by Darin Gibby
The throw was a rocket, and it bounced once, just to the side of the pitcher’s mound. The catcher sat up, putting his knee in front of the plate to block Slider’s hand. In so doing, he shifted his body between the umpire and the corner of the plate where Slider’s hand was slithering along the dirt. Slider had started his slide ten feet in front of home base, and he hooked his body outward so that just his fingertips caught the exposed corner of the plate. Instantly, the catcher’s glove passed over, but it was too late. Slider had beaten the throw.
He popped up and spontaneously did a backflip. The crowd went wild.
But then the umpire threw up his fist, his thumb extended to the heavens. “You’re out!” he yelled over the roar of the crowd.
Slider cocked his head, wondering if he’d heard correctly. He spun around. The umpire was already scribbling on his notepad, ignoring the hum of boos that raced through the stadium. Ratcliff tore out onto the field, shoving Slider aside.
“You’re crazy,” Ratcliff screamed, his voice hoarse from calling to his players over the racket of the crowd. “He was safe. You couldn’t see to make the call.” He pointed to the third-base umpire. “Ask him, he saw it.”
By now, the instant replay was being shown on the stadium screen, with a vivid depiction of Slider’s fingers on top of the plate before the glove reached his arm.
“Look,” Ratcliff said, pointing to the screen. “He’s safe.”
The sound from the disgruntled fans became deafening, but the umpire refused to change his call. Slider, now brushing off his uniform, straightened up. Ratcliff threw his hat on the ground and continued his rant. Slider came up from behind him, put his arm around his shoulder, and tugged him back to the dugout.
“We’ll get the next one,” he said. Ratcliff was so startled by Slider’s reaction that he could only follow Slider’s cue and head for the dugout. “We’ve got two more innings, and they’re going to need to switch their pitcher. Juarez wore him out.”
Boclin grounded to second, and the inning was over. The game remained scoreless. When Gil attempted to get off the bench, his knees buckled beneath him and he crashed back down. He stared at his cleats like he’d slipped on something. He again pushed himself up and gingerly made his way onto the field. His body felt like setting cement. The bright stadium lights now looked hazy, and he shook his head to clear his vision.
With the arriving cold front, the winds had picked up and the temperature was dropping. Gil hopped up and down to get his blood moving, hoping his constricting muscles would relax. Instead, they acted like rubber bands, contracting but refusing to expand. The first warm-up pitch barely made it to home plate. It took four more before he could get any velocity.
Preacher trotted out to the mound. “You okay? Every inning it’s taking you longer to get warmed up. Tajima is a good closer. You sure you don’t want him to take over?”
“I’ve got a perfect game going in the last game of the World Series. Six more outs are all I need, then I’m done. I’m hanging it up.”
Preacher ripped off his mask. “Come again?”
“You heard me. I told Keri and the kids earlier today. Just help me get through two more innings. I think that’s all I’ve got left in the tank.”
From her seat in the stands, Keri focused her binoculars. She couldn’t read Gil’s lips, but she could see the swelling of his face, the glaze in his eyes.
“I’m worried,” Alicia said. “Why’s Preacher staying on the mound that long?”
“He’ll be okay,” Keri said nervously, shoving the glasses into her purse.
“Come on,” Austin yelled. “Six more outs, and you’ll have the second perfect game in a World Series. Hey, everyone, my dad is going to pitch a perfect game!”
Alicia tugged on his jersey, signaling for him to take a seat, but Austin shooed away her hand. Peck stood up next to him. He kept rubbing his palms on his jeans. Pastor Ron put his hands together and lowered his head, mumbling a silent prayer for his son.
“I’m a nervous wreck,” Peck said. “The suspense is killing me. Come on Gil, you can do it.”
Ratcliff took a deep sigh when Gil popped up the first batter on the second pitch. His eyes shot to the clock: 112. If he could keep that up, the Rockies would shut them out. Nobody could hit Gil when he was throwing that hard and Preacher was calling the pitches.
Gil threw back his shoulders then rounded them over and over.
“He’s tight,” Connor said. “I can see it. It’s like I want to run out there and give him a massage. I wish it weren’t so darn cold.”
