Chapter 1

 I fly through the darkness like I am attached to a bungee cord, surging toward the walls of a vast hall lined with snow-white uniforms, silver bats and golden gloves. Just as my fingertips almost grab one of them, the nay-saying cord contracts and hurls me toward more remote prizes. On and on it goes, until I am seasick with frustration.

A glowing ball hangs in the air before me and I fling myself toward it before I can be jerked away...and fall onto the thin carpet of my motel room.

The moon glows through the commercial plate window. I turn my head to find a clock in the unfamiliar room. My eyes finally light on over-sized green numerals that seem to float in mid-air: 4:14 AM.

I'd only been asleep for a little over three hours.

I rise from the floor and rub the buzz-cut that adorns my skull as I arch my back and shoulders. Feeling my way around my spring roommate's bed, I swim through the darkness until my left hand grasps the door-nob to the bathroom.

I push open the door and squint against the flat neon light that fills the lavatory. I look at myself in the mirror and repeat the morning ritual I had begun my junior year of high school�"when scouts had started coming to my games to see me instead of someone else.

I'm Jordan Gil. And I'm a baseball player.

Next I remind myself of my long-term goal.

This year, I'm going to play in the big leagues.

And what I am going to do right now to help me get there.

Today, I'm getting a hit off a major-league pitcher.

At 26-years-old, I don't know how much longer I can continue to believe it.

I'd heard somewhere that you couldn't accomplish anything until you could see yourself doing it. I don't know if my visualization routine helps me perform on the field. But it does remind me to ignore a lot of crap that doesn't really matter.

I strip off my navy blue boxer shorts and turn the bathtub tap. As I wait for the water to run hot, I take careful inventory of my body before today's practice. I need to know what I have to work with before I step onto the field. I unwrap a little cake of soap and lather my face. Using a disposable razor, I shave my face into smooth perfection until fog fills the cramped room.

Showering takes about five minutes�"just long enough to soap my body, rinse, and dry myself with a coarse white bath towel that covers no more than a hospital gown. At least it doesn't reek of mold�"like the towels at the cheap motel in Fort Myers last year. No matter how many times I'd sent the blasted things to the laundry, they still came back smelling the same way.

I guess spring training in Arizona has a few advantages.

I grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt off hangers from the open motel-room closet and dress myself. After stepping into the pair of flip flops I'd left by the bathroom door, I grab my gym bag and head out the door.

Across the street from the motel blaze lights from an all-hours Waffle House. I sit down at a counter stool in the nearly empty diner and grab a laminated menu from a metal holder. I don't know why I had bothered. I already know what I want to eat.

I look up at the middle-aged waitress dressed in a mustard yellow uniform and say, “Pancakes, full stack, large skim milk, and oatmeal on the side.”

I have a simulated game this afternoon and need to carb load before drills this morning.

I eat at Waffle House, Denny's and other chain diners a lot. They are open all hours. There are no stupid distinctions between breakfast, lunch, or dinner. If they make it, you can order it. I can load up on carbs or grilled chicken whenever I want�"which is a boon to a guy who crams in workouts around a travel schedule. Best of all, I can get volumes of food that fit my per diem.

I do not understand why baseball teams hand young and dumb players 20 bucks a day and send them out in the world to eat. College football programs know better. They load up training tables with macro-nutrients calculated to compliment their training program. Why not baseball?

I shut that thought down almost as soon as it crosses my mind. It didn't matter. I need to fuel my body as best I can with the 20 bucks in my pocket and the afternoon spread they'll provide at camp. It's not as if the Kansas City Jesters were going to change anything if I complain. The dumbest thing a 26-year-old minor-leaguer can do is complain.

Oh wait, now that I'm in major-league camp I get $34.00. Heck, I can save money on that.

The waitress returns with a full glass of water in her hand. Instead of immediately setting it down in front of me, she asks,”Are you playing today, hon?”

Rather than answer, I extend my right hand. I need the hydration. She gets the message and sets the big plastic glass a few inches from my hand. I take a big gulp before I answer, “Sorta. We're having a simulated game, today.”

“What position do you play?”

