by Darin Gibby
Season ticket holders lugged armloads of concessions, from hotdogs to ice cream, to their second places of residence. The serious fans, with headphones tucked over their ears, listened to radio commentary while they adjusted their seat cushions and applied sun block.
The twenties crowd danced to the music. Even though the dog days of summer were months away, those caring about fashion already donned their short shorts, revealing white legs protected by six months of winter. Already, hundreds of fans sported recently purchased Rockies jerseys, purple with bold white letters: GILBERT and the number 8.
Gil trotted to the mound, powdered his hand with chalk and took up the baseball. By the time he’d kicked the dirt clean in front of the rubber, the entire stadium was on their feet. Gil warmed up slowly, making sure he didn’t pull any muscles. When his shoulder felt fluid, he let his first fastball rip.
The scoreboard normally didn’t post the speed of the pitches during warm-ups, but this year would be different. These fans came to see speed, and the front office wasn’t about to disappoint. When Preacher’s glove popped, the bright lights read 111.
Biondi pointed to it, as if anyone needed to be shown. Then he casually tossed a grounder to Trudeau and waited for its return. In the outfield, Gonzalez stood gazing with hands on hips then continued throwing pop-ups to Juarez and Boclin.
The Chicago Cubs had taken second place in their division and managed to get a wild card spot in the playoffs, but floundered in the NLCS. Their manager had sworn an oath that this season they would win it all. And the owner pulled out his checkbook to prove it. The team loaded up on talent, and when those players went on strike, the Cubs filled its shopping bag with expensive replacement players, many from the vaunted baseball leagues in Japan, South Korea, and the Dominican Republic. The club even enticed, with big pay, some Triple-A minor league stars to break ranks with the baseball union.
The Cubs put up their third baseman as leadoff batter. As he swung his bat, Gil found himself hopping on his toes. He was bursting with energy and refused to let the moment pass unappreciated. Gil looked around the rim of the stadium, then let his gaze lower, hoping he had time to nod at every fan. This is life, just where I want to be, he told himself. He was going to pitch like he loved being here.
Preacher called for a fastball, and Gil delivered. His first pitch flashed 112 on the clock. The batter’s swing was so far behind the pitch, it looked staged. The crowd, all on their feet, went wild. Even from the mound, the noise was deafening. Gil clenched the ball in his fist. This was for real. He was living his dream. Preacher signed for two more fastballs, and Gil again put the heat on his pitches. Two more swings and he retired his first batter.
Gil couldn’t help but to look above the Rockies’ dugout. Austin had jumped into Peck’s arms, who himself had sprung to life, swinging Austin around in the aisle.
Next was the Cubs’ slugger. Most managers stacked the lineup so that the power hitter was number four in the lineup, known as the cleanup hitter. But the Cubs’ manager was trying a new strategy. He wanted to get the firepower going right out of the gate, not later in the lineup. The batter was a large, muscular player who had hit forty-seven homers in the Cuban League the previous season. The scouting report indicated that the slugger could crunch curveballs, and if he got even part of the bat on a slider, he’d rip it down the left field line. He could hit a fastball, but most often struck out swinging at them.
Gil watched as Preacher signaled for a slider, low and inside. Gil shook his head, waiting for Preacher to signal for another fastball. Preacher repeated the signal, and Gil wondered why he wanted a slider. He finally relented. As soon as he released the pitch, he gritted his teeth. He couldn’t control his slider like his fastball, and the spin was all wrong. The batter took a shortened swing and hit it sharply foul, right in front of the Cubs’ dugout.
He’s ahead of the pitch, Gil told himself. The scouting report was right. Unless I get more heat on my next throw, he’s going to nail it.
But Preacher called for another slider, the same pitch. Gil signaled “no.” He wanted a fastball, and he wasn’t going to back down. Preacher again signaled for the slider. Gil shook him off and started his windup anyway.
