by Darin Gibby
***
Between Alicia’s relaxation sessions and a day at home, Gil felt ready for another day of combat. When he awoke, his arm and chest felt fine. Still tight, but he wasn’t facing the labored breathing that seemed to shut him down.
The new problem was his eyes. Everything looked foggy, like he had glaucoma. He rubbed them, but nothing worked. When he looked into the mirror, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He took a shower, but the hazy appearance wouldn’t disappear. He snuck into the kitchen, took a few ice cubes from the freezer and rested them on his eyes.
Keri caught him lying on the couch before he could slide the cold packs onto his shoulder. “What’s going on?” she said.
“Nothing,” Gil said. “Just experimenting.”
“By putting ice onto your eyes?”
He wanted to tell her he had a little bit of a headache, but knew she’d eventually get it out of him. “I feel really good this morning, but my eyesight is a little bit hazy. I’m fine now, back to twenty-twenty.”
Keri picked up the phone.
“You’re not going to call him?” Gil said. “We’ve bugged that poor man to death.”
“He wants to know of any new symptoms.”
Gil shrugged his shoulders and flipped on the television.
Dr. Kusha noted the change, asked to speak with Gil, and then ended the conversation by telling Gil he’d look into it.
By the time the game started, Gil’s symptoms had vanished as mysteriously as they began. At game time, the announcer read through the list of distinguished guests. When he concluded by saying that the entire top three rows of the rockpile had been reserved for the Rockies’ biggest fans, Gil stopped his warm-up and looked to the bleachers above right-center. It was a sea of turquoise, with orange caps. Prairie Ridge High School. As the camera zoomed in on the fans, he saw Peck crammed in with more than two hundred high school kids. Those were his kids. They were feverishly waving, hoping to get Gil’s attention. He removed his cap and waved it back.
Gil peered into the dugout. Getting 200 seats for a playoff game must have cost a fortune. Ratcliff merely shrugged. He looked to Preacher, then to Biondi, who did his traditional waddle to the mound.
“We all thought it would be nice to have your former students come see you pitch in a playoff game.”
Gil pitched all nine innings, giving up a single run in the fifth. Boclin and Juarez continued their long bomb attack and generated three runs between them. The average speed of Gil’s fastball was 110. He’d silenced all of his critics.
The celebrations were short-lived. Melendez got pounded in game four. Six runs had scored by the fourth inning. Four more scored in the fifth. Ratcliff decided to pull him, saving his arm for one more attempt if they had to go seven. Trista Melendez didn’t say a word the entire game.
Ratcliff called game five amateur day. He could have used one of his relievers to start, but then he’d be short a reliever when the team returned to Chicago. The rookie, Sewell, went back on the mound.
Sewell’s second outing was respectable but predictable. Ratcliff kept him in for six innings. He allowed eight runs, and the Rockies dropped another game. In Chicago, the Rockies would need to win both games. With no other pitchers, Gil would be his next starter, and if they could miraculously pull out a win, Melendez would be called on for the final game seven.
With the day of travel, Gil was awarded four days of rest. He felt like a Marine, going into a skirmish, beating up on the enemy then getting a pass for some R and R, only to come back and face reality. The Yankees had already finished out the American League series with a lopsided smashing of Boston. Nobody wanted a chance at the Yankees more than Juarez. They cut him thinking he was a has-been, assuming his injured knee was career ending. The orthopedic surgeon who’d looked at his knee said nearly all of his cartilage was gone, that he was scraping bone on bone with every step. He said he didn’t care. If Mickey Mantle could do it, so could he.
And he did. In the final two games against the Cubs in Chicago, he batted over six hundred. Gil’s streak continued, allowing only two runs in eight innings. In game seven, Melendez, ready to redeem himself, gave up three runs in seven innings. But with a grand slam by Juarez in the eighth, even Tajima couldn’t blow the lead.
The Rockies were going to the Series.
