by Darin Gibby
“Are you finished?”
“One more thing,” said Gil. “I’m sorry for not honoring you as my father, but I had to do what I thought was right.”
Gil reached over and placed a white envelope onto the pulpit. “It’s my peace offering. For you and Mom.”
43
WITH THE SEASON winding down, Gil didn’t want to miss any opportunities. It was Saturday, and the Rockies had an early evening game. Gil wasn’t pitching and had the morning off.
On weekends, Austin slept in until at least ten, and later if Keri let him. Carrying a bundle of clothes in his arms, Gil cracked Austin’s door. The sheet was pulled over his head, an apparent attempt to keep his room dark.
Gil flipped on the light switch. “Surprise,” he said.
“What?” Austin groaned, peeking his eyes out.
Gil swung the sheets off the bed, leaving Austin exposed in his underwear. “Check ’em out,” Gil said, holding out his present.
Austin rubbed his eyes and stared at the white and purple jersey. “A Rockies uniform.” He popped up and held the shirt in front of him. “Wait, there’s pants and socks, and my name is on them.”
“You’re the official batboy today. I talked Ratcliff into it. He’s breaking a team rule, but I guess some rules are meant to be broken.”
“Really? That’s so cool. I’m really going to be in the dugout?”
“Yep. We’ve got to get to the park early so they can train you. And we need to stop off downtown and get you some shoes.”
Austin was on the floor, slipping the uniform over his boxers. “This is going to be awesome. I can’t believe you did this. Hey, Mom!”
Keri was already standing in the door, her arms folded, leaning against the doorframe.
“Pretty neat. I think I’ll come just to see you.”
“You’ve got to get Alicia to come too. I’m going to text all my friends. I can’t believe it. I just wish you were pitching.”
Keri slipped into her son’s room, put her arms around Gil’s shoulders and whispered. “You’re a cute dad.”
Austin threw down a bowl of cereal, grabbed his cap, and bolted out into the garage.
“Think he’s a little excited?” Keri said.
“A boy’s dream. See you at the ballpark.”
***
Gil and Austin stopped by a shopping mall on the drive to the stadium to get him a pair of running shoes to match his Rockies uniform.
“Might as well go all out,” Gil told his son.
As they were leaving the mall, they heard a voice from behind. “Hey, aren’t you that Gil dude?”
A man, missing one of his front teeth, and who had a head of matted hair that came to his shoulders, scooched himself upright. His face had the appearance of leather. He was sitting on the cement outside the mall, propped up by a brick wall. Perched on his lap was an acoustic guitar. The case was sprawled out in front of him, with a few dollar bills fluttering in the breeze.
Gil turned. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“I hear you play a mean guitar.”
Gil smiled. He was expecting someone to ask for his autograph or a question about how he could really throw that fast. “I’ve been known to light up a few stages.”
The man flipped the shoulder strap over his head and held out the guitar. “Why don’t you pluck a few strings, see if some of these good folks won’t contribute to the cause,” he said, looking into his nearly empty guitar case.
“Sure,” Gil said without hesitating. He stooped over, slung the strap over his shoulder, and strummed the strings. “Not bad. What am I singing?”
“Stairway to Heaven, if you know it.”
“Whoa, going way back, aren’t you? Even before my time. I haven’t played Zeppelin since I was in freshman dorms. Let me see if I can remember. A woman buys a stairway to heaven, but when she gets there, the stores are all closed.”
“That’s the one. You got it. No stores in heaven.”
Gil plucked out the tune and sang the first verse.
By now, close to a hundred people had formed a semi-circle around the performer. Gil kept up his tune, but periodically nodded at the guitar case. A few tossed in some coins. Gil’s eyes narrowed. Austin had seen those eyes before, usually when he didn’t do his chores or his homework. Austin slipped off his Rockies cap, flipped it upside down and stuck it out in front of his chest, sauntering along the front row then working his way back through the crowd. “I’m taking up a collection for that homeless man. My dad would really like it if you’d help.”
Gil sang enough verses to give his son time to work his charms. When Austin came back to the front, his cap was overflowing with bills. He unloaded the currency in the guitar case. “There you go, mister. I hope you have a good meal and a soft bed tonight.”
The song ended, the crowd clapped wildly and in unison rushed forward for autographs and pictures.
“Austin and I need to get to the ballpark, so I can’t stop for any signatures, but I hope you are all going to watch the game tonight.”
The crowd respectfully parted, and the father-son duo bid their friend goodbye and headed off.
“Austin, did you bring your ticket?” Gil asked.
“Of course, you think I’m crazy?”
“You’ll be in the dugout with me.” Gil nodded back at the homeless man.
“Are you sure? I sit next to Mrs. Melendez,” said Austin.
Gil smiled.
“Got it.” Austin snatched his ticket from his jeans pocket and ran it over to the man. “Dad’s not pitching today. I think DeJesus is on the mound, but the seat is really good. Dad says you can’t sell it. You have to come to the game.”
The man took Austin’s hand in both of his, gently stroking them. “Can I ask one more thing?”