The release felt good, enough velocity to be well over 110. Gil heard the crack of the bat even before he came up out of his follow-through. It was a sickening sound. The ball shot out of the infield on a straight line. It never dipped but headed 530 feet straight into deep center. The deafening roar of the crowd instantly stopped. Gil could hear his own breathing.
Preacher sat in his crouch while the base runner lapped the bases. He watched as the umpire threw Gil another ball. Then Preacher waited. Gil stared, anticipating Preacher’s signals. None came. Gil waited another minute, but Preacher refused to signal for the pitch. He needed to throw again, to spark the crowd to life. He felt naked, with all eyes upon him, wondering if all the hype was for nothing.
After an awkward moment, Gil walked down the mound toward home plate. Preacher stood, kept on his mask and waited for Gil to reach him.
“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Preacher shouted, his mask hiding his lips from the cameras.
Gil looked away, venturing his eyes toward the crowd of stunned fans. Nobody was standing, the mobile phones were packed away, and the cheering had stopped.
“I gave you a signal for a reason. I called for a slider.”
“Sorry,” Gil finally said, still looking away. “The scouting report—”
“You listen to me. That’s your scouting report. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
Gil tried to turn his head, but Preacher was so close there wasn’t room to move.
“I can’t tell you how pissed I am right now,” Preacher continued. “I’m the only one sticking up for you, and this is what you do to me? Think you’re hot stuff because you can throw fast? That’s not going to get you anywhere. They are going to camp on your fastball and knock it out every time. I don’t care how hard you throw, these guys are pros. They’ll hit the shit out of you if you put it down the gosh darn middle. From now on, you listen to me. Got it?”
Preacher turned and clomped away from Gil.
“Preacher,” Gil said when he was halfway to the mound. Preacher looked up and walked to Gil.
“What?”
Gil’s smile shot back on his face. “I thought you didn’t cuss.”
“What in the hell are you talking about? We are in the middle of opening day and you’re asking me about cussing? I do cuss, just don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, but you pull this crap one more time, and I certainly will.”
Shaking his head, Preacher took his place behind the plate and put on his mask but remained standing. He held his right arm straight out to the side, calling for a pitchout.
Gil’s mouth opened and his jaw dropped. The call didn’t make sense. There was nobody on base. Gil’s first thought was to look over at Connor to see what he signaled, but that was no use. So, Gil wound up and threw the pitch three feet outside. Several fans began to boo the call.
Preacher stepped in front of the plate and yelled, “Okay, now we understand each other. Let’s play ball!”
Gil’s smile was back and he struck out the side with a combination of breaking balls and heaters.
The Rockies’ thin lineup couldn’t produce any runs. Slider walked twice and Juarez hit to the warning track three times, but with no base runners he failed to drive in any runs. Ratcliff let Gil go all nine innings, hoping his team could tie it in the bottom of the ninth, saving his relief pitcher, Tajima, for any extra innings. There were no extra innings, and the Rockies lost one to nothing.
Heads hung low in the locker room. DeJesus approached Gil. “Like I said, one bad pitch. That’s all it takes.”
Ratcliff was furious. He threw down his cap and kicked it. Biondi nervously scratched his goatee while Slider plucked at the stitching on his pants.
“We are two and a stinking five. It’s disgrace
ful. Our pitcher gives up just one run, and we still can’t win.”
They endured the rest of his tirade then hit the showers.
Gil was one of the last to leave the locker room, mostly to avoid the media.
“Gil, you gotta learn to face the music, so go on,” his pitching coach, Connor said. “You did well today; nothin’ to be ashamed of. The team let you down. Keep it positive, and you’ll be alright.”
He did. Reporters swarmed as he left the dressing room.
“You must be feeling angry about the team’s play. You strike out nine guys and give up just two hits and you lose. How does that make you feel?”
Gil thought for a moment of the pep talks he’d given his school’s team after a tough defeat.
“The great thing about this game,” he said, “is we get to try again tomorrow, and then the next day and the next. Improving is as important as winning, and, believe me, this team’s gonna improve.”
