. We’ll get you cleaned up. You can get there.”
“He’s right,” Preacher said. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. Now you’ve experienced the worst that life can dish out, you’re ready to have your experience.”
Slider wiped his nose, sending a half-dozen tubes swinging from the IV bag. “I don’t know how I’ll ever do it. It was so easy with the drugs.”
Gil put his hand on Slider’s wrist. “We’re not giving up on you, not now, not ever.”
40
DR. BABAK KUSHA arrived at Coors Field three hours before the first pitch against the Arizona Diamondbacks. The gates were still closed and the security guard, apprised by Gil, escorted the doctor to the glass doors just to the south of the iron fence barring the main entrance.
Dressed in his knickers and a white T-shirt, Gil was leaning on the receptionist’s desk.
“Dr. Kusha,” he said, holding out a Rockies ticket, “this wasn’t easy to get. Come on back. I’ll give you a tour.”
Gil led him through the main tourist attractions, the locker room, training facilities, press rooms, then down an empty hallway to the storage room filled with the cardboard boxes. He lifted two of them off a stack. “Have a seat.”
The doctor patted the brown corrugated material and gently sat down. “I guess we’re alone.”
“Absolutely.” Gil slapped his thighs. “So, tell me what I’m facing.”
Dr. Kusha stroked his chin. “It’s not good, Gil. You ready for this?”
“We are sitting down,” Gil said with a nervous grin.
“The bottom line is that I don’t have a definitive answer. No absolute diagnosis.”
Gil smiled. “You’re a doctor. What other answer would you give me?”