“The cold is actually helping him,” Briscoe said. “Keeps down the inflammation. It’s like a portable ice bath on the field. The only problem is that he’s so stiff it’s hard for him to throw.”
Gil heaved another fastball that missed its mark, but the batter swung wildly anyway. As he came up out of his follow-through, his throat closed off and he clutched his neck. He closed his eyes and thought of lying on a nice, warm beach in the Caribbean. Slowly his windpipe relaxed and the air rushed back into his lungs. But the fact that his breathing could stop scared him.
He waited for Preacher’s signal, a curveball inside. It was as if Preacher understood he needed an easier pitch. The batter was a full half-second in front of the pitch. It had taken Gil a mere six pitches, and he had his second out of the inning.
Preacher called for a high four-seam fastball. The batter guessed the pitch and made solid contact, shooting a line drive through the infield. Manzi dove toward second base and nabbed the streaking ball at the tip of his webbing. The top of the eighth inning was in the books.
Gil gingerly walked like an old man to the dugout trying to avoid any further exacerbation of his condition. He wanted to keep his head down so that he would not be distracted by the crowd, but that only made breathing more difficult. As Slider came beside him, Gil rested his arm on Slider’s shoulder. “Would you mind helping me a little? Just don’t make it obvious.”
Slider stood a little higher, slowed his pace, and allowed Gil to rest his full weight on his shoulders. “You’ve got to stop,” Slider said. “Let Tajima close.”
“Three more outs. I could do it in three pitches if I get really lucky.”
Slider escorted Gil into the dugout, down the stairs and to the bench, where Gil collapsed. A batboy handed him a cup, but he waved it away.
“Slider, I’m going to rest my eyes a little. Can you nudge me when it’s time?”
Gil dozed while the Yankees took care of business, taking out the Rockies next three batters in turn. Slider poked Gil in the ribs. “Okay, boy. Time to go make history.”
Gil’s eyes sprung open, and he shot up from his seat like he was twenty years old. “Let’s go do this, then.”
He trotted to the mound, getting his blood pumping, trying to reenergize his rigid body. It was impossible to describe, but pain was emerging from every cell in him. He ignored it, and swung his arms like a swimmer getting ready for a big race. The field looked dark, and he wondered why they had dimmed the lights. He looked up and noticed the clouds as they floated across the starry sky. The storm was arriving.
After winding up, he stepped off the rubber, motioning for Preacher to approach. “Let’s just play catch for a bit until I warm up.”
With Preacher midway between the rubber and home plate, the two men gently tossed the ball. Each time, Preacher took two steps back until he was at his position behind the plate. Then Gil let go on the velocity. The pain that shot through his chest nearly blacked him out. But the pitch was still wicked fast.
His chest tightened, and he gasped for air. Waiting helped, and soon he could breathe. But the pain wouldn’t stop. He wondered if this was what Keri had experienced when she’d given birth to Alicia and Austin.
Gil composed himself and nodded. The umpire called the Yankees player into the batter’s box. “Let’s play ball.”
In the dimness, Gil could barely discern Preacher’s flashing fingers. He let Preacher repeat the si
gnal three times until he was sure it was a low fastball. Gil whipped it in at 111 miles per hour and the crowd went wild.
As Preacher tossed the ball back, Gil lost his focus. He held out his glove hoping the ball would somehow find its way inside. At the last second, he saw the ball and lifted his glove, but not high enough. The ball ricocheted to his left, and Manzi scooped it up from his position at shortstop and walked it back to the mound. Manzi didn’t ask whether Gil was having problems, he just laid the ball in his glove and tapped him on the rear. “You got it, Gil.”
Preacher signaled a second fastball. The batter caught a piece of it, enough to shoot it straight in the air. Gil tried to find its trajectory, but in looking up, a huge wave of dizziness overcame him. He put a knee to the ground. Preacher zeroed in on the fly ball, staggered into the infield, and waved off Biondi at first. The ball fell safely into Preacher’s sure hands, and Gil was two outs from victory.