“Right field,” I answer, not bothering to tell her that no one played the field in a simulated game.

“Am I going to see you in the big leagues someday?”

I smirk a bit. I have an answer for that one. “That's entirely up to you.”

She shoots a brief, puzzled look at me before she asks, “How so?”

“You'll have to be watching.”

She chuckles. I can't tell whether she appreciates my wit or she wants a tip. Not that it matters. The important thing is she leaves me alone. I drain the rest my water and then snag an abandoned newspaper that lays two stools down from me on the counter.

God, who reads these things anymore? At least it will give me something to do while I wait for my food.

I dump the sports page and instead look for movie reviews. Yeah. I know. I'm a self-absorbed athlete that is supposed to be fixated on myself. Except I can't think of a single sportswriter that has helped anyone hit a baseball. I stopped looking for news stories about me the minute I got drafted.

Moments later, my food arrives. I don't bother to look up from the page as the waitress sets the plain white platter in front of me. Instead, I utter a quick prayer over my food. After I finish giving thanks, I try to pour as little syrup as I can tolerate on my pancakes and proceed to stuff food down my throat�"just like a thousand other tasteless meals I have consumed in more diners than I can remember.

Today, however, is different. Today, I am going to face a live pitcher at my first major-league camp.

* * *

Four hours later I stride toward the batter's box opposite a six-foot-six right-hander named Chad Sloan. Behind him is nothing but sickly brown grass. A chain-link L-screen shields him from hot shots up the middle. The pitchers and catchers have already been in camp for a week, but I haven't done anything more than stretch, run though some basic fielding drills, and hit against a pitching machine for the past couple of days.

I stop and offer a silent prayer to God, even though I know He doesn't help me hit. That's my job. But waiting in a batter's box for a 21-year-old colt to launch a fastball in my general direction is the loneliest place on the planet�"even if it isn't a real game.

Sloan blasted through three levels in the minors last season, and skipped AAA when the Jester's called him up in September. I've never crossed paths with him in the minors�"I'd been in the Red Sox organization last year�"but I know all about him. Sports Center couldn't stop talking about his triple digit fastball and his $4 million signing bonus. Even a guy who ignores those jabberheads couldn't help but overhear the buzz.

The Mexican Winter League didn't have anything like him.

As Sloan starts his windup I try to ignore a cloud of gnats that convene a pow-wow centered on my head. A searing pain floods my left eye when my lid grinds a tiny insect into a corpse against my cornea. I run from the batter's box like a t-ball player unhinged by his first Little League pitch.

I bend over nearly twenty feet from the plate as I try to clear the streaking tears from my eye. The bullpen coach, whose name no one has bothered to tell me, calls, “Steee RIKE One!”

The players gathered behind the batting cage hoot and laugh at my distress.

“Hey, Bush Leaguer�"the plate's that-a-way!”

I see smirks all around the batting cage.

“If you step up like a big boy, mommy will bring you some milk and cookies.”

So much for making a good first impression.

A lone figure stands about fifteen feet from everyone else, watching the “action” with a vacant look in his eyes. He's the only one that is not laughing at me. I recognize him immediately. Mike Baron. Former no. 1 overall draft pick who had been in the bigs for a dozen years. At 34, he is past his prime�"but he is still pretty damned good. He hit 24 home runs last season. Just because I refuse to read news stories about me doesn't mean I ignore box scores.

He is also the guy whose job I am trying to take.

Who am I trying to kid? The only way I beat him out is if he gets hit by a meteor.

I step back into the box and shift my focus back to Sloan. I'm not one of those guys that takes a little stroll between pitches. I never leave the box during an at bat. Instead, I lock my attention on the pitcher. I try to soak up everything I can about his body English and his motion. My up-close-and-personal with nature has already set me on edge by breaking my routine.

Sloan kicks his left leg toward me and then catapults the ball forward with his impossibly-long right arm. The ball is such a blur that it glows like last night's moon as it bores in on the plate. I'm so mesmerized that I can't even lift the bat off my shoulder before it whizzes over the outside corner.

“Stee-RIKE TWO!”