47
THE WORLD SERIES followed the same format as the League Championship Series. Ratcliff gave Gil the home start.
Dr. Kusha made a special trip to Denver, not only to see the World Series, but to check on his most popular patient. On the morning of Gil’s start, Dr. Kusha paid a personal visit to the Gilberts’ home. He spent the morning working Gil over, poking and prodding him, taking more blood and urine samples, listening to his heart, reviewing his records from the past four months. Keri stayed by his side.
When he was finished, Gil asked Dr. Kusha for his professional opinion.
“Same thing,” he said. “Both your muscles and bone tissue are more dense. The disease is progressing, and we still have no way to stop it. You run the risk of shutting down your organs if you put too much stress on them.”
Gil searched Keri’s eyes. “Gil has two more games to pitch,” she said, “maybe three if they play all seven. What are the risks?”
Dr. Kusha shook his head. “I just don’t know. The fact that Gil needs to hunch over and gasp for breath isn’t a good sign. If his lungs shut down or his heart stops, I’m not sure we could get him back. I mean, I’ll certainly be there with some muscle relaxants, and we could even put down a chest tube if we had to.”
Keri turned her head and shut her eyes. “That’s enough. I get the idea. Gil, you’re the one that’s going to have to decide. You’ll be the one to know when to call it quits.”
Gil stood and began buttoning his shirt. “I’m feeling okay right now.”
“I suppose that’s right,” Dr. Kusha said. “The longer you wait between starts, the more time your body has to recover. I really wish you had five days.”
“Ratcliff could start Melendez today,” Keri said.
“He could, but he won’t. He’s already announced me as the starting pitcher.”
Keri looked at Dr. Kusha and pursed her lips. He folded his arms and sighed. “Alright, but if anything funny starts happening, like if your vision starts getting hazy again, you get off that mound. You won’t need to call me, because I’ll be right there watching.”
Gil had just tossed his gym bag into the back of his truck when the familiar sight of his father’s Lincoln pulled into the driveway, blocking his exit. Gil looked at his watch. As usual, he was running late.
At first, Gil wondered whether this was another ploy to keep him from pitching. Gil swung his door open and rested his boot on the runner. He could always trek over his front lawn and jump the curb.
“No, wait,” his father said, scurrying up the driveway, waving his arms like a football referee trying to stop a play from scrimmage. “I have something to tell you before you pitch today.”
Gil obeyed and faced his father, his arms folded. His heart began to race.
“It’s not right we aren’t speaking.”
Gil instantly relaxed. This wasn’t what he expected.
“Keri called me early this morning. She reminded me that we’ve been best friends our whole lives and that we shouldn’t let this go on any longer—in case something happens to you.”
Gil nodded. “Keri is usually right about these things.”
An awkward silence followed. Gil waited for his father, whose head was now lowered, staring at the concrete. After a few moments, he looked his son in the eyes. “It was real nice what you did with that homeless man. It made me realize I was doing things for the wrong reason. I’m here to apologize. We may never agree about who God is or the right way to worship him, but ruining our relationship over what we believe is wrong. I could never live with myself if I didn’t come see you pitch in the World Series. You’re my son, and fathers are supposed to
brag about their kids. Will you forgive me?”
Gil threw out his arms and embraced his father. “Of course, but only if you’ll come see me pitch tonight.”
Pastor Ron reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the envelope Gil had left on the pulpit. “Your mother and I are going to take you up on your offer for free tickets, if it’s not too late.”
The two men embraced again. Gil could feel his father’s bony arms patting him on the back. “Of course. They’ll be waiting for you at the Will Call window.”
“Tell me about your health.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m struggling a bit, but I think I have enough in me.”
“Keri’s worried about you.”
“I know. I hope she understands.”
“She’s probably the only one who truly understands you. She’s your biggest fan. Nobody is pulling for you more than she is.”
