by Darin Gibby
She reluctantly pried open her mouth and let the soft white bread slip in.
“Anyone here have Botox?” Rosie asked, watching Trista sorting through one of her searches.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t say,” Peck said, picking off a few more inches of his bun and gently resting it on his tongue as if it were the Eucharist. He poured his beer into the glass and took a small sip, then licked his lips and shook his head. “The only thing I’ll say is that with your high cheekbones, Rosie, you should never let a surgeon touch you.”
“You’re such a dainty eater,” Alicia said.
Peck tore off another bite, licking the catsup from the end. “Hey, Trista, let me see that,” Peck said. “I want to look up Herhold’s stats against lefties. And how are the Mets doing?”
“Winning four to two,” Austin said from his perch two rows below. “If DeJesus gets the win today and the Mets score stays the same, we’ll be eight games behind the best team in the National League. Not bad, but the Rockies have got to do better if they’re going to have a run at the pennant.”
DeJesus was struggling in the fourth inning. Two batters were on base, and he was behind in the count. Rosie kept flipping through her magazine, yelling out for her husband to settle down and get the guy out.
“Rosie, I wanted to ask you something about your husband,” Peck said. “Why’s he always got that scowl, like he wants to beat you up?”
“Because he does,” she said. Rosie explained how her husband’s father was one of the boat people who made his escape from Cuba. DeJesus’s mother was expecting a baby, and she had insisted that they flee to America where the baby could have a better life. The inflatable raft was crowded, and his father had to straddle the edge. Either from exhaustion, drunkenness, or possibly suicide, DeJesus’s father disappeared from the raft the first night in the water. His mother always told a heroic story of how the boat was so crowded, her husband’s leg had to float in the ocean, and that almost certainly he was pulled under by a shark. The story became the driving force in DeJesus’s life.
“My husband grew up poor, mostly in the projects or on the streets,” Rosie said. “When he got to be a teenager, he had a choice. He could retreat and become a recluse, probably a druggie. Or, he could go balls to the walls, let his anger at God come out in his baseball. So that’s why he’s a crazy thrower. He says he likes to throw at God. And that’s why he pitches out of anger, hoping someday his people will be free from their dictator.”
“Makes sense to me,” Peck said. “I’d do the same thing.”
“So, Keri, what’s Gil’s story?” Rosie asked. “He’s like this mystery man. We don’t know anything about him except he’s this really popular science teacher and he coached high school ball.”
“Nothing like your husband. I mean he wasn’t abused growing up.” She paused, waiting to see if her father-in-law was paying attention. When Pastor Ron kept up his discussion with Austin, she continued, “Gil had a normal childhood. He liked his job, and he loves his family. I think the best way to describe Gil is how Preacher put it. Gil told me that Preacher wanted Gil to pitch his personality. That’s so much like Gil. He’s always been the happy-go-lucky guy, like a kid who never grew up. Kind of a fun innocence about him.”
“That I can vouch for,” Peck said. “I think that’s why the kids like him so much. Ever seen him without a smile?”
“But Keri, what’s his real story?” This time it was Melendez. “My husband likes him too, but he can’t figure him out. I mean he comes out of nowhere and takes the baseball world by storm. Why didn’t he play before? That’s all we really want to know.”
Keri shook her head then turned from the direct shot of the camera lens. The comment surprised her. They’d become what she thought to be good friends; they’d even been over to the Melendez home for dinner, but maybe that was just a fishing expedition. “I don’t know. All I can say is that pitching professionally is something he’s always wanted to do. He’s always had this dream, and then one day he wakes up and he’s got the arm to make it happen. I couldn’t tell him no.”
“So you didn’t want him to pitch?”
Pastor Ron spun around and cupped his hand to his ear. Alicia looked at her mother, waiting for her answer.
“I was afraid he’d look foolish, then regret he’d ever tried. You know he had to give up a job he loved. I wasn’t sure if it would be worth that. But I knew he would regret it if he didn’t give it a try. He wanted to go pro after college, but that didn’t work out. This time, I knew I had to let him do it.”
The wives were looking at each other.
“I know everyone thinks he’s doing drugs, like he’s pulling a Lance Armstrong, but he’s not. I’ve read the articles. That’s just not Gil. He understands you have to pay a price for everything. Believe me, I’m having every doctor I can think of looking at him.”
“God is smiling on him,” Pastor Ron finally said in a gruff voice. “This is His will, for Gil to spread God’s word. He’ll be fine.”
Austin tugged on his grandfather’s sleeve and pointed to the runner on second base.
“I’d be worried,” Trista Melendez said.
Alicia grabbed Keri’s hand. “We both are. Mom, tell her about the Mayo.”
Keri paused, leaned forward, and put her lips to Trista’s ear. “Okay, but you can’t tell anyone. If the press finds out, it would devastate Gil. When the Rockies go to Minnesota next week, Gil will be seeing another specialist. He’s a clinical virologist and came highly recommended. We’re hoping he can give us some answers.”
“I dropped out of school to be with him,” Alicia said. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to him.”