I've studied every scrap of video I could get my hands on as a minor-league player�"and yes, getting video room access is quite a trick for a minor-leaguer. I've pored over charts and tried to burn every pitcher's motion into my memory bank as I watched them throw. When I'm on, I can look at a pitcher and know what is coming next.

Sloan is staring at the inside corner. That's where he'll fire his next arrow.

Even though it is only practice, someone has done their homework on me. Whether it's Sloan, or the assistant pitching coach, or the Jesters' advance scouts, someone is well aware I can't hit inside heat.

As Sloan rears his front leg to fling the ball at me, I step back in the box and begin my swing before his front foot hits the mound. I'm going to knock that punk's pitch into orbit. And maybe, just maybe, it'll return to earth as the meteor I need to crash into Mike Baron's skull.

Just as my hands cross home plate, I realize that the ball is taking its own sweet time getting here. Only now I notice the tight horizontal rotation and desperately try to slow down my swing. As my disloyal hips and front shoulder yaw past home, I look behind me and see the ball dive into the dirt.

I try my best remain upright, but I can't help but stagger across the plate after my wild swing strikes nothing but air.

Sloan stands upright and laughs on the mound. He doesn't even try to hide his mirth behind his glove. Rage explodes in the back of my head and bolts down my arms into my quivering hands. I want to run out to the mound and club him�"and every other caveman armed with a 95-mph cut fastball�"into red jello.

The coach doesn't bother to say anything. I already know I'm out.

Achilles was vain. Paris weak. Odysseus loved his own cleverness more than anything else. Even Michael Jordan has to pretend his high school basketball coach cut him to fuel his desire. What's wrong with me? What fatal flaw prevents me from hitting the inside fastball?

Sloan is talented, but the other Jesters show he can be hit. A middle-infielder named Raglan pokes a solid liner over 2^nd that the coach rules a single. Rags hit .236 last season. Aaron “Spaghetti” Davis�"who got his name from the way his legs splay when he stands at the plate�"slams one off the left-field wall, which scores a run.

I fume in silence as I watch it all from behind the batting cage. I try telling myself that Sloan has talent. He's gonna get most guys out. There's a reason everyone is talking about him.

A few innings later, when I have almost calmed down, I step in against another righty named Mark Lugar. Lugar is nothing like Sloan. Lugar, frankly, sucks. In fact, some internet nerd showed that not only is Lugar bad, he is one of the ten worst pitchers of all time. Lugar, however, had once been a prized prospect. According to my roommate, the Jesters' front office keeps Lugar in the rotation in the belated hope he will someday “find it”.

Their stupidity is going to be my gain. Surely, I can hit this guy. I have to be able to hit this guy.

Except Lugar�"for all his flaws�"has a good arm. He pounds the inside edge against me.

I can't hit him any better than I could Sloan.

* * *

I'm a zombie after the simulated game. Even the major-league cornucopia that waits for us in the clubhouse fails to dent my despair. My mind records the grilled chicken, tuna, whole-wheat bread, steamed vegetables, and the profusion of sports drinks and workout supplements with nothing more than detached awareness. Had I been myself, I would've been stuffing my gym bag. Instead, I consume the available calories and head off to grind through another workout in the team gym.

When the day finally ends, about a dozen of us on minor-league contracts wait in the parking lot. I try to ignore the major-leaguers sauntering out to their rented luxury cars�"many of them carrying plush golf bags over their shoulders. They'd cram in nine holes before the sun set, perhaps grab a massage at a luxury spa, and return to their suites in a 4-star hotel or a rented condo. Many of them have been complaining about the pedestrian local casinos and groaning about the lack of elite restaurants. The veteran consensus holds that the Jesters owe us spring training in a more civilized place like Scottsdale or Tempe, but are too cheap to follow through.

My roommate bolts out the door the moment the shuttle pulls into the motel. He spends most of his nights drinking with guys he knows from the system and telling local girls he is in major-league camp. A lot of times he doesn't bother coming back. He is 22-years-old and a 2^nd round draft pick.

I guess he doesn't worry about getting more chances.

At least he leaves me alone in the room.

At 5:00 PM the room phone rings. I pick it up, already knowing who will be on the line.