48
COORS FIELD WAS so decorated that Gil hardly recognized the place. Banners hung from the outfield walls, and the grass was painted with the World Series logo. An F-18 fighter and a B-1 Bomber roared over the unsuspecting fans. Carrie Underwood sang the national anthem, and Senator Udall threw out the first pitch.
Ratcliff paced uneasily. He feared all the extra celebrations were going to throw his team off their rhythm. The Yankees, who made regular appearances at such events, seemed unfazed.
The pageantry finished, the Rockies took the field. Trudeau led the charge. On his way to second base, he defiantly glared into his former team’s dugout.
Manzi, feeling vindicated after beating the Cubs, took his place at shortstop.
Juarez bolted his way toward right field, legs extended like a sprinter, showing no signs of pain from his blown-out knee. The last player out of the dugout was Slider. He emerged into the bright lights with no fanfare, his cap pulled low, ready for business. Most sports writers thought his sentence too lenient and that the commissioner had been rash in his promise. Slider took a grounder from Biondi and whipped it back to first base.
In his windup, Gil watched as Slider sucked up another ball. He held up his hand to Preacher and went over to third.
“What are you doing?” Gil said.
“Warm-ups, just like we always do.”
“Are you kidding me? This is the World Series.”
“And?”
“You’re Slider and you’re in the World Series and you’re throwing balls to first base. What’s wrong with this picture?”
Slider smiled. “But I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? I can’t pitch if Slider’s standing behind me not being Slider. That guy over there on third, well, he’s not Slider, and I can’t play without Slider.”
“The commissioner will toss me.”
“For what? Being Slider? Now get back to the dugout and come back as Slider.”
“Okay,” he said. Slider twisted his cap to the side as he traversed the infield.
“What’s going on?” Ratcliff said when Slider reached the railing.
“Gil said I wasn’t being Slider, and he wasn’t going to play unless you put the real Slider on third.”
Ratcliff scowled at Gil. “What on heaven’s earth is he talking about?”
“Are you okay if I’m Slider?’
“Quit being stupid and get out there,” Ratcliff said, “before I kick you in the butt.”
“Okay,” Slider said, and sprung off at a full sprint. When he reached the pitcher’s mound, he spun around, whipped out four running backflips, and landed square on third base. His teeth glistened through his broad smile. Gil lifted his thumb, and the crowd went wild. Welcome to the World Series.
Gil glanced out at the crowd, intent on their beaming faces. They’d booed him during the summer, and now they prayed for him. The cheering was so loud that his ears were ringing.
It was time to give them what they came for. He took the signal from Preacher, lined up his two fingers along the seams and whipped out a 111-mile-per-hour fastball.
“Steeeerike!” the umpire yelled, and the Series was officially underway.
In 1956, Don Larson had not only pitched a perfect game in a World Series, but he was the only no-hitter in postseason history. Speculation was rampant as to whether Gil would be the second.
Gil felt like he was on air, floating along until the seventh inning. The fans had energized him in a way that made his illness disappear. He was in another world where that disease didn’t exist. He’d given up three walks, but no runs. He was two innings away from a no-hitter.
But the crowd couldn’t carry him forever, not with his ravaging disease. By the end of the seventh inning, the temperature had dropped to the forties, and the rigor mortis began to set in. Gil watched from the bench as Slider scored after he was driven in by a sacrifice fly from Manzi. Trudeau, still determined to make a statement to the Yankees, hit a double, then stole third. Juarez brought him home with a sacrifice fly to center.
Gil decided to face reality. He stood and tapped Ratcliff on the shoulder, and both men understood. This wouldn’t be his no-hitter. A rumble fluttered through the crowd when the lanky Japanese closer took the mound. Tajima allowed a run in the eighth then held off a ninth-inning charge and game one went to the Rockies.
The following day, Melendez pitched another good game, but not enough to stop the hired guns of the Yankees. They managed four runs, two more than the Rockies, and after two games, the Series was even.
The question on everyone’s mind was whether Gil would start game three in New York.
