by Darin Gibby
When she sat up, Keri took her blanket and slipped it over the corpse, blocking any access to any more pictures.
Alicia took her little brother’s hand. “Come say goodbye.”
“He’s not going to pitch anymore? He’s got one more inning. He can’t stop now.”
Keri wanted to hold him, to explain what had just happened, but Gil’s body was still resting on hers, and she didn’t want to let him go.
Alicia lifted up the corner of the blanket. “Kiss him goodbye,” she told Austin.
Alicia rustled her fingers through his hair like Gil was fond of doing. “He wanted to spend his last minutes with you. That’s why he put the ball down.”
“But I wanted him to win, to be the best pitcher.” Austin’s lip quivered.
“His strength was gone. He had to make a choice. He could keep playing or spend it with us. And now we all know what meant the most to him.” She threw her arms around her brother and let him cry, blocking his face from view.
51
THE MLB COMMISSIONER hastily ended his phone call and slipped his phone into his jacket. Security opened the gate, and he hurried onto the field, approaching the head umpire. The two spoke, nodding, looking up as two more medical personnel wearing white shirts lugging a stretcher made its way down the aisle toward the Gilberts’ row. The umpire faced the field and raised both hands, officially halting the game.
Ratcliff, his cap lowered, approached the men in gray uniforms. Preacher stepped next to him. The commissioner spoke first. “We’re halting the game for at least thirty minutes. In view of the unusual circumstances, we’re evaluating what to do next.”
“I assume Gil’s dead,” Ratcliff said.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the commissioner said. “The medical personnel officially pronounced him deceased just a few minutes ago. They are bringing the stretcher to take his body to Swedish Hospital, where I assume he will undergo a full autopsy.”
The Yankees’ manager approached. “What is the precedence for cases like this?”
“My team is researching,” the commissioner said. “Because of my respect for Gil, my preference is to suspend the game until tomorrow, but in view of the incoming storm, that does not appear to be an option.”
“We need to finish tonight,” the Yankees’ manager said.
Preacher grunted and stepped forward, but Ratcliff pulled him back. “Let’s wait thirty minutes and see what your folks come up with. I’d like my players to stand at attention on the baseline to give their last respects.”
“I think that’s appropriate,” the commissioner said. “We’ll reconvene here in thirty minutes for an update.”
Ratcliff called for his team to huddle, explained the situation and had them line up along the first baseline, caps removed and placed over their hearts. Taking the cue, the Yankees emptied their dugout along the third baseline and follow suit. In a somber voice, the public announcer came over the loud speakers saying that Gil had died, and that the game was temporarily being halted until further notice from the commissioner. He then asked them all to stand, remove their hats, and wait while Gil was taken from the stadium.
Everyone stood in shock, eyes fixated on the white sheet covering the lifeless figure. Nobody even whispered as the two paramedics hauled the empty stretcher from the main concourse and down twenty rows of stairs. Slider, who’d bolted from his teammates and sprinted up the stairs in a fleeting attempt to say his last goodbye to his only friend, helped Peck to keep the blankets spread, a feeble attempt at sparing Gil’s family from the encroaching cameras.
Wrapped in the blanket, the medical personnel hefted Gil’s body out of the seat and onto the padded stretcher. They covered him with another blanket, then securely strapped him and ascended back up the stairs. Slider took Keri in one hand, Alicia in the other and escorted them along the procession. Peck and Austin followed close behind. Occasional snowflakes softly floated down, glistening in the bright stadium lights.
It sounded like the stadium sighed in unison when the stretcher disappeared. The Yankees players broke ranks and returned to their dugout, while every Rockies player remained at attention. Preacher was the first one to step forward. He signaled for his team to remain in place while he approached the assistant commissioner who, under orders from his boss, remained on the field.
“I’d like to have a prayer,” he said. “Can you please round up a microphone?”
The official was more than happy to break the uneasy silence and in a minute had secured Preacher a microphone.
In his deep, baritone voice, Preacher informed the crowd that he was going to have a prayer and requested that they take hands and join him. Complete strangers took hands and lowered their heads in respect. “Let us pray,” Preacher said.
It was a traditional Protestant prayer, asking Providence to be mindful of Gil’s family and to help them all understand the meaning of what had just happened. He thanked Gil for blessing all their lives, then blessed them all with a safe journey home as if the event were concluded and the season was over.
Another awkward silence followed. The public announcer had no additional information to provide and there was no appropriate music to play over the loudspeakers.
Then, from somewhere high up in the rockpile in right field, the sound started. Somebody started singing. It was Gil’s song, the one he sang to himself during every windup when he tapped his glove three times. Take me out to the ball game.
The volume began to crescendo as more joined the tune. The choir expanded to the center field bleachers, then rolled into the infield seats and the upper balcony. The fans took up hands again, swaying back and forth as they sang.
Buy me some peanuts and Crackerjack. I don’t care if I ever come back …
It was a perfect segue for the commissioner, who returned to the infield toting a dozen league officials. He waved to Ratcliff and the Yankees’ manager. As Ratcliff left the dugout, Preacher followed, muttering to himself. With eyes once again focused on the field and the upcoming announcement, Slider went undetected as he slipped from the locker room back to the Rockies’ dugout.