Gil arose, but couldn’t stop his world from spinning. He tried to pick out a single object to focus on in hopes that might calm his mind. He searched for Keri. That was a bad idea. She had her hands covering her mouth, and Alicia had her arms tightly wrapped about her mother.
“Two more outs,” he told himself. “Then I’m done—for good.”
Gil resumed his stance and waited for Preacher’s signal. Either Gil couldn’t see between his catcher’s legs or else no signal was forthcoming. Gil leaned closer and squinted. Nothing from Preacher, he was sure of it. Preacher was sitting in his crouch, and his hands weren’t moving. He’d stopped calling any pitches. Gil stood up erect, stretched his back, and again took his stance. Nothing.
Gil studied the batter, remembered he’d had luck with his slider in the fifth inning, then he shot off a diving pitch at close to 110 miles an hour. The batter swung and missed. Gil could feel spasms in his chest as he finished his follow-through. A cold sweat was not only dripping down his chest, but now trickling down his cheeks.
This time, Gil thought things would be different, but Preacher’s hands were still. For some reason, Preacher had stopped calling the shots. Gil wound up and threw a slider for a strike.
The constant pain in Gil’s core hadn’t gone away. As Gil stuck up his glove to catch the ball, the pain was overshadowed by the sense of constriction that had overtaken him the game before. This time it was more than his throat, but it felt like his whole chest had collapsed. The blood drained from his head, and the stadium began to spin around like a Frisbee. He took a knee and closed his eyes, fumbling with his shoelaces to hide his predicament. The swirling somewhat subsided, and his chest slightly loosened. Gil slowly stood and tried to regain his composure.
Preacher was still in his squatting stance, waiting for Gil to finish tying his shoes. When Preacher failed to signal, Gil let go of a fastball. The batter swung and missed and the roar of the crowd let Gil know it must have been at record speed. He felt his chest tightening, and the spinning resumed. There was no doubt now. He’d reached his limit. If he kept throwing, he was going to suffocate himself, just like Dr. Kusha predicted.
He focused his gaze back on Preacher, who once again sat motionless. In a moment of silence, he thought of Alicia’s arms tight around his neck.
Slowly, so that he wouldn’t upset his balance, Gil gazed into the stands. Keri’s hands were still covering her mouth, now wide open enough for him to see past her fingers. He’d seen that look before. She was terrified. She knew.
Alicia was clenching her mother’s shoulders, while Austin, oblivious, was jumping like a Mexican jumping bean.
Gil tried to think, but the cheering of the crowd made that impossible. It was like standing behind a jet engine as it took off. The vibrations of the pounding feet thumped him like a loud speaker at a rock concert.
Think, he told himself. But he’d been thinking all his life. Maybe it was time for him to stop thinking.
The moment he let his mind go, he remembered his promise to Alicia. He thought about Keri, shaking from fear of his death. And then he understood why God had done this to him. This day was not about winning. Winning wasn’t his dream. His dream was in the stands. He had to make a choice, but the decision was easy. He’d give all he had left to her.
Gil stepped off the rubber. The mass of humanity before him wanted him to finish, to put himself into history. But the image of Keri’s frozen face wouldn’t leave. He had to calm her fears.
He began to focus on his breathing, that cold, wet breath that came deep from within. It was raspy and labored. As he let everything else go, a warmness shot up from his very center. In that moment, he remembered Melvelene and how she’d given her last strength for him—that was her last sacrifice. Maybe that was her way of telling him that he needed to do likewise, that his transcending event would be to give his last strength to his family. That would be his own golden moment. That’s when he would really know if he could fly.
Salty sweat streamed down his face and he wiped it off with his shirtsleeve. He knew he could muster a few more pitches, maybe even hit 113 and send the crowd into ecstasy. But that wasn’t why he was here.
Gil took one more gaze at the screaming fans. He flashed his now-famous smile. This was it. His final moment.
He took the ball out of his glove, rolled the seams along his finger then sat it down in the dirt.
When Gil left the mound, everyone presumed he was going to the dugout. But his trajectory was off. He veered left of the dugout, toward the stands. He motioned the grounds crew to open the gate. When it swung open, he began to ascend the stairs, ever so slowly.