Austin looked back at his father. If they didn’t hurry, they were going to be late.
Gil could sense not only the fan’s gaze, but those of the cameras. He nodded.
“Can we all have a prayer together? I need all the help I can get.” He pulled Austin tight into him.
“Sure,” Gil said, stepping toward the man who held out one of his hands. Gil could smell the stench of body odor and stale tobacco. “We might as well make this a family affair. Whoever wants to join, just reach out and take someone’s hand.”
A giant smile broke on the man’s face, revealing his deteriorating dental work. “I love you, man.”
44
EXCEPT FOR THE upcoming decision by the federal district judge, the Rockies controlled their own destiny. Trailing the San Francisco Giants by two and a half games, if the Rockies could sweep the three-game series, they’d win the division and clinch a playoff spot. If they lost even a single game, their season was over. If the judge decided against them, there would be no playoffs, regardless of whether they won the pennant.
Gil was scheduled to start the series with the Giants. Melendez would start game two, and if he won, then game three would be laid on DeJesus’ shoulders.
Gil took the mound and after his first pitch, his shoulder was on fire. His upper chest burned. The muscles in his body felt like the day after lifting heavy weights. He worked through it, allowing a run to score in the first inning. He slowly loosened up, but by the fifth inning, the burning followed every pitch.
The outfielders stepped up to save the day. Juarez’s knee was hurting so bad that running was next to impossible. But his bat made up for it. He’d been hitting over .500 in the last week. He hit two homers and a single, which would have been an easy double for Slider. Boclin, his batting average hovering in the mid-200s, finally began to connect wood with leather. With a single, double, and triple, he’d helped the Rockies to score eight runs. Manzi, determined to get in the playoffs and face Chicago, chipped in another two runs.
By the eighth inning, Gil had allowed four runs, more than any other game in the season. But with a healthy lead, Ratcliff signaled for his closer. He’d let Gil rest and Tajima put the icing on the cake
.
The ice baths and ibuprofen helped, but Gil had a hard time disguising his body’s violent reaction to his pitching. He walked like a marathoner the day after a race.
The next evening, he gingerly found his way to the bench to watch Melendez. It was his best game of the season. He allowed only a single run, while the Rockies’ lineup managed another seven points.
The Rockies needed one more win to get into the playoffs. It was up to DeJesus, whose cutter was on. Through the first three innings, the Giants remained hitless.
“How are you feeling these days, Gil?” Slider said, dressed in a pair of jeans and a Rockies T-shirt.
Gil turned. It was the first time Slider had ever called him by his real name. “I was going to ask you the same thing. You still okay with the suspension?”
Slider nodded. “I am. I think they went easy on me since I put myself in rehab and admitted everything. Counseling has been good for me. I’m just starting to deal with the pain of growing up without a father—and his sudden reappearance. You know, I did get the commissioner to let me play when we get to the Series.”
“No kidding?”
Every head in the dugout turned.
Slider put up both hands like a baseball player protesting a foul call. “Hey, I’m serious. I think he was kidding at first because he didn’t think the Rockies could ever make the Series, especially if I was out for the rest of the regular season and the division series. I told him we had a deal before he could go back on it, and the lawyers put it in writing.”
They watched as Ratcliff made his way from the mound back to the dugout.
“Does Ratcliff know about this?” Gil said.
“Sure does.”
DeJesus allowed a home run in the sixth inning. He was furiously kicking the dirt with his cleats. He grabbed his elbow then violently massaged it. After taking his stance, he hitched his shoulder.
“That’s not a good sign,” Slider said.
“He’s like an injured horse,” Gil said.
DeJesus took his windup and let the pitch go. It smashed into the dirt two feet in front of the plate. The pitcher began wildly hopping, gripping his elbow. Briscoe rushed out on the field. Gil watched from his hideout, hoping what he was seeing was merely a dream.
Briscoe waved his arm and instantly one of the batboys grabbed his first aid kit and ran it out on the field. He whipped out some bandages and concocted a sling. Melendez slipped next to Gil on the opposite side of Slider. An eerie silence crept out of the stadium and seeped into the dugout.
“If it’s what I’m thinking, he’s going to need Tommy John’s surgery,” Melendez said. “He’s out for the playoffs.”
They sat in silence as Briscoe and Connor coddled the Cuban off the field. When he saw Gil, he pointed to his sling. “See, one bad pitch and my career is over.”
The mighty Cutting Cuban, the man who pitched for freedom, was done for the season. In the dugout, Ratcliff looked at Connor. “I’ve got pitchers, but nobody you want out there.”
Ratcliff spit into the dirt, something he hadn’t done since he was a player. He turned to study his bench. Tajima was nervously tightening a string on his glove.
“Tajima,” he said.
The Japanese pitcher jumped up. “Hey, come on, everyone. Get excited. This is our season. We’re not going to lose.”
Ratcliff waved his hand. “I don’t need you as a cheerleader. I need a pitcher.”
“Anything for you coach,” he said.
“Get warmed up. You’re going out there.”
“Isn’t the next inning number seven?”
“Yeah, it’s your lucky number.”