“Are we ready to play?” the Yankees’ manager said. “If we wait too much longer, this storm is going to let loose and we’ll all be stuck in a foot of snow.”
The commissioner turned to Ratcliff as if the decision were now up to him.
“What have you done in situations like this before?” Ratcliff said.
“We’re still looking, but there doesn’t appear to be any precedence, at least not in recent MLB history. Only two MLB players have ever died because of a game. Mike “Doc” Powers in 1909 and Raymond Johnson Chapman in 1920 after Carl Mays threw a spitball and hit him in the head. But we don’t know if they suspended either game.”
“Well, in football they die all the time,” the Yankees’ manager said. “They just cart them off and keep playing. I say let’s play. The Yankees came here to win, and we’re ready to do just that.”
Ratcliff’s jaws were flexing, but he kept his cool, his arms folded. He looked to the commissioner. It was his decision.
“If the elements weren’t against us, I prefer to postpone the game until tomorrow, out of respect for Gil and his family. Baseball has never had, and never will have, another player like Gil Gilbert. This is a tragedy of such proportions, I can’t imagine playing right now.”
“But—” the Yankees’ manager stepped forward.
The commissioner held up his hand. “Let me finish. This storm is going to dump enough snow that we can’t play tomorrow, probably can’t play for several days. I just spoke with the local meteorologists. They are expecting at least three feet of snow. That happens when you’re in the Rocky Mountains. So, postponing just isn’t going to work. And we can’t delay the game any longer tonight. The fans are getting cold, the players’ muscles are tight, there could be injuries. But beyond that, the fans have come here expecting us to declare a winner.”
“That’s right,” the Yankees�
�� manager chimed in. “We need a winner. These fans, they need something to make them happy after this. If we just leave things as they are, everyone will go home depressed. At least we can get half of them to be happy. Gil would want them to continue.”
The commissioner focused his gaze on Ratcliff. “I’m sure you agree. It’s got to be this way.”
Ratcliff dropped his arms. “I suppose so.”
“No,” Preacher said, expanding his chest and forcing his way into the circle. “You don’t understand what Gil stood for. You don’t understand what he just taught us. We can’t finish this game. It would be a mockery. Gil’s death will be in vain. Pronouncing a winner is antithetical to his last act of sacrifice.”
The Yankees’ manager’s jaw dropped, and he craned his neck forward, his face quizzical like he had no idea what this madman was talking about.
“I’ll go let my players know,” he said to the commissioner and turned toward the Yankees’ dugout.
“Come on, Preacher,” Ratcliff said. “You need to get Tajima warmed up.”
Preacher wouldn’t budge. His nostrils were flaring. Ratcliff reached out and tugged his jersey. “Let’s get this over so we can go see Keri.”
In the dugout, Preacher spastically threw on his gear, sliding two pads over his chest. When he barged onto the field, he was lugging the biggest bat he could find. And he didn’t go to his place behind home plate.
Ratcliff had called Tajima from the bullpen, where he’d been warming up. He was jogging onto the field as the commissioner was explaining to the fans why he’d made the decision to continue, apologizing that they couldn’t delay until tomorrow, and that he hoped they would understand why they needed to finish the season before the storm struck. The crowd stood and clapped their approval. The game had to be concluded. There was a time for everything. They would all mourn for Gil another day.
As the Rockies took the field, the applause grew. Without Gil, the Rockies needed an extra player.
Urged on by the crowd, Tajima picked up his pace, sprinting through the outfield. Preacher took his walk to a jog, then also began to run. It was a race to the mound.
Preacher claimed the territory before Tajima could reach the infield. He planted both cleats on the rubber and repeatedly slapped the bat in his hands. He protected the sacred ground like a hen over her nest.
“The guy is a freakin’ gladiator,” the Yankees’ manager shouted to the umpire, pointing at Preacher. “Get that nutcase off the field. Let’s put them out of their misery.”
The catcher set himself. He wasn’t moving until the commissioner changed his decision or the snow forced them all to go home for the season. This game he loved, that he’d lived his entire life for, the game that made men heroes, that made them winners, was now something else. Gil had just made him understand. There couldn’t be a winner or a loser, at least not this season. He understood what it meant to go between, to transcend. He’d just witnessed Gil find his way, and wanted everyone to know what Gil had obtained.
Ratcliff remained perched at the fence, arms folded, refusing to intervene. Tajima, focusing on the task at hand, assumed Preacher was waiting for him, ready to hand him the game ball and give a few words of encouragement. But as he passed second and saw Preacher slapping the bat in his hand, he stopped in his tracks. Manzi slipped in front of him and held him back.
Preacher kept slapping the bat in his hand, daring anyone to take him on. The tie, the place between winning and losing, was, for this season, going to remain, for today, for tomorrow, forever.
The head umpire slipped on his facemask and begin striding toward the mound. Barely situated in his seat behind center plate, the commissioner shot up, rushed through the gate and onto the field. He waddled as he jogged to intercept the umpire.
The commissioner held up his hands. “Wait, let me talk to him.”
