Gil

by Darin Gibby

  “When we last met in my office in Minnesota, I conjectured that any physical exercise might be accelerating your tissue density.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, now we have another month’s worth of data, and the picture is becoming a little clearer. Thanks to your wife, I have your physical measurements.”

  “Yes, I know. She’s been mapping me out.”

  “And your nightly cardio data, that’s been extremely helpful. Where I wish we’d made some more progress is at the genetic level. The enzymes in your blood are all over the place, and they definitely change on the days you pitch. The best way that I can explain your condition is that your disease is like a good cancer. It just keeps churning out good cells, not bad cells. It’s almost the opposite of cancer. But too many good cells is also a bad thing. You’re going to be so healthy, it will kill you.”

  Gil kept his eyes focused on his physician.

  “Well I won’t keep you waiting. I probably don’t need to tell you this, but your breathing is becoming more labored. I suspect you are having difficulty breathing at night.”

  Gil nodded. “Maybe a little.”

  “And your chest is getting tighter because your pectorals are getting more dense, as well as your bone structure. It’s just like I suspected. You have some type of neuromuscular disease that continues to progress. I wouldn’t be surprised if you start pitching even faster, but I have to warn you, it is killing you. I’m pretty sure that every pitch is leading to your death. If the tissue density continues to increase, you are going to suffocate yourself.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure it’s progressing. It’s getting worse, not better. But as a professional, I can’t tell you that you’re going to die. I just don’t know. I’ve consulted with several experts all over the world. I’ve come up with a few similar cases, but nothing that matches identically.”

  “And what happened to those people?”

  “Some lived, some died.”

  “But you didn’t give anyone my name?”

  “Of course not. I never mentioned pitching, baseball, or anything that could give you away. You already have enough problems in the media.”

  “That’s for sure. I know I asked this before, but I’m going to ask again. What’s your prognosis?”

  “Hard to say, but if you keep up the same physical routine, I mean if you keep pitching on the same schedule, and if it keeps progressing at the same pace, it could be another year—or less. I just don’t know. I’m sorry that I don’t have more. We’re working on it, and someday I think we will have it figured out. I just hope it’s in time.”

  Gil bit his lower lip.

  “What I can say for certain is that your pitching is aggravating your condition. We’ve analyzed your breathing pattern and the stress placed on your heart for the last three months, then overlaid it with the days you pitch. It’s clear that you really struggle to breathe every night following a start on the mound, and your heart is working overtime. That much stress on your system isn’t good. My initial prognosis is proving correct. Your muscles and bones are becoming denser, thicker. You are suffocating in your own success.”

  “So if I stop pitching, the disease will stop progressing?”

  “I don’t think we can say that. I said pitching is aggravating the condition, but probably not accelerating it. The issue is that excessive exercise causes a huge amount of inflammation, and the body hates inflammation. If the disease keeps progressing, and you aggravate it, it could collapse your lungs, or even stop your heart, then it would be all over.”

  “Is there anything I can do to stop the inflammation so I can keep pitching?”

  “Ibuprofen is good. It keeps down the inflammation, and it’s not a banned substance. Icing down also helps. You should take an ice bath after each outing. But even with all that, I must say that the most effective remedy is to stop pitching, or at least go longer between starts.”

  “Okay, I understand the doctor part of you wants me to stop pitching. But if you were in my shoes, what would you do?”

  Dr. Kusha removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Who wouldn’t want to be you? I think everyone would love to have your outgoing personality, your ability to connect with people, not to mention be the most famous athlete in the world.”

  He looked into Gil’s eyes. “My whole family comes over when you pitch. We have dinner together, all the neighbors come over, and we have a great time. When they flash the speed of your fastball, we all start jumping up and down and cheering like we’re all crazy. It’s like you’ve changed all of our lives. I’d feel selfish if I said I wanted you to keep pitching.”

  With his hands steadied on the cardboard, Gil began to push himself up. “I guess I have my answer.”