The screaming crowd instantly fell silent. They had expected him to remove his cap, take a bow, then have Ratcliff send out Tajima from the bullpen. But why, when he was only two outs from a perfect game in the World Series, and the game was still scoreless? What if the Yankees scored on Tajima?
Gil’s eyes couldn’t focus. He knew their season tickets were on the eighth row. Counting always helped. He planted both feet on each step, figuring if he counted to sixteen he would be close enough. A few kids flooded to the aisle, holding out their hands, hoping for a chance to touch their idol. He didn’t notice any of them, just the counting in his mind and the struggle to breathe with each elevation of his feet as he progressed up the stadium.
When he’d counted to sixteen, he looked down the aisle. The unmistakable bulk of Peck’s form told him he was at the right place. He squeezed past the first four fans, letting their hands stabilize him as he blindly wandered toward his family.
The roaring of the crowd was gone, and a hush settled over the stadium like a fog rolling in off the ocean. A few flakes of snow drifted down, a foreshadowing of the powerful storm that would strike later that evening.
Peck grabbed him by his shoulders and looked into his eyes. His pupils were dilated and unfocused.
Pastor Ron put his arm around his son and with a penetrating gaze could only squeeze harder. Both men understood.
Gil kept his slow pace, struggling to reach his son. He held out his hands in front of him like a blind person groping for direction.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Austin said as soon as he squeezed past Pastor Ron. “Only one and a half batters. A perfect game in the World Series. You can’t stop. Come on, let’s go.” He grabbed his arm to tug him back out onto the field.
Gil softly smiled, straightened his cap, and lifted his chin. “No, this is better.”
Then he put both arms around Alicia. “I remembered my promise.”
“But that was only if—” she stammered.
“This is my goodbye,” he said. “I saved my best for last. I will miss you. Watch out for your mother and be patient with Austin. It’s going to take him a long time before he’ll understand.”
He smiled once again, and she smiled back amid her tears. She hugged him tighter.
Gil struggled for breath and she let him go, feeling the weight of his body coming down on her. Quickly, she stepped aside and let him collapse into her chair. He f
ell like a limp noodle, yet slammed into the plastic seat. His body slouched, and he groaned as he exhaled.
“I just need a little rest.” Gil curled up, his head perched atop the plastic seat. Keri took her seat beside him. She put her arm behind his head, and he adjusted his position so that his head slid down her shoulder and over her breast. He nuzzled himself into her, with his ear centered over her chest. The rhythm of her heartbeat soothed him. “I love you, Keri,” he mumbled. Then his eyelids slid shut.
The field cameraman had followed Gil up the steps, fully expecting him to provide some romantic moment, like giving his wife a juicy kiss and some brilliant flowers, then returning to the dugout. The gigantic screen captured every moment, even adding superimposed hearts in the corner of the display. Live television carried the same video feed.
“What a romantic,” the announcer said for the television crowd.
Keri stroked his hair, feeling his clammy skin. She felt the tenseness of his body against her shoulder. His chest slowly rose and lowered. Then suddenly the movement subsided. The sound of his breath went silent. Gil’s entire body twitched violently, then fell still. Not even his stomach moved.
Keri understood he was gone. He had given his last goodbye. “I love you, Keri,” was his parting farewell. For a moment, she thought about reviving him. Calmly, she acted as if nothing unusual had happened. She kissed the top of his head then looked to her two children. Tears were streaming down Alicia’s cheeks. Austin’s gaze turned from his lifeless father to the baseball diamond, where eight Rockies players silently waited.
“Kiss your father goodbye,” she said to Alicia, “then put your blanket over him.”
Alicia placed her hands over her mouth. “No, Mom. He’s not. No, he can’t be. Call a doctor.”
“No, he’s gone. Let him die as he wanted.” Out of the corner of her eye she sensed that all cameras were still focused on them. “If they’d only cut the cameras.”
The reality of what just happened finally struck Alicia. She threw herself onto her father. “I love you, Dad. Don’t leave us.” Her body shook uncontrollably. Yet, he’d kept his promise.