by Darin Gibby
“I don’t have any excuses, I should have told you. I’m sorry. Please talk to me.”
He stood over her, afraid to touch her for fear it could make things worse.
Gil heard the rustling of the sheets and Keri’s nearly hoarse voice. “I’m scared,” he thought he heard her say. Not angry, not upset, not disappointed. Scared.
He crouched next to her face. It was hot and wet, dripping with sweat. He pulled down the covers, noticing her wrinkled skirt intertwined between her legs. She was mourning.
“Did you say that you were scared?”
Keri’s eyes opened. “What if I ever lost you, Gil? You can’t leave me alone.” He could feel her slim frame shaking under the covers.
“What, like going to prison?”
His attempted humor failed. “Knock it off, Gil. You know what I’m talking about. I knew something weird was going on with you. You don’t just lose your tire and put on a chest like that. Everyone has been talking. People say you’re taking steroids, or drugs, or something … Do you have a girlfriend Gil? Do you?”
He rubbed his finger under her eye, wiping a fresh tear.
“What kind of nonsense is this?” He studied her eyes. “Keri, come on. Why would you think something like that? There are no drugs and no girlfriend. Peck made me try out, I swear. He told me we were going to see a lawyer about the lawsuit but took me to the Rockies tryout. He knows somebody there. I don’t know why I went along with it, but I did. And now they want me. Can you believe it? They want me as a big league pitcher!”
“You’re forty-four, Gil. No normal man can pitch at your age. If anyone knows your body it’s me, and suddenly, you’re not normal. Every muscle is rock hard, like you’re some kind of cartoon superhero. Things like this just don’t happen by chance. There is something medically going on with you.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’m fine, just a jerk for not telling you.”
She scooted up, twisted her body, and instantly his face was burning with the slap of her hand. “Yes, you are. Now tell me what on God’s planet is going on. And why am I always the last to find out? Mr. Chatterbox to everyone but his own wife!”
Gil rubbed his stinging skin and breathed deeply. He focused his gaze on the whites of her eyes.
“The truth is that I was going to tell you, but Peck ruined it. I wanted to surprise you.” He stopped and shook his head. Her eyes had turned away. “Okay, the truth.” He gently put his hand underneath her chin and turned her head. “The truth is that I was afraid to tell you.”
“Afraid? Gil Gilbert afraid of confiding in me?”
Gil dropped his head. “I just thought you wouldn’t want me to pitch.” He regretted saying this as soon as the phrase left his lips. He knew it was a lie.
“And why in the world would I try to stop you?”
Gil kept his eyes lowered. He couldn’t look at her. “Before, when I had the chance and you were pregnant …”
“That’s a lie and you know it. I begged you to keep playing.” She bolted upright and pushed herself away from him. “I told you I’d have gone to Egypt with you if that’s what it took.”
Gil bit his lip. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “I didn’t play before because I was afraid I wouldn’t make it.”
“Stop it. You have never been afraid of baseball. You are the definition of confidence. You’d have played in a heartbeat if it weren’t for your father. That’s the real issue that you’ve never dealt with. Your whole life you’ve cowered to him, been his little boy. You didn’t play because you couldn’t stand up to him. You were his little poster boy for the cause of God. But then the golden child gets his girlfriend pregnant, and the mighty man of God says your baseball career is over. You couldn’t stand up to him. That’s why you didn’t play.”
But she had stood up to the pastor, although it took her a year to take him on. She’d told him that even if he couldn’t accept her as his daughter-in-law, she would still consider him family but that she could never forgive him for insisting that Gil give up his dream just because he didn’t fit the Christian mold.
Gil momentarily cupped his hands over his ears.
“You need to hear this,” she continued. “He said you were like Esau when he sold his birthright. He was the one that told you to do the honorable thing, to give his wife stability, a steady income, a secure job.”
Gil closed his eyes, squeezed them tight. “I’m sorry you have a loser husband.”