A soft voice chirps, “Hey, Butthead. Did'ja get a hit?”

Of course it's Ashley. We talk on the phone every day. Usually multiple times per day.

I want to tell her the truth. I want to say that I'd fallen flat on my face and let the undiminished concern in her voice tell me that it doesn't matter. But, I can't do that. If I start down that path, I might tell her that I'm not good enough to play in the big leagues. If I say it too many times, it might come true.

So I lie.

“Sure thing, Cupcake.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It's just baseball, Sweetie. No big deal.”

Instead, I tell her about the lush desert in Tucson. I talk about the spectacular sunsets. I tell her about the weird equipment guy that looks like an ancient hippie who can't wait to knock off for the day and smoke a peace pipe. I consider telling her about last night's dream, but I can't think of any way to discuss it without sounding pathetic. I talk about every trivial thing I can think of to avoid confessing the truth. Because if I tell her that, she might force me to think about life without baseball�"and who would I be then?

I don't know.

Everything good in my life has come from my ability to hit a baseball: most of my friends, my romance with Ashley, and even my almost-healthy relationship with my parents. I don't want to think about what I'll do when it's over.

Ashley interrupts my self-doubt by asking, “Have you seen Chad Sloan?”

How does she know about him? Stupid question. She watches Sports Center more than I do.

“Why?”

“I saw his picture. He's hot.”

She's teasing me. We've talked every day for two years. She knows my future is her future. I want nothing more than to fly to Maryland and put an obnoxious ring on her finger. But, I wouldn't do that until I'd secured a major-league job. I can't bear to make her trail after me through an array of Podunks while living out of a U-haul.

I've seen too many guys try it, and fail.

I snort. “You're depraved.”

“No. I'm cute. And you like it that way.”

She's right. Ashley is a 20-year-old junior at Hood College who manages a boutique full time while going to school. She's the step-sister of my high school partner-in-crime Victor Pierce. Ashley had been nothing more than a kid when I had graduated. She flagged me down in a mall one day when I'd been playing in Frederick against the Orioles' High-A team. Even though I'd practically lived at her house senior year, I had no idea who she was until she told me. We've been talking ever since.

But, how long will that last? I can't expect her to remain sealed in a time capsule while I flail away in the minors.

All too soon, Ashley has to go back to work. I hang up the phone and try to watch Gattica on cable, but can't force myself to pay attention. The only thing I can think about is the inside fastball.

* * *

At sunset, I find myself wandering around the small patch of desert behind the motel. When I think about the desert, I visualize endless sand, merciless sun, and maybe a few scattered cacti. You're supposed to be able to find clarity and truth in the desert.

Tucson isn't like that.

Here, all manner of barbed desert plants grow in a crazed profusion. Once inside this wilderness, you cannot see more than five feet ahead. You can also impale yourself on wicked spikes from almost any direction if you fail to scrutinize your surroundings.

I try to tell myself that God doesn't care how many baseballs I hit. And neither does Ashley. But, none of that helps for the most obvious of reasons: because I care. I can't live with myself unless I find a way to continue.

I try to tell myself that opening day is only six weeks away. But, that doesn't matter. I need to do something to hit the pitch I've never been able to hit in my life. Even if it doesn't work.

I try to tell myself it was only one bad day, but I know that is a lie. The baseball Gods have cursed me with “slider” bat speed. I've tried a thousand adjustments to my stance, swing, and hand position. None of that worked. I had succeeded in the minors by knowing the strike zone, fouling off the hard stuff, and crushing off-speed pitches when I got them.

That isn't going to cut it here. And�"to tell the truth�"I knew it before yesterday's practice.

I drop my gym bag onto the coarse sand and plop down beside it. I bathe my upturned face in the dying sunlight, and then remove the vials I'd brought across the border when I returned from winter ball in Mexico. I fill a syringe from one of the small bottles, jab the needle into my outer thigh, and slam the amber fluid into my body by pushing down the plunger.

A sudden blaze of red, orange, and yellow flares across the sky as the sun sets and ignites the canopy of clouds overhead. It's as if God has lit a divine pyre to honor mankind.

I've just become a steroid user.