“But I’m only good for two innings, at most.”
“Don’t ask stupid questions. Just go out there and pitch. Okay?”
Gil was tossing a ball, up and down, silently watching as Tajima grabbed his glove. Gil let the ball fall to the ground. “I’m going to the bullpen.”
“Since when did you become the manager?” Ratcliff said.
“I didn’t mean to overstep, but I want to get us to the playoffs. I can give you one good inning—if you need it.”
Ratcliff sighed. “You sure?”
“I’m okay, but just if you need me.”
Ratcliff consented, and Gil exited the dugout.
The Rockies rallied, scoring two runs. Tajima got them to the last inning with a one-run lead. In the ninth, he gave up a single, then walked the next batter. He looked to the dugout with a face of desperation.
Ratcliff jumped up and signaled to the bullpen. It was up to Gil to clinch the win.
A hushed silence fell over the stadium when Gil took the field. As he reached the mound, the clapping began. The crowd was on its feet. After the first pitch, the burning sensation came roaring back. He didn’t feel tired, but like he was pitching under water. When his first pitch hit 112 and the crowd went wild, all thoughts of how sore he felt went by the wayside. He retired the first three batters he faced and the Rockies were in the history books. They’d finished the regular season with a record of ninety-six to sixty-eight, and they’d be facing the St. Louis Cardinals in the first round of the Division Series.
The players rushed the mound and surrounded their ace. Fans flooded the field. Security didn’t bother to stop them. This was such a rarity; the fans deserved it.
It took thirty minutes for the grounds crew to set up a makeshift stage. The Rockies were the Western Division Champions, and the necessary pomp and ceremony was about to begin. Ratcliff was awarded the team trophy. He gave the obligatory speech. This was a team effort, they were thrilled, but knew this was just the start and that they’d be ready when they traveled to St. Louis.
Champagne followed. Calls were made for speeches. Everyone wanted to hear Gil. Boclin grabbed the microphone and in English mixed with Portuguese, announced that Gil had a promise to fulfill. “Gil doesn’t know it, but his old band is here, and he’s going to sing for us. And I’m going to find the most beautiful girl and show everyone how to dance like a Brazilian.”
The players stepped back as Gil’s amateur band members lugged their equipment onto the stage. The ground crew worked furiously to provide electrical connections and extra microphones.
Gil was handed his electric guitar and stepped forward. “Well this is a little surprise. I suppose I did promise that I’d sing if we won the pennant. So here it goes.”
Gil strummed his guitar and looked back at his band. They nodded and in unison started the song.
Gil’s band finished with a traditional rendition of Gil’s Take Me Out to the Ballgame. “Come on, let’s hear you sing it,” he said. “One, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ballgame.”
More champagne followed in the locker room. There were enough reporters for all the players to recant the Rockies’ amazing season until well past midnight. In the excitement of the win, Gil forgot about his ice bath or taking more anti-inflammatories.
By the time he reached home, he could barely move. As soon as the garage door opened, Austin, Alicia, and Keri, followed by Peck, raced into the garage and helped him out.
They talked for another hour until Austin’s head bobbed, and he slipped sideways on the couch. “Looks like it’s bedtime, everyone.”
Gil stayed in bed the entire day. Ratcliff had given the team the day off. Even if he hadn’t, Gil wasn’t about to move. His chest was heavy, like he was suffering from a severe chest cold bordering on pneumonia. The continuous coughing felt like it was ripping out his insides. Keri called Dr. Kusha’s cell phone and explained the symptoms. He told Keri to have Gil stay in bed for twenty-four hours, then call him tomorrow. He kept him on the ibuprofen and a cool chest pack.
It was early afternoon when the phone rang, and Ratcliff’s number popped up. He reached over to the nightstand and fumbled with the phone before Keri came rushing in and handed it to him.
“How you feeling?” Ratcliff said.
“Getting there,” Gil said, scooching himself
up onto his pillow.
“I figured you could use a bit of good news. You remember when the judge said she’d render her decision before the playoffs?”
Gil propped himself on his elbow. “You said it was good news.”
“It is. She threw out the suit. Said it was totally baseless. The judge said that the replacement players couldn’t possibly tarnish baseball’s reputation because the striking players had already done a good job with that. She says she loves watching your reality show and wants to see you pitch in the playoffs—provided you’re healthy enough. That means there will be a playoff and a World Series with this season’s players.”
Gil swung his legs over the bed and slid his fingers through his disheveled hair. “I can’t believe it. A judge for a fan. Did you get her tickets?”
“She’ll be taken care of. I just need to know if I’m going to have a pitcher.”
“Count me in. There’s no way I’m going to miss this one.”
45
IT WAS A perfect autumn day, the temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the skies were filled with Canada geese making their way south. Gil arrived home just as Keri and the kids were finishing lunch. Team meetings didn’t start until four o’clock.
“Let’s go to the park,” he told Alicia. “We can get caught up on what’s going on in your life.”
She closed her book. “Really? We haven’t done that since I was in grade school. Remember when you used to push me on the swing so high that I’d nearly fall out?”
