Gil

by Darin Gibby

  28

  THE SEASON HAD a way of wearing down the players. They were hounded to keep up their stamina, and the strength coach was constantly herding them into the weight room every time they were back in town.

  Some guys, like Slider and Gonzalez, loved the weight room. They loved bulking up, showing off their physiques. The old-timers, like Preacher and Biondi, hated it. Preacher’s knees were shot from decades of squatting behind the plate. Occasionally, he’d do a few sets of bench and curls—gentlemen lifting, Slider called it. You could smoke a cigar and put up the barbell at the same time.

  Pumping iron was show-off time for Slider, the strongest player on the team. Gil watched in amazement as Slider slid four twenty-kilo plates on each side of the barbell, causing the solid steel bar to bend. Gil slipped behind him, offering to give him a spot when his muscles reached failure. Slider assured Gil he wasn’t needed. With little effort, Slider cranked out six reps and re-racked the weights with a loud slamming sound. He jumped up and clapped his hands, sending off a cloud of white chalk.

  “Your turn,” he said to Gil, lightly punching him in the shoulder. “How much should I take off?”

  “I’m fine,” Gil said, rubbing the spot where Slider had struck him. “Shoulder’s a little sore.” Dr. Kusha’s warning was enough for Gil to shy away from lifting any weights.

  Gil slipped over to where Trudeau and Boclin were doing some leg extensions. Briscoe, the Rockies trainer, noticed Gil’s lack of participation and made his way over.

  “Gil, I haven’t seen you hitting the weights in a long time. If your shoulder is sore, let’s do some squats. You’ve got three days off. Need to keep those legs strong.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Gil strained to come up with an excuse. Dr. Kusha’s warning had him scared. He was afraid to bend down and pick up his own shoes. Every morning he was sending his heartbeat data to the Mayo, wondering what secrets his body was giving away. His breathing was still labored, especially when he pitched. He was certain Dr. Kusha was going to demand he stop pitching.

  Gil sauntered over to the squat rack and bent over while he tugged on one of the weights. Suddenly, he pinched his nose. “Be right back,” he said in a nasal voice. “Bloody nose.”

  The training room was the perfect place to hide until weight lifting was over. Gil dimmed the lights, then slid onto one of the padded tables and perched his hands behind his head. His eyelids felt heavy, and he let gravity pull them closed.

  Gil’s catnap was interrupted when the door sprang open. Slider, a backpack slung on his shoulder, silently crept in. Gil remained motionless, observing as Slider plunged his hand into the front pocket and slipped out a syringe. The needle was within an inch of Slider’s vein when Gil revealed his presence.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  Startled, Slider let the syringe slip from his fingers, sending it clattering on the floor.

  “I should be asking you the same thing. Afraid those weights are going to bulk you up a little too much? Whatever you’re on, it’s ten times worse than what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Slider. You have no idea what my life is like.”

  “I know enough to know that you’re afraid to lift. Lifting is supposed to be good for you, build you up and make you strong. But not for Gil. He doesn’t use gravity to build his muscles. He doesn’t think the laws of nature apply to him. He’s found an artificial way to make himself a hero.”

  “This body is for real.”

  “I’m not buying it. Nobody pitches like that. Everyone wanted to be like me until you got here. Tell me what kind of crap you’re on.”

  “Spinach,” Gil said.

  “Real cute,” Slider said, fishing for his needle. “I’ll tell you what. You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. That way, we’ll both get along just fine.”

  “Why can’t we be friends?”

  “Friends? I don’t do friends, not even with you. I don’t trust anyone. You trust someone, and they’ll always stab you in the back. And you’re no exception.”

  “You can’t go through life like that.”

  “No? Then why did you start this campaign to be an All-Star?”

  “Come on,” Gil said.

  “It’s not right, man. I was supposed to be the only Rockies player, and now you’re starting ahead of me. Mr. Likeable gets the fans to vote him in as a starter, and you’ve never completed a season. They’re a bunch of idiots. All they care about is seeing you pitch fast—that doesn’t make a good player. Melendez was right—you don’t deserve it.”

  “So that’s what this is all about?” Gil insisted.