  “Wait, Gil. There’s one more thing. How are you doing, really? I mean—”

  “You read the papers?”

  “Don’t need a paper. It’s running every hour on ESPN. I’m sorry, Gil. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have your father turn against you.”

  “He’s certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. From what I hear, he’s told the players’ union that Slider’s on drugs, that I’m a pedophile, that the whole institution of baseball is a tool of the Devil to ruin the American fabric.” Gil shook his head. “It’s classic Pastor Ron.”

  “Lots of people are really worried about you. I’d like you to see someone.”

  “No, no shrinks. I’m fine. Really, I am. You don’t know me very well. I have the will to beat this.”

  “I understand, but as a doctor, I think you should at least go see a professional. Your neurotransmitters are all messed up.”

  Gil shook his head. “No drugs. I’m at a good place right now. You know what I finally realized? It can be just as dangerous to think that you always need to be happy as to avoid being depressed. That’s because life will make sure that you can’t always be happy, and then you get depressed when you can’t get where you think you’re supposed to be. Happiness can’t be a mental goal any more than sadness. Those people are called bipolar. Life is about how to experience both, yet be able to traverse them to them to lead a full, balanced life.”

  Dr. Kusha stood. “The world could use a few more people just like you.”

  41

  RATCLIFF CALLED A mandatory team meeting at ten in the morning. He gave the team a mere thirty-minute notice.

  “I wanted to tell everyone before you hear it on TV,” he said when the team had assembled. “It looks like the season is over.”

  “What?” Biondi said, jumping up. “We’re almost to the playoffs. That doesn’t make sense. The replacements have more fans and are generating more business than the regulars ever did.”

  “That’s only true for the Rockies, but that doesn’t really matter,” Ratcliff said. “The owners and the players’ union came to an agreement early this morning to end the strike. Bottom line is that the Rockies won’t be needing your services as of tomorrow. I’m sorry, really sorry. You deserve to finish the regular season. You’re as good as any team I’ve ever managed.”

  “Better,” Gonzalez said, his head lowered.

  Biondi was still standing. “So what, just like that, and our season is over?”

  “I’m afraid so. The regulars are going to finish the season.”

  “But the season’s almost over. They can’t just step in. They haven’t played in nearly a year. Can you imagine what it’s going to be like?”

  “Probably like when we all started,” Juarez said.

  “I can’t believe it,” Biondi said. “We were going to be in the playoffs. And with Gil, I was dreaming about the Series.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ratcliff said. “We made a good run of it. I couldn’t ask for a better group of guys.”

  “But the papers said the owners weren’t going to back down. Why did they cave?”

  “They didn’t. The players did. Every week, ratings continue to climb. They are afraid that if they don�
��t come back now, their careers might be over. Your success made them come crawling back. They may even be facing pay cuts. I’m sorry.”

  “I guess this is it,” Gil said to his teammates.

  “I’ll get the final word tonight after the formal vote. For now, why doesn’t everyone go home and spend some time with your families. You’ll get official letters with your final check tomorrow. Come back at ten, we’ll have a final team meeting, and you can clean out your lockers.”

  Ratcliff slipped out, leaving the players with their heads down. A depressing silence hovered over the dejected players. Gil finally spoke. “I can’t accept this. It can’t be over. We’ve all worked too hard, sacrificed too much to have it end this way. It’s not right that we’ve played ourselves out of a job.”

  Preacher reached over and put his arm around Gil’s shoulder. “I guess it’s the end of the line for both of us. This will be better for you anyway. Go home and get some rest. Your body needs it.”

  “No,” Gil insisted. He flipped Preacher’s arm off and bolted upright. “This team is good enough to keep playing. We all wanted to get to the Series, and we’re going to get there.”