“I’m sorry if my husband said anything,” Trista finally said. “He’s worked so hard, and I think in a moment of weakness said something he shouldn’t have. Please let us know what you find out at the Mayo.”
26
GIL HAD HEARD about Mecca trips to the Mayo Clinic, but he had no idea what to expect when he rolled into Rochester, Minnesota. Keri had flown out to meet him. Gil could feel his stomach grumbling as he waited for the clinical virologist to attend to him. Nearly every doctor wanted him to come fasting, and he was getting accustomed to going without food, but it never got any easier.
Dr. Babak Kusha’s bifocals rested on his oversized nose. Gil was glad to see his dark wavy hair was graying around the ears. He was nothing like Dr. Kempski. He took a seat, crossed his legs and introduced himself.
“I have all the test data from Dr. Kempski. Do you want the extended play or the condensed version?”
Gil didn’t stop to think, looking at Keri and then grabbing her hand. “Condensed version. Just tell me what I’m facing.”
“It’s a mixed bag,” the physician said. “It’s something we’ve never seen before, but medical science has advanced so fast just in the last decade that, with time and money, we could tear apart your DNA to see what is causing your muscle and bone mass to explode.”
“So you don’t know what is happening to me?”
“From the weekly blood, urine, skeletal, and muscle data that Dr. Kempski was kind enough to send us, it appears that both your bone and muscle density are increasing at an alarming rate. But your neuromuscular system is also adapting to these changes. So not only are you getting stronger at a time when your body should be weakening, your fast-speed muscle fibers have the uncanny ability to deal with these changes. That explains why you can throw so fast, without tearing your arm apart or shattering your bone.
“What is not so clear is your chemical makeup. We can’t understand your protein levels, and, like I said, we really need to dig deep into your DNA to see why your blood makeup is far from normal.”
“Okay, that all makes sense. So do I need to worry about anything?”
“Yes, you do.” Dr. Kusha’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “The problem is that all of your muscles appear to be on this runaway train. What is the most concern
ing is your chest and back muscles as well as your skeletal structure. There is a reason why breathing is becoming more difficult. The growth is happening internally as well. It’s like you are one giant black hole that is going to implode. Eventually, and I’m only saying this is a possibility, if the current trend continues, it could either suffocate you or compress your heart to the point of failure. The same could happen to your kidneys as well as your other internal organs. For all I know, it could close off your major vessels. This is serious stuff, Gil.”
“But right now my heart is fine? I’m not going to keel over if I pitch this week?”
“I can’t say for sure. Anyone can die any time.”
“I understand, but you can’t see any immediate risk of serious damage to my body if I keep pitching?”
“It appears that the disease is progressive, and every pitch counts.”
Gil folded his arms. Doctors never gave straight answers.
“Is there something you can give me? Some medicine to help stop the progression?”
“Of course, medical science usually has some kind of drugs to mask your symptoms. If you want something benign, just take some anti-inflammatory, maybe ibuprofen, but I doubt those will help for long. Steroids may provide temporary relief, as well as a muscle relaxant.”
“Right, but I can’t pitch with those, and the league’s drug policy forbids them anyway. I’d never pass a urine test.”
“If you want the truth, Gil, you shouldn’t be pitching at all.”
Gil’s eyes widened. “What?”
“You heard me right.”
“So now you’re saying that if I keep going, it could be fatal.”
“We don’t know that for sure, but it is a real possibility. We need to find some way to arrest its progress.”
“Okay, so let me ask you this: If these so-called trends continue, how long for me?”
Dr. Kusha hit a key and pulled up a colored graph. “We plotted the density data for your bones and major muscle groups, and if the disease progresses just as it is now, which is simply an assumption, it could be sometime next season. That is assuming you keep pitching and attend spring training next year. I can show you all of our assumptions.”
“Alright, so what if I completely stop in the off season? What would your graph look like? Or if Ratcliff went on a six-man rotation? Is there a chance it will just stop on its own?”
“Of course, anything could happen. But I think the better question is what happens if you stop throwing right now, which I would strongly recommend, but it is your life.”
Gil shook his head. “No, I’ve got to keep going. Can’t you do anything for me?”
“Like I said, if we had enough time and money we could tear apart your DNA to see what is causing your system to go haywire. I’m just not sure we have enough time.”
“Money’s no problem. I can get you money,” Gil promised.
“I understand. You’re fortunate. But the research could take years, maybe even decades. Look at how many millions of dollars and years it’s taken us to understand AIDS.”
“Okay, then what other options? There’s got to be something we can do.”
Dr. Kusha stood and slipped his pen in his shirt pocket. “We don’t know because we have only tested your body while you have been pitching. Probably my best recommendation is for you to take a month off and see what happens.”
Gil lifted his cap and combed his fingers through his hair. “I need some time to think about it.”
“That’s fine. You two talk it over, but please seriously consider what I’ve told you. I’d like to send you home with a heart rate monitor. You wear it at night, then upload the data in the morning to our website. That way, I can make sure your heart is still beating properly.”
“No problem,” Gil said. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me when it stops beating.”
27
IT HAD BEEN a month since Gil abandoned Eugenia’s scratched-up, out-of-tune guitar in the old folks’ home. Leaving the guitar was his excuse to return.