She put her arm around him. “How can you say that, Gil? Yes, you need to stand up to your father, but look at all you’ve accomplished. You’re always voted the favorite teacher, and your coaching record can’t be touched.”
“And that’s another issue. During the fair, I realized how much I like my life. I’m not sure I can just walk away from all I have worked for. I mean I really love those kids. I finally get my big break, right out of the blue, and now I am waffling. Maybe I don’t want to quit my job. Maybe I could be perfectly fulfilled without ever throwing a pitch in Coors Field.”
“Well, as long as your health is okay, I think you should play. I’m just embarrassed I didn’t know. You were on television tonight, and I didn’t know anything about it. All I heard was something about a miracle man in his forties with a triple-digit fastball.”
“No, this whole thing is wrong. I’m sorry. I am going to call back and turn down the offer.”
“Are you crazy? I think you should play, if for no other reason than to spite your father.”
“That’s what else I needed to tell you. My father is now all for it, and he insists, saying that my new arm is a calling from God.”
She grunted. “Well, I still think you should play, but for heaven’s sake, play for yourself, and not because you are afraid of your father, or God for that matter. You should follow your dream just because it is your dream.”
“Maybe, but I’m really not so sure it is my dream anymore. I will look like an idiot out there with all those kids,” Gil said.
“That’s even more of a reason,” Keri chided. “You’ve got to face your fears.”
Keri paused. “Gil, just how fast are you throwing?’’
“Fast.”
“How fast, Gil?”
“How about over a hundred-and-five fast?”
Her eyes widened. “How’s that even possible?”
“I don’t know,” said Gil. “That’s the scary part. I’m throwing fast, a lot faster, and with more control than I did when I was in my twenties. Heck, starters in the majors aren’t even throwing that hard.”
He told Keri about his medical appointment and how the Rockies’ doctor found nothing unusual and certainly no drugs.
“I’m clean. They couldn’t find anything wrong.”
She clenched her hands about his bicep. “How do you explain this?”
“I can’t. I guess it’s my calling from God.”
She tightened her grip. “Not funny. Well then, I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t go for it. But if you ever keep anything from me again, I swear I’ll leave you. That was so insulting.”
“I promise.” He leaned forward and kissed her.
“So tell me how all this is going to happen.”
“The team leaves tomorrow for Arizona. Shortened spring training, then a delayed start of the regular season.”
“Tomorrow? That’s impossible. Who will teach your class and coach the team?”
“Figured I could send out an e-mail tonight. It’s not like it’s a secret.”
“Do you know when you are coming home?”
Gil shrugged. “Good question. I have no idea. How many clean pair of underwear do you think I have?”
“Are you asking me to stay up all night and do your laundry?”
Gil smiled. “No, go back to bed. I got myself into this mess, and I don’t expect you to clean up for me.”
Keri swung her legs onto the floor and began to unbutton her blouse. “If I’m going to be up all night, I might as wel
l get comfortable. What else are you going to need to pack?”
13
GIL HAD NEVER been to Centennial airport, the exclusive choice for the elite of Denver’s business community. As he pulled his Ford into the parking lot, he noticed the inferiority of his vehicle, the dent in the front fender and the rust over the rear wheels. He saw all the cars neatly arrayed before him: BMW, Lexus, Porsche, Range Rover. He found an empty spot, grabbed his duffle bag out of the dusty truck bed and slung it over his shoulder. He felt his large muscles tighten as the bulges from the extra clothing Keri had packed dug into his side. He wondered what surprises she had tucked in it—maybe her famous chocolate chip cookies or his favorite sour candies.
The sliding glass doors whizzed open as Gil approached the terminal. “Howdy there, partner,” an attendant in tight-fitting jeans and a faded T-shirt said. “Plane’s waiting. Most of the other players are already on board.”
The man held out his hand and Gil politely shook it. “All I can say is: Don’t change when you get all famous. Remember us little guys. We’re the ones that buy the tickets way up where it’s hard to breathe.”