  “I think we’re done with this conversation.”

  Toting a handful of tissue, Gil made his way back into the weight room. He found Preacher slouching on a chest press bench, resting his chin on his hands, deep in thought.

  “This bit about opposites …” Preacher said when he saw Gil, straightening himself.

  With Gil’s popularity came an analysis of every facet of his life, including his former life as a science teacher. “It’s funny, you do something that you think nobody cares about, this little science fair of mine, and all of the sudden it’s the most important thing in the world.”

  “Don’t shortchange yourself. What you did, it was really good. You’ve really got me thinking.”

  “About?”

  “This idea came to me today when I was watching Gonzalez doing his reps, pumping this barbell up and down off his chest. I should have been one of your students. I came up with a great idea for your science fair—weight lifting.”

  Preacher lay back and slipped himself under the barbell. “Look, you have this pair of opposites: up and down. And you have the law of gravity to make objects heavy or light. While the aim of lifting is to get the weight to the top of the repetition, you’re not supposed to stay there. That’s because the real reason for wrestling against the law of gravity is to make your muscles grow. You have to keep moving the weight in a cycle between up and down to generate power. You can’t stop at the top and think you’ve made it.”

  Gil nodded. “When do you want to go back to high school? Tell you what. If I’m teaching school again next year, I’ll let you enter my science fair. ‘The Preacher Who Fights Gravity to Gain Power.’ You’ll be the exhibit. My kids would love it.”

  “Wait,” Preacher said, “you missed the point. That’s not what hit me. I’m not talking physical power, Gil. I’m talking about an inner power. You, me, everyone, we’ve got to use the unfairness of life, the heaviness we all face, to generate more power. But if we quit trying and give up, that will never happen.”

  Gil nodded, still thinking of Slider. “It’s what you do with your power that’s important. You really should have been a minister. You’re nothing like my father.”

  Preacher shrugged his massive shoulders. “I have something else for you.” Preacher dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “You’re going to need this; it’s my scouting report for every All-Star you might face next week. Since I can’t be there to call the pitches, this is as good as I can do. Good luck.”

  29

  GIL COULDN’T GET Melvelene off his mind. This would be her last season to ever see a game, so Gil got her tickets. She could come with her daughter. It was nearly ninety degrees at game time, but Melvelene still had a blanket draped over her lap. Her daughter, Cindi, pushed her wheelchair along the concourse, followed by two Rockies staff, who hefted the steel contraption down two sets of stairs to where the Rockies’ families had their season tickets, then gently lifted her out and sat her in Alicia’s assigned seat. A TV film crew followed. Pastor Ron introduced himself and guided them along, making sure they didn’t bang her legs, and insisting that he rearrange her blanket. Austin was sent off to buy some hot dogs and drinks.

  Melvelene waved her hand. “I’ll bet you’re wondering why I’m cuddled in a blanket when it’s ninety degrees outside. Kind of like a pig in a
blanket. That’s what cancer does to you. Just hope you don’t get it. Anyway, I’m the new cheerleading talent—discovered by Gil and Slider.”

  When Gil saw the film crew, he understood. Another publicity stunt. Gil avoided venturing over, hoping he could greet Melvelene after the game. But ten minutes before the national anthem, Eugenia popped out of the dugout, took Gil by the elbow, and shepherded him over to where the players’ families were sitting.

  “We’ve got to do a photo shoot with Marlene before the game.”

  “Melvelene,” Gil corrected her. A cameraman was already following them across the infield. Security opened the gate and parted the dozen children who flocked down the stairs for an autograph.

  When he reached Melvelene, he bent over and hugged her. “I’m glad you came. Sorry about all the fanfare.”

  She squeezed his hand, and he could feel the sagging flesh on her bony fingers. They were cold and clammy. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she graciously replied.

  Gil barely reached the turf when he saw the film clips blazing on the large screen, and the announcer blared out a blurb about how Melvelene, recently diagnosed with cancer, was the special guest of the Rockies. Pastor Ron seized the moment, asking the fans to keep Melvelene in their prayers, to pray for a miracle. Two peas in a pod, Gil thought. One does PR for God and the other for the Rockies.

