The Closer (5 page)

The infielders moved in for a play at the plate as the next batter, a pinch hitter for Seattle's weak-hitting second baseman, entered the batters' box. Denny, pitching carefully, walked him. The next hitter, the lead off man, also worked him for a walk. Bases loaded, tying run at third, winning run on second, with no outs. Terry grimaced. Rick might have to wait for his maiden win.

Denny began flexing his right arm and shoulder. Rick and Edwards, the trainer, trotted from the dugout to the mound. They talked with Denny before Rick turned to the plate umpire, who also came to the mound. Denny threw a practice pitch. Even from his vantage point some 200 feet away, Terry could tell from Denny's body language that it hurt him. He continued to flex his arm and shoulder, then, accompanied by Edwards, headed to the dugout.

Rick pointed to the bullpen. Which, by simple elimination, Terry knew could mean only one thing. He was in the game.

"Go get 'em, Rook," one of the catchers shouted, confirming Terry's conclusion.

He took off the jacket he was wearing and trotted toward the mound. He immediately felt cold, could feel himself begin to shiver. The memory of those hot Texas nights, instead of this penetrating Seattle chill, suddenly didn't seem so bad.

"Sorry," Rick greeted, handing him the ball. "Looks like I'm throwing you to the wolves again. But I got no choice."

Terry's only response was to continue shivering. Rick remained nearby to watch him take his practice pitches. Because Terry was replacing an injured pitcher, he was entitled to as many as he needed. Not that the number mattered, since he sensed tonight he'd never really get warm. His first toss must have bounced a full ten feet in front of home plate, bringing a glare from the catcher, Chris Bailey.

The Seattle fans reacted too, promptly vilifying Terry's effort. Even with midnight fast approaching, the stadium was still full. Evidently the spectators anticipated their patience being rewarded, that with only a one-run deficit, the bases loaded, no outs and a rookie pitching, they'd soon claim victory. While Terry continued his warm-ups, the noise level radically increased, as if everyone present was going for the kill.

In all his years in baseball, he had never heard a crowd this loud. And here he was, the focus of their wrath. At a certain point, despite not actually feeling ready, either in body or pitching arm, he realized it was futile to continue the practice pitches. He'd never get any warmer. Besides, why prolong this agony? He motioned to the umpire and to Rick that he was set. Bailey came to the mound from behind the plate to review pitch signs.

"Good luck," Rick said, and he and Bailey left, Rick to the dugout and Bailey back behind the plate.

Terry heard a nearby train whistle, probably signifying an arrival at the station he'd learned was close. He glanced toward the outfield and observed fog beginning to descend on the stadium, giving the entire scene a surreal appearance. He felt almost as if he were a spectator to the drama unfolding, not the main character. Perhaps this was simply his way of dealing with his own anxiety, his only means of coping.

The numbers two, three and four men were coming to bat, the three best in the Seattle lineup. Terry noticed all the infielders playing back, willing to trade a run for a double play. Evidently, Rick would be satisfied giving up the tying run if he could force the game into additional extra innings.

The first batter stepped into the left hand batters' box and Terry looked at Bailey for the sign. Knuckleball. While going to the stretch position to hold the runners close to their bases, he reminded himself to throw "the diver" over the top, not the side, as Rick had instructed. And to make sure to keep his wrist stiff. He fired, and the pitch felt good leaving his hand, like it would get nice downward movement. The batter swung and hit the ball on one hop right back to Terry. He fielded it and quickly threw to Bailey, who touched home plate with his right foot and fired to first base. Double play, without the tying run scoring. Now there were two outs, runners on second and third.

Rick quickly trotted toward the mound. Terry wondered what he could want, and glanced instinctively at the bullpen. No one was warming up to possibly replace him. Then he remembered—there was no one left to warm up.

"Nice start," Rick said, matter-of-factly.

Terry admired his calmness. Bottom of the sixteenth, game on the line, more than forty thousand fans screaming, and Rick was his normal self.

"Pick your poison," Rick stated.

Terry looked at him blankly, clueless as to his intent.

"Gates or Casey?" Rick continued. "With the open base we don't have to face them both."

Terry gazed at the two hitters standing in the on deck circle. Gates, the left hander, perennial home run champ. Casey, right handed, currently leading the league in hitting.

"I'd walk Gates," Rick suggested. "Pitch to Casey 'cause he's right handed. Least they can't accuse us not playing percentages."

Terry nodded, muttering something almost incoherent about never being very good at mathematics. Then he was standing alone again, after getting pats on the rear from Rick and from Bailey, who had joined them on the mound. As he intentionally walked Gates, loading the bases once more, the crowd, seemingly louder than ever, booed.

Casey stepped to the plate. Terry heard another train whistle and gazed toward the outfield again, at the fog which seemed a little thicker. Was all this really happening?

He turned back toward Bailey, who flashed the sign. Knuckleball. Terry fired. Ball one, low and outside. Another sign. Another knuckler, this one catching the inside corner at the knees, for a strike. Casey lifted the next pitch foul, into the stands behind first. Then Terry threw one too far inside.

Before the 2-2 delivery, the runner at third danced off base, attempting to distract Terry. But Terry's concentration was good and he fired toward the plate. A perfect pitch, diving into the strike zone on the outside corner at the knees. The umpire flinched, as though about to raise his right arm, the "strike" sign. He hesitated, however, then signaled ball three. Bailey kept his glove positioned exactly where he'd caught the ball, right above the outside corner of the plate. Terry could only shake his