“You sure you have the right guy?”
“Fastball at close to a hundred and ten? Yes, you’re the man, the pitcher to beat. Picked up my opening day tickets last night because I knew you were going to win. And I don’t care about this strike stuff. You are going to be pitching for the Rockies.” He plucked two brightly colored tickets from his back pocket. “I’m not supposed to ask for autographs, but … ”
Gil slipped off his duffle bag. “No problem. But I have one question: What makes you think I’ll be starting opening day?”
“Ratcliff won’t have a choice. Everyone in Colorado is going to demand to see what kind of punch that arm of yours is packing.”
“Like I tell my players, one practice at a time. Let’s see if I can survive spring training before there’s any talk about the regular season.”
The man hefted up Gil’s luggage. “Fair enough. Wouldn’t want to jinx you. Now let’s get you on that plane. Breakfast is waiting. Just walk right on up. No lines, no security screening. Welcome to the big time.”
Before Gil had taken his first bite of his croissant, he could feel the vibrations beneath his feet as the plane rumbled down the runway. With an upward burst, the shaking stopped and everything was smooth as the jet shot skyward. He felt queasy and looked around for a paper bag, just in case. He hoped it was motion sickness, but it was more likely the knots in his stomach churning and turning.
He flipped open the shade and peered outside, hoping for a distraction. Beneath him he watched the brown, barren landscape slowly begin to fade. There was no turning back now. He’d made the leap, the first major decision he’d ever made without calculating the consequences.
He looked east, shading his eyes with his hand as he tried to find his home. They were too high to make out any specifics, but the familiar winding roads and cul-de-sacs made it easy to locate his subdivision.
Austin would be getting ready for school. Keri, who’d sent Austin to bed at midnight, had woken their son well before his alarm clock so he could congratulate his father. They’d called Alicia as well. Gil could still feel Austin’s hands clenched about his shoulders as he pulled himself up from his bed and shook the sleep from his eyes.
“It’s awesome, Dad! I got a million texts last night. I can’t wait to go to school. What did Alicia say? This is like the coolest thing ever, to have your dad pitching for the Rockies. Think you can get us all tickets?” He paused. “But wait, Dad. I thought you were too old and stuff. Are you really going to pitch? But you were on TV. It’s got to be true.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gil watched for Keri’s reaction. Austin turned to her, leaning on his elbow. The cowlick on his left side forced a mop of brown hair straight up.
Gil could see the moisture in Keri’s eyes, but she held it together. She always held it together for the kids.
“It’s true. I’ll call you when I get to Arizona to let you know what training camp is like.”
“I wish I could come watch you. Can’t you get me out of school?”
“I’ll tell you what. The first home game I start, I’ll make sure you are on the front row. Deal?”
“Cool. Well, good luck.”
As Gil watched the buildings shrink, the sickness returned. He rubbed his whiskers. At least baseball players didn’t need to shave. Yet Gil knew he would. They made him look older, and that was the last thing he needed.
***
Salt River Fields at Talking Stick was the first major league baseball spring training facility to be built on Indian land. Shared by the Rockies and the Diamondbacks, the eleven-thousand-seat stadium complex had twelve practice fields and office buildings housing major and minor league clubhouses, as well as the training facilities. It was state of the art: 30,000 square feet of weight training equipment and cardio machines, a locker room with mahogany benches and marble showers, along with their own kitchen and a crew of chefs, ready to blend a player’s favorite fruit or vegetable smoothie.
Spring ball had become big business in Arizona. This was baseball’s informal preseason. Eastern teams joined the Grapefruit League while those in the West were part of the Cactus League. Thirty games in thirty days—but not this year. With the condensed schedule, spring training was shortened to ten games. The first would be in just four days. While the star players didn’t always play, the managers knew they needed at least a few starters on the field to keep the fans coming. So the games were a mishmash of legitimate players with a mixture of promising minor leaguers. With the strike, management’s hopes were to create a new lineup of stars.