  ***

  At ten o’clock the next morning, the locker room was buzzing with speculation. Preacher was sitting in front of his locker stuffing some shorts into his bag when the news broke. Gonzalez was sitting next to him, digging some dried-up turf out of his cleats. Gil stood against his closed locker, arms folded. Defiant.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Ratcliff said, storming into the room. “The players rejected the contract. It’s time to play ball. We’ve got a game tonight.”

  “I knew it!” Gil said, slamming his hands against the locker.

  Ratcliff held up his finger. “There’s a catch.”

  The cheering halted. Gil stroked his chin, wondering what they had conjured.

  “Instead of taking the deal, the players’ union filed for an injunction to stop the games. They’ve scheduled a hearing for tomorrow morning, but that doesn’t stop us from playing tonight.”

  “An injunction,” Gil said, “based on what?”

  “You’re not going to like this. They are claiming that the replacement players are ruining the game. If they can get a judge to agree, they can get their jobs back and demand more money for next season.”

  “Ruining the game?” Juarez said, shrugging. “They’re just jealous we are better than they are.”

  “They can’t have a legal basis,” Preacher said.

  “That’s right,” Boclin said, hands on hips. “Your American legal system is crazy, more crazy than in Brazil.”

  “I agree,” Ratcliff said. “The claims do seem quite silly, but anything can happen in our court system.”

  “Does this have anything to do with me?” Gil asked.

  “Some of it. I haven’t read the court documents, but I’ve heard their lawyers are going to argue everything from tainting the game with reality television all the way to rampant drug abuse.”

  “Slider,” Juarez said before Gil could react.

  “I’m sure that will come up, along with his on-the-field antics. Playing bulldozer instead of baseball can only help their case.”

  “What about Gil?” Preacher said.

  Ratcliff hesitated then locked eyes with Gil. “From what I understand, Gil’s father has issued a sworn statement testifying that Gil has been using illegal drugs to make him pitch faster.”

  Gil’s mouth fell open. “What? That’s impossible. He’d be lying. You all know I’m not on drugs. It’s preposterous. I can’t believe my father would stoop to that.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s what I was told,” Ratcliff said. “I guess that since Slider was caught, he’s assuming you were on them as well. Anyway, the hearing is this afternoon. You’ve been subpoenaed to testify.”

  “I thought you said we had a game tonight,” Biondi said.

  “We do. Our lawyer said the judge could take several days to render her decision. Until then, we’re playing ball.”

  ***

  Gil was grateful that his camera crew wasn’t allowed into the courthouse. He seated himself in the fourth row and watched as the lawyers presented their cases. The thrust of the union’s argument was that baseball was America’s great pastime, a part of its cultural heritage, and while the players and owners were having an honest dispute over the player’s contracts, the replacements had illegally stepped in and were tarnishing the game. If left to continue, they would cause irreparable harm, thus requiring an injunction until the issues could be sorted out.

  The replacement players had their own lawyers, who aptly pointed out that if the union wanted an injunction, they should have filed their papers in April, not on the eve of the playoffs.

  Still, the judge wanted to hear the evidence. So Gil listened as the attorneys droned on about how baseball has become a puppet of Hollywood. They had conspired to bolster ratings in order to hinder legitimate negotiations between the owners and the real players.

  But the lynchpin was the use of illegal drugs. After years of cleaning up baseball for illegal steroids, the replacements came in and undid everything. They had Slider’s admission. And, they now had a sworn statement that baseball’s most popular player, the pitcher who defied the laws of physics, was also taking illegal drugs, resulting in inhuman speeds. While they said that they could go into other accusations made against Gil, they had decided, at least for now, not to delve into those issues.

  Gil was called to the stand and questioned by the judge. She asked Gil how he was doing.

  “I think that I should play tennis since it seems like I spend all my time in court,” Gil said with a grin.

  “You’ve heard the allegation in your father’s affidavit. Is it true?”

  Gil shook his head. “No, your honor. I wish I knew what was happening to my body, but it’s not because of illegal drug use. You know that camera crews follow me everywhere, sometimes even in the bathroom. Trust me, if I was taking any kind of illegal drugs, the whole world would know.”