  Gil’s first pitch was a fastball, in the low nineties. The crowd sensed something was wrong, and so did the batter. He kept his feet planted in the batter’s box and adjusted his helmet, his eyes daring Gil to throw another fastball with no heat on it. Gil felt his magic slipping.

  Preacher called for a curveball. Gil obeyed, tapping the ball in his glove, but the joy of living the dream faded. He tried blocking out the Mayo Clinic diagnoses and the exploitative media coverage and PR. “Nothin’ pure about this … all a big phony show, he thought. Gil couldn’t get much movement on his breaking balls, and his control was off. He breathed out deeply when his slider crashed into the ground, six inches in front of the plate. If the pitch had been a strike, it would have been crushed out of the park.

  Gil watched as Preacher called for a repeat of the same pitch. Gil wiped the sweat off his forehead. He had no confidence he could place the pitch. His mind wandered to his father’s antics. He’d tried to exploit Melvelene, just like he’d tried to control his life. He could be dying, for heaven’s sake, and his father could care less, only whether his son’s sacrifice might be God’s way to save a few more souls. This time the pitch was a strike, but it had little movement. He heard the crack of the bat, then saw Gonzalez backpedalling in center field. The ball struck the wall, a stand-up double.

  The stadium went silent. Not since the first of the season had Gil floundered in the first inning, but this was a sharply hit ball, and Gil was rattled. He was throwing like a worn-out pitcher in the eighth inning. Why did his father have so much control of his life? Gil knew that if he’d stood up to his father twenty years ago, none of this would be happening. He’d have already finished his baseball career. There’d be no need for this silliness. The next batter took his position, and Preacher called for a low fastball. Gil mustered up his courage, but the ball had no steam. The only good news is that the pitch was low enough that the batter sent it sky high and down the right field line.

  Juarez locked on the trajectory, but hesitated. Then he jogged leisurely, as if he were hoping the ball would hook foul. It didn’t. The ball was fair by three feet and trickled into the right field corner. Juarez picked up his pace, but not by much. By the time he threw the ball into the infield, the batter was on third and one run had scored. Juarez took off his glove and massaged his knee. When Briscoe started running on the field with his trainer’s medical kit, Juarez called him off and shoved his mitt back on.

  Two runs scored before Preacher made his way to the mound. He kept on his facemask, hiding any words of reprimand from the cameras.

  “Not flying today, are you?”

  “Let’s not talk science right now, okay? I don’t have time for religious theory. I need to throw the damn ball, that’s all.”

  Gil’s mind was a fog. He couldn’t remember any of his pitches, only that when he began to walk to the dugout, he’d let three runs score. His vision seemed foggy. Maybe his medical condition was worse than he thought. This had all been a giant mistake. He should quit chasing his nonsensical dream, go home and take it easy like his doctor had asked him. Go home with his tail between his legs. Be a quitter, just like he’d done two decades ago when the first crisis struck. He lowered his cap and collapsed onto the bench. It was empty. He was the only one sitting. All the other players chose to lean against the railing, as if this were the most important playoff game that they couldn’t miss. At least they blocked the cameras, Gil thought.

  “You’re empty, man.” Gil looked up. DeJesus was standing in front of him. Yesterday he’d won his sixth game, his best start ever. “No passion in those eyes. You’re pitching like a girl. You need to get pissed off like I do. Think about smashing that reporter, putting a ball right between his eyes. Kill him, dismantle him.” Gil remembered the rumor about how DeJesus had a catcher’s mitt with the face of Castro tattooed on it, but that the league banned him from using it. DeJesus was throwing like a man possessed, and it showed.

  Slider turned to adjust his cup. Gil blankly stared past him. “What, you want a little boost? Don’t look at me, man. I don’t do that kind of crap. I’m not that stupid. The drugbusters are going to be all over your blood like a vampire in one of those chick flicks.”