23
THE NEXT DAY Gil’s pickup truck rambled up to Denver’s Children’s Hospital. Melendez had warned him about these events. “Yeah, it’s great to be involved in the community, to give back, but not like this.”
When Gil asked what he meant, Melendez explained that growing up in East LA, he knew what it meant to need charity, and a ten-minute visit from some baseball player or celebrity wasn’t going to get you a place to live or help get your father off drugs or buy you a bullet-proof jacket.
For Gil the entertainer, any visit to someone needing a boost was something worthwhile. If he could brighten a little girl’s day, it was worth a few hours of his time. At least that’s what he thought.
As soon as he entered the reception area, Eugenia, the Rockies’ community involvement planner, jumped up and pranced over to Gil, grabbing his hand. “Oh, thanks for coming, Gil. This is going to mean so much to these children. They need your smile, to give them hope. You have no idea how much this means to them.” With that, she pulled Gil past the reception desk and down a long hallway.
Moments later, Gil found himself walking through a set of doors with a sign marked “Oncology” above the doorframe. Eugenia, still tugging Gil along, turned sharply left and into Room 103, where the occupant was secluded behind a drawn curtain. Slider, arms folded, was standing and tapping his foot. Eugenia dropped Gil’s hand and put her fingers to her lips, then spoke softly. “I found him. Are you ready?”
“Been here for nearly fifteen minutes,” Slider said. “What do you think?”
Eugenia brushed past him, parted the curtain and peeked inside. “Oh, it’s perfect,” she said, looking back at the two players. “There is this little eight-year-old boy in here. He has brain cancer, or maybe stomach cancer, oh I can’t remember, but that doesn’t really matter. He loves you, Gil, and you too, Slider. I’ll get a photo with you on both sides of the bed, with your arms around him. His father left the family a year ago, so you two are his new godparents. Gil, you can tell him that you’ll pitch a no-hitter just for him. And, Slider, you can show him how you do one of your famous headfirst slides. Sliding for the cure. Oh, I love it.”
She threw the curtain open and barged inside, fumbling with her clipboard. “Tommy, is that right? And you must be Tommy’s mom,” she said to the woman standing beside the bed.
The bald boy with the shiny white head was propped up by two fluffy pillows. A half-dozen tubes wound their way from his pale body to a pole carrying an assortment of fluid-filled bags. Slider plopped himself on the edge of the bed and rested his head on his elbow.
“I’m not sure it’s okay to sit there,” Eugenia said.
Slider waved her off. “Oh, he’ll be fine. Let him see his Slider.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Slider, Gil. It’s really you. I didn’t think you’d come.”
Eugenia, being less than subtle, reached for a camera from her bag. Great photo op, she thought. The front office will love it.
Gil glanced at Slider, then up to Eugenia.
“Tell you what,” Slider said. “I’m going to show you how I set up for one of my world famous slides. It’s all about body position. Say third base is over there by the TV. I get my body moving forward then throw my arms forward like this.”
Slider flung his arms forward and lay over Tommy’s lap, blocking Eugenia’s lens.
The boy giggled then coughed. “That’s awesome,” he said after he regained his composure.
Slider leaned over and whispered, “When I was your age, I didn’t have a dad either. It stinks, doesn’t it?”
Tommy cupped his hand over Slider’s ear and spoke so that nobody could hear.
“I’ll never tell a soul,” Slider whispered back.
Eugenia bustled her way to the back corner and snatched up an acoustic guitar, wiping off a streak of dust. “Okay, we have another surprise. Tommy, can you tell us your favorite song? Gil is going to sing it for you.”
Gil looked at her. “I am?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I heard you can play anything.” She slipped a cracked-leather shoulder strap over his head.
Gil slid the pick out of the strings and strummed the guitar. “Well that doesn’t sound too good,” he said, reaching for the tuning pegs. “Pick your song,” he said, tossing up the pick.