  “But Slider was on them.”

  “He was, but to conclude that because Slider was taking injections, I am also, is not justified. You can depose my doctors if you think I am on drugs. They are just as baffled.”

  The judge slipped her bifocals down her nose and snapped her binder shut. “I think that’s all for now. I’ll decide on the injunction before playoffs.”

  42

  GIL HEADED STRAIGHT from the courtroom to Pastor Ron’s church. He’d be late for the game, but he didn’t care. He had to put this behind him. Bible study was tonight, and he’d have a captive audience. The church parking lot was half-full. Gil wondered how many would skip their weekly delve into the holy writ for an evening at the ballpark.

  Gil barged into the main auditorium. Pastor Ron was at the podium, commenting on a verse in the book of St. Luke. He peered down, paused, then continued. Gil leapt up onto the rostrum and purposefully strode over to his father.

  Pastor Ron again looked up and adjusted his spectacles. “May I help you?”

  Gil could hear the clanging of the camera crew as they frantically set up their equipment.

  “Do you mind?” Pastor Ron said, glaring down. “We are having a service.”

  “Do you know where I spent my afternoon?” Gil interrupted.

  “I suppose off to the ballpark playing some childish game.”

  “No, you know where I was. I had the pleasant experience of being hauled into court, where I was put on the stand and forced to listen to your absolutely false allegations. How could you? You know I’m not on drugs.”

  “I have to follow my convictions.”

  “As do I.” Gil shook his head and panned the congregants, most with tattered Bibles opened on their laps. “It’s time we get to the bottom of this, and your congregation might as well hear this.”

  Gil closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of dizziness to subside. His chest was pounding. “You a
ll know about my pitching,” he began, “and some of you might even know I tried to pitch professionally twenty years ago. It was my father’s dream for me to play in the major leagues—because he felt I was God’s chosen messenger to spread His almighty word on the baseball field.

  “But it didn’t turn out. And you want to know why? Because Keri, who you all know, one day announced she was expecting our first child. And we weren’t married. Well, that changed everything, didn’t it? It’s hard for such a sinner to spread the word.”

  Gil felt his father’s glare.

  “For the longest time, I couldn’t get over that. I resented you for trying to control my life—all in the name of God. But looking back now, that was the best thing that ever happened to me, even though it’s taken me twenty years to find out why.”

  Pastor Ron tried to stop Gil, shouting, “You’re like a lost ship, carried about wherever Satan blows you. He has you in his chains. Those words that come out of your mouth, they’re not yours.”

  “I have never lied, not about the photos, and not about the drugs,” Gil countered. “The truth is that I have some unexplainable disease that is eventually going to take my life. My days are numbered.”

  Even with his father’s poisoning, he knew he was among friends he had grown up with. Hushed whispers floated up as the reality of his condition sunk in.

  “I think we should get on with our Bible study,” Pastor Ron stammered.

  “I’m not finished. You need to hear this. I know I was supposed to honor you as my father, but I just knew it wasn’t right for me to use my baseball talents to cram my religion down everyone’s throat. Maybe that’s okay for some people, but not me. And so I have spent twenty years trying to sort out what I believe. Then this disease hits me and I wonder why.”

  “God called you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You think it’s a second chance to spread God’s word, but I can’t accept that.”

  “Then what?”

  “I struggled with that for the longest time. That happens when you’re facing death. But then it hit me. When you good people burned that cross in my lawn, my eyes were opened. The sign of that cross. I don’t know why I’d never seen it before. Life is about moving to the center, the center of the cross, where your heart is. That’s where you live. Not at the edges, not where it is hot or cold, not where there is a heaven or hell, but to transcend those ideas and live from my heart, at the center of my compassion. And that is why I am pitching when I know I will die. That’s what my heart is telling me, and even playing in the face of death, I’ve never been so alive. If I have a message to the world, I guess that’s it.”