  The Rockies failed to score any runs, and Gil headed to the mound with his team down three runs. He could feel the fans’ mocking eyes focused on him. He lowered the bill of his cap farther. He flexed his shoulders, raising and lowering them like he always did to loosen his muscles. His chest felt tight, and he remembered Dr. Kusha’s warning. Maybe it was a good thing if he was pitching toward his own death. Maybe if he threw harder he could get himself out of his predicament. He could make it all go away. Just throw as hard as he could, progress his illness and leave this world.

  Preacher signaled him to start the next inning with a fastball.

  Put yourself out of your misery, Gil told himself. He reared back and hefted the ball with every muscle clenched. He hated himself for being in this situation. Life would have been so much better teaching kids how to light a Bunsen burner or to see how much sugar could be dissolved in a beaker of water.

  When the crowd clapped for the first time, he knew he had broken the century barrier. He stole a peak at the scoreboard. The speed clock flashed 103. In a rage, he threw and threw. Sweat was dripping from his face and his shirt stuck to his back.

  “Easy there, partner.” It was Biondi slapping him on the back. “Inning’s over. You retired the side. Time for the dugout.” Confused, Gil shook his head and followed his first baseman to their underground hideout.

  By the time the game had reached the sixth inning, Gil looked like a racehorse who’d just passed the finish line. Foam covered the edges of his mouth, and his hair was dripping. Ratcliff looked at Connor and both men understood. “Go ahead and hit the showers,” Connor said as Gil collapsed onto the bench.

  Gil hung his head and stared at his shoelaces. He’d allowed a total of five runs and the Rockies’ bats were silent. He wouldn’t get a win this game. He was relieved that nobody could see him now. Gil shrunk down and supported his elbows on his knees. Waiting three more innings on a deserted bench would be an eternity.

  The crowd restlessly waited while the reliever warmed up.

  At the end of the eighth inning, Gil watched as security escorted Melvelene and her daughter up the stairs. He knew her body was spent. He’d wished he’d pitched a better game, if for no other reason than to give her a boost.

  He hung his head. This baseball thing—he’d made the wrong decision. He should have kept his teaching job. After all, he had been happy. None of this was worth it. And now he knew he w
asn’t Superman. He didn’t deserve to be there. I wonder what Melvelene thinks of all this, he thought, as her wheelchair disappeared into the shadows.

  30

  IN THEIR YEARS raising Alicia and Austin, Keri and Gil rarely ventured far outside of Colorado, and neither had been to San Francisco. They’d done driving trips to Southern California and Disneyland, but never found a reason to see the city on the Bay.

  As they drove past the painted ladies—the vividly colored Victorian homes—Keri pointed and giggled with amazement. Austin had his face smashed against the window, mesmerized by the mass of looming skyscrapers.

  “Look at that weird one. It looks like a triangle.”

  “It’s the TransAmerica Building, stupid,” Alicia said. “What I want to see is the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Can’t see it from here,” the driver said. “It’s on the other side of those buildings. But I’m yours for the weekend, so whatever you want to see, just give me a jingle and I’ll be there.”

  They stayed at the Four Seasons Hotel, a good fifteen-minute walk from the Giants stadium. As soon as they were settled, Gil wanted to go to the stadium to check things out before the crowds arrived for the home run derby.

  After missing her morning workout and being cooped up in a plane, Keri wanted to walk to the ballpark, insisting she needed the exercise. Nobody thought to bring a jacket, not realizing how cold the city was during the foggy summer months. So, three blocks into their journey to the stadium, they stopped in a sports apparel store to buy sweatshirts.

  Keri was more enamored with the outside of the stadium than the inside. She circled it twice, amazed at how a ballpark could be surrounded by the San Francisco Bay. She watched as the sailboats came into dock and the runners scampered along the running path, wishing she could join them. Alicia, smelling the irresistible scent of seafood, snuck in line for a cup of chowder and slice of sourdough bread from a street vendor, scattering a dozen pesky pigeons that were mopping up the crumbs left by hundreds of baseball fans already mingling outside the stadium. Even the two dozen protestors with hand-painted signs claiming the All-Stars were nothing more than a bunch of washed-up scabs, couldn’t ruin the ambiance. For every picketer, there were two other ticket scalpers waving pairs of tickets, claiming they’d be able to see the fastest pitcher in the world.