“As you wish,” the umpire said. “You’re the boss.”
Preacher was slowly turning, like the second hand on a clock, studying the field of battle, deciding who would be first to try to take him on.
The commissioner pulled out a white handkerchief and began waving it in the air, to the amusement of the crowd. With the cloth in front of him, he timidly approached the mound.
“Preacher, what’s going on here? This is baseball. You know the game. If you don’t let Tajima pitch, your team is going to forfeit, and you don’t want that to happen, not after what—”
“Don’t go there, Commissioner. I’ll lay my life down here, but you’re not going to continue.”
“You’re not making sense, Preacher. Gil would have wanted this. The whole reason we had the season was to have a world champion. We’re only an inning away. The fans are cheering. They’re ready to go on. This is how life works. The game must go on.”
Preacher shook his head. “Doesn’t anybody get it?”
Slider, observing from his position at third base, sprinted over. “Preacher, I get it. I know exactly what Gil was telling us.” He held up his fist. “I’m with you, Preacher. This season is over. We don’t need a winner. We need to follow Gil.”
Biondi joined them. “It took me awhile, but I’ve been watching Gil all season. I’m ashamed it took me this long, but now I understand. I agree. Let things stand as they are. We can start afresh next year. Let’s go home and reflect on what Gil left us. We can break tradition this one time.”
Soon, the entire team, Ratcliff included, was standing on the mound. Snowflakes were steadily falling. The Yankees’ manager made another appearance. He insisted they begin before the weather got worse and they had to finish the Series in Florida.
Preacher handed the ball to Slider and put his arm around the commissioner, shepherding him off the mound. “You know, Commissioner,” he said, “I used to think a win would make me happy, just like I thought going to heaven would make me happy. But not anymore. Don’t you see? That’s what Gil was trying to show us. Maybe you need to think about it. Let’s take the rest of the season off and think about it without worrying about today’s outcome. Let’s leave this tie as a memorial to Gil so we can always think about what Gil gave his life for.”
The commissioner gazed into the seats, where Gil had passed away. The crowd was bundling in their blankets, hushed as they waited for an explanation.
“I have a duty to all the baseball fans.”
The commissioner looked straight up into the sky, letting the crystals settle on his face. “Let’s suppose you’re right. What am I to do?”
“That’s your decision, but if it were me, I’d do just what Gil did. I wouldn’t follow any rules. I wouldn’t follow duty. I’d simply follow my heart. That’s what I’d do. And besides, this is a different season anyway. We’re not real players. This isn’t a real season.”
The commissioner stared deep into Preacher’s brown eyes. “Transcending between winning and losing.”
“That’s right. Gil could have finished the game. He had it in him. But giving his life to win? No, that’s not what Gil was about. Keri and his family meant more than winning.”
The commissioner folded his arms and gazed over the restless fans. “I understand,” he finally said. “Can I borrow that bat?”
Preacher shrugged and handed him the stick. “She’s all yours.”
The commissioner went back to the mound, parting the players that were now all congregated, silently waiting for a decision. The players parted to let the commissioner ascend the mound. He laid down the piece of wood, making a cross on the rubber, then stepped back to admire his creation.
“I’m declaring the season over. No winner and no loser. I think we’ve all learned something important here today about ourselves and about this game. I’ll see you all next season.”
52
KERI DECIDED TO have the memorial service where Gil played his game. Three days later, when all the snow had been cleared by hundreds of laborers and a healthy dose of sunshine, they all returned to Coors Field. The weather once again turned warm, t
he sun shone.
Pastor Ron gave the eulogy, making certain everyone understood Gil’s message.
“How can you be weak and strong at the same time? How is strength made perfect in weakness? That’s what Gil taught us all. The answer is that you experience a state of grace when you pass between them, when you cross through your strength and weakness. When Gil put down that ball, he put down his strength and became weak. But he regained his strength the moment he climbed into these very stands. He let his heart go and found grace in his arms—and it’s that grace that lifted him up so that he could fly.”
Pastor Ron paused and gazed about the stadium. “His gift to us wasn’t his fastball—although I loved to see him throw. Boy, did I like to see the speed on that ball—no, what he gave to us was himself. And what Gil told us was that no game, no moment of glory, is more important than family.”
***
The Rockies held their annual post-season banquet a week later. Breaking tradition, Ratcliff catered the dinner at his own home. Lonely without his wife, Susan, he felt it would be good to bring a little life back to where he’d spent so many happy years. With invited spouses, his dining room and kitchen were bursting at the seams.
Keri was his guest of honor, and she took her place at the head of the table. “This has been the greatest season of my life,” Ratcliff began. “What happened to each of us has meant more than anything, even when I won the Series as a player. Many of you know how difficult it has been for me since Susan passed away last year. I never realized how much I loved her until she was gone.” He paused and cleared this throat. “I think all of you knew how much she loved her school in Guatemala. Well, I think I’m going to take some of Gil’s advice. As of tonight, I am retiring. I’m going to pick up where Susan left off. I’m now the new PE teacher for elementary school kids in Guatemala. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll teach them how to play a little baseball.”