Ratcliff still hadn’t announced his starting pitcher for game three when they arrived in New York the evening of October 26. Ratcliff did not endear himself to the New York press. Not announcing a pitcher was not just bad taste, it was un-American, and unforgivable. But Ratcliff didn’t have a choice. Gil hadn’t given him a decision. Dr. Kusha was meeting Gil in New York to reevaluate his condition.
The news wasn’t good. What nobody knew was that Dr. Kusha had been waiting for Gil in the Rockies’ locker room the moment he stepped off the mound in game one. Most figured Gil had disappeared for ten minutes to take a bathroom break, but it was really for a real-time evaluation.
Dr. Kusha was now certain that Gil’s disease had progressed to the point that it was placing an undue burden on both his circulatory and respiratory systems. His blood pressure skyrocketed, and his oxygen saturation plummeted. Both would return to safe levels when Gil relaxed, but the levels reached while pitching were critical. Dr. Kusha felt the same thing had been happening all season. On the same day in the morning, Dr. Kusha reevaluated Gil, focusing on his pulse rate, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation. All had significantly improved.
“So I’m okay to pitch if I limit the number of innings?” Gil said.
“I think we’re down to the number of pitches,” Dr. Kusha said. “You’ve got to limit your pitch count.”
“How many?
“Twenty.”
“Get serious, doctor
“I’d say fifty.”
“Sixty-five and you have a deal.”
Dr. Kusha shook his head. “Hopefully, your teammates’ bats are hot today. I’ll be in the locker room after the fifth inning.”
Connor stood next to Ratcliff as they watched Gil work his magic. Gone were the amateur indiscretions of earlier in the season. Gil didn’t waste a pitch. Every throw was a strike, placed precisely where Preacher called it. By the end of the fourth inning, Gil had pitched a perfect game, tossing a mere fifty-five pitches. Even some of the Yankees’ fans applauded him as he exited the field. But in New York, anything and everything was expected. The calls to “get the druggie off the field” lingered after each inning.
“Have you thought more about next season?” Connor said to Ratcliff as they watched Gil finish his warm-ups at the bottom of the fifth.
Gil threw another 111-mile-per-hour fastball. Ratcliff shrugged. “Things have changed a little bit, haven’t they?”
“
You know my fortunes are with you. You hang it up, so do I.”
“I think I hang it up when Gil does.”
“Do you think he’ll be back?”
“You know I’m too superstitious to answer that.” Ratcliff nodded at the mound. Gil struck out the third batter, ending the fifth inning.
“How’s the arm?” Ratcliff asked when Gil slipped onto the bench.
Gil opened his mouth to answer, but the only thing that came out was a gurgle. Briscoe tossed him his water bottle, and Gil took a sip. His body violently reacted, and he began to cough and sputter. He held up his hand to signal he was okay. He finally gasped and sucked in a deep breath.
“Sorry, my mouth is a little dry.”
Briscoe looked at Ratcliff and narrowed his eyes. Ratcliff came off his perch and seated himself next to his ace. “I usually ask how the arm’s doing, but I feel I should ask how the lungs are doing.”
Gil massaged his chest. “I’m a little tight.”
Ratcliff looked out at the scoreboard. The Rockies had a two-nothing lead. He turned to Connor, and they locked eyes.
Tajima spoke up. “If Gil can get us to the eighth, I can handle the last two innings.”
Nobody thought of going to the bullpen. They all knew.
“Yeah, I can go one more,” Gil said.
Gil retired the first batter with a pop-up fly. The second batter fouled off the first pitch. When Gil came out of his stance, a numbing pain raced throughout his lower throat, just below his collarbone. When he went to breathe, nothing happened. It was as if someone had shoved a cork down his windpipe. His face turned crimson red, and he clutched his throat. Preacher rushed out to the mound.
The ferocious New York crowd seemed to gasp in unison, and the wild screaming fell to a hush. Gil tried to stay calm and portray a collected demeanor. The last thing he wanted was the front page of the Times with another prognosis of his ailment.