“Can you play Lady Antebellum?”
Gil raised his eyebrows. “You like country? Or you just have a crush on that cute little lead singer?”
“I wish I could sing like them,” Tommy said.
“I hate that country crap,” Slider said, still sprawled out on the bed. “Can’t we watch TV or something? Let’s see if I’m on SportsCenter.”
“Ignore him,” Gil said. “He doesn’t have any kids of his own. Someday he’ll understand.”
The boy coughed out a faint laugh. “Think you can sing one of their songs?”
“I can try, but my voice isn’t as good as theirs. What’s the song?”
“Learning to Fly. I like the part about wings and flying. When my insides really start hurting, I dream about flying. I hope I get wings someday.”
“Like an angel’s wings?” Gil said. The boy nodded, and Gil could almost feel Eugenia’s scowl. “You can’t have them until you get a lot older than me.” He strummed a chord then began the tune.
The boy leaned his head on Gil’s shoulder.
“You know, we’re a lot alike,” Tommy said when Gil finished. “We both have a disease that nobody understands. My mom says it’s God’s way of letting me go to the other side more quickly.”
Gil rubbed his hand over the boy’s hairless head. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Everyone has to die someday. Don’t worry about getting your wings now.”
“But when?” Tommy asked. “I don’t want to wait. I need them now.”
“Nobody knows. That’s what makes life so special.”
“We have a busy day,” Eugenia interrupted, tugging Slider off the bed.
The players wished Tommy and his mother well and slipped into the hallway. Eugenia stayed behind, finishing her paperwork, having Tommy’s mother sign the legal waivers.
“I hate stuff like this,” Slider said.
“Visiting little kids?” Gil said.
“Yeah, I hate kids. No, of course not. I’m not totally evil, but forcing me to go to crap like this then staging the whole thing. I don’t do stuff like that.” A nurse slipped beside them and Slider lowered his voice. “It’s bull crap, just bull crap.”
“Well you came, didn’t you?”
“Only because I’m in the doghouse for sticking my finger in the ump’s chest. I can’t afford any more fines.”
“But you do like kids?”
“Yeah, as long as they aren’t snot-nosed.”
Gil frowned.
“Just kidding. Lighten up. That was really cool, how you sang that song for him.”
“Nicely orchestrated by Eugenia.”
“I have an idea,” Slider said. “I’m done with all this little boy cancer stuff. It’s so cliché. If you wan
t to make a difference without all the publicity, go visit somebody that nobody cares about, somebody the world has left behind.”
“Am I really hearing you right? Is this the same Slider who spit in a kid’s glove last year when he held it out for an autograph?”
“The world doesn’t understand me. No matter how bad you have it, somebody’s life is worse. Come on.”
Before Gil could object, he was on Slider’s heels, out a side door and into the parking lot. At a jog, Slider went about four blocks until they came to a single-story red brick building. Gil, still toting Eugenia’s old guitar, held it in front of him to keep it from bouncing on his hip. “An old-folks home. Nice idea,” Gil said as they approached the door. “Think anyone will even know who we are?”
Slider stopped. “Mr. Gil, everyone knows Slider. Don’t you forget that. Just watch.”
The front entry looked more like funeral parlor than a convalescence center. Slider nodded his cap to a lady wearing a white uniform and kept walking.
“Wait, you need to sign in,” she said.
“Hi, how are you?” Gil said.
“Fine, and who are you here to see?”
“His friend,” Gil said, pointing to Slider.
“And who is he?”
“Him?” Gil looked at Slider. “I thought you two knew each other.”
“Never seen him here before. I hope you’re not coming to see your mother. Just get out of jail or something?”
Gil burst out, “You really don’t know him?”
“No, he looks like some king of hoodlum.
“Watch any baseball?” Gil said.
“Not the Rockies if that’s what you mean,” she said, pointing at Slider’s cap. “Why should I emotionally invest myself in a team that always loses? And this year is even worse, with all those replacement players and stuff.”