The problem faced by Connor and his new pitching crew was that pitchers and catchers needed the most time together, learning pitches, giving signals, and building endurance. Most usually showed up in mid-to-late February, and games started in March. With only ten games before the regular season, Connor was sweating bullets. The other problem was that the teams agreed to let film crews follow them through the season. While the press had always been welcome, opening practices, team meetings, and players’ private time were unchartered territory. There was already a lot of buzz about the middle-aged schoolteacher with a rocket arm.
As he trotted onto the dark green grass, Gil ignored the cameras, keeping his eyes fixed on the players on the practice field. Some were running bases, practicing their footing as they rounded the bags. He’d learned most of their names from the short plane ride to Phoenix, then the team meeting later that morning. There was Biondi, with his goatee and penguin waddle, Slider, the arrogant third baseman who’d chosen to cross the picket lines, and Timber Johnson, the oversized catcher.
As he reached the practice pitching mounds, he heard someone shout, “Wait a minute. Isn’t that Mr. High School Teacher?”
Connor, amid his ragtag pitching crew, turned and observed his newest celebrity trotting onto the field.
“Hey, Slider, over here,” Connor shouted, while motioning Gil over with his hand.
“The kids at school call me Gil.”
“Hey, everybody. Take a break. I think we’re all here now. Since we’re all new, let’s make the proper introductions. I want you to meet our newest addition, Gil Gilbert.”
“I go by Gil.”
“I’m Melendez,” said a man with a two-day-old beard on a well-chiseled face as he stepped forward and held out his hand. “We’ll try to hold off on the old man jokes. If you don’t mind, we all want to see you throw a few balls.”
Gil turned to Connor.
“They saw the show last night,” Connor said. “The guys think the clock was rigged. They don’t think you can throw that fast,” Connor said with a grin, winking at Gil.
Gil slipped off his cap, wiped his hairline, and slid it back on. “That’s why I’m here, to prove myself. Let’s go.”
The pitching staff greeted Gil warmly, each stepping forward and shaking his hand while Gil siz
ed them up. As DeJesus offered his hand, Gil thought him more akin to a middleweight boxer than a pitcher. His dark Cuban skin accentuated his well-developed shoulders and arms. He was the complete opposite of Tajima, with barely a muscle on his bicep, and his insistence of remaining in the shade kept his skin fair.
Gil wanted to tell them that he wasn’t some sort of strange creature; he was just like one of them, one of the boys. Humility was always the best way to break the ice.
“I haven’t pitched competitively since college, so I don’t want to hear any snickers behind my back when I throw it over the backstop, and my wife made sure I took I my vitamins this morning, so nobody needs to worry about carting me off to the emergency room. And, yes, I have a daughter that is probably as old as some of you, and don’t bother to ask: She’s off limits.”
A man with an enormous frame lumbered across the field, his catcher’s mask teetering on his head, just above his ears.
“Timber Johnson,” he said, holding out his beefy hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Timber?”
“When I was born I was thick as an old sycamore tree, so Dad called me Timber. But everybody calls me Preacher. Got that from Dad, too. He’s a real preacher, not like me who just likes to think I’m one.”
“Preacher, I like it. My father’s a minister. We can do a lot of pontificating this year.” Gil snatched the ball out of Preacher’s glove and headed to the mound. “Let’s get this started.”
A complete warm-up could take as much as a half an hour. After about fifteen minutes his muscles were loose, so Gil strode up the small hill of dirt and kicked his foot back and forth alongside the rubber. He’d had a routine in college. Pitchers need a routine, just like basketball players at the free throw line. Always, do things the same. It blocks everything else out. For Gil, it was tapping the ball to the inside of his glove three times. He’d started it in little league, kept it in college, and now picked it up again. “One, two, three strikes you’re out,” he chanted to himself as he repeatedly pressed the ball into his webbing.