The front desk of the nursing home warmly welcomed their hero. Gil found Melvelene in her chair, fiddling with the remote control. The volume was blaring the shrill voice of some talk show host touting the newest way to lose weight and feel great. She sharply slapped the handheld device onto the chair. “Piece of crap!” she yelled.
“I completely agree.”
Her head snapped up. “Well, look who the cat dragged in. Been wondering when you’d be by to pick up your fiddle.”
“Guitar,” Gil corrected. “Have you been doing okay?”
“Great, actually. I’ve been enjoying watching you. Network television, even ESPN, when I can get it. They won’t pipe it into our rooms—too darn cheap. We have to watch it in the lunchroom, but Ernie and me are the only ones who like it, so we have to fight to keep it on. We tell them Slider’s going to get into a fight.”
“Slider, huh?”
“You know a lot of people don’t like him, but I do. Baseball needs a little irreverence every now and then. Gets kind of boring sitting for three hours. Need the bench to clear every once in a while to generate a little excitement. You know I rate his slides. Zero to ten, kind of like Dancing with the Stars, but for baseball. His best was when you played Detroit and he sailed right over the catcher—that is until the catcher stood up and threw Slider into a tailspin. That was a ten.”
“He’s certainly an enigma.”
“You’ve heard the other rumor?”
“About Slider?”
“Yeah, and that Dave Matthews song. Some say he’s like the Babe, calling his own home runs.”
“You know Dave Matthews?”
“I do now. The Space Between. Some sportswriter said they played that song during the seventh-inning stretch, and Slider told you guys he was going to send the ball in the space between left and center. And he did.”
Gil grinned and shook his head. “It was something like that.”
“By the way, congratulations on dropping below one on your ERA.”
Gil could feel the blood rushing to his face. “So tell me, what were you like in your twenties? I take you as kind of a rebel.”
“Nobody was a rebel in the late fifties. I’m just a big talker. My life really isn’t that exciting.”
“No?”
“I was like all the other girls my age. Got married really young, had a few kids, and worked hard to raise them. We lived in a small town in Southern California; my husband was the foreman at an almond farm, and I drove a school bus.”
“School bus. Really?”
“And I saved every dime. Used it to put a down payment on a second home that we rented out for twenty years. Rode the real estate boom, then sold it and moved here to be with my daughter. That’s what pays the bills here.”
“You’re not living with your daughter.”
Melvelene shrugged. “Used to, but she moved me here a few months ago. My memory is going, and she’s got a little girl with Down’s syndrome. I was more than she could deal with. So we use my life’s savings to pay for this great beach resort. Like it?”
Gil sprang up and drew upon the curtains with a swoosh. “Yeah, the parking lot has this nice shimmer of turquoise to it, doesn’t it?”
“My daughter doesn’t know it yet, but I withdrew most of my money and put it down on a cruise. I’m going to get her a nanny, and then we’re both sailing for a week in the calm waters of the Caribbean. She needs a little break.”
“Just you two?”
“My husband died fifteen years ago, and my son’s overseas in the Army. We worked so hard all of our lives, it’s time for a little celebration. He’s got a month leave, and I’m going to surprise him too.”
“I think it’s a great idea. Wish I could come.”
“You’ve got more important things. Got to get those Rockies to the Series before I die. You’re on the mound tonight, aren’t you?”
Gil glanced at his watch. “Yeah. Connor wants me there a l
ittle early. I should be going.”
“Did I tell you how much I love Slider’s slides? I said that before, didn’t I? I’m sorry. My daughter is right. I am losing my marbles. Can you forgive me?”
Gil turned for the door. “You’re still sharp as a knife. I think you’re the only one who knows my ERA.”
“You’re kind, but it’s not true. Are you taking your guitar?”
He shuffled to the dark corner and snatched it, sliding his hand over the peeling shellac, then returning it to its former resting place. “Naw, I think I’ll leave it for when I come back. You okay with that?”
“Perfect. I’m not going anywhere.”
Gil had just reached the door when Melvelene shouted out, “Wait, I forgot to ask you: What did Slider tell the Detroit catcher after he did the flip? My eyes are getting bad. I can’t read the papers anymore.”
That Melvelene yearned for him to stay was obvious.
“He told him if he tried anything like that again, he’d kick out his teeth, with his mask on.”
Gil cracked open the door.
“Wait, I heard you made the All-Star team. You’ll be pitching in San Francisco.”
“That’s right.”
“Well don’t let anyone put a ball in the Bay. I have a piece of news for you,” she said with lowered eyes, trying to keep her new friend from leaving.
Gil stepped toward her. “Good news?”
“Only if cancer is good news.” Her words hung in the air. A joke with no humor.
Gil spun around. “You’re not kidding me?”
“Wish I was. It’s cancer, and the doctor said six months if I’m lucky.”
Gil stooped and put his arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry. That just means I’ve got six months to squeeze in everything I’ve always wanted to do.”
“The cruise?”
“For sure. Cindi wanted to cancel it, but I said no way. I don’t care if I die on that ship. We’re going to make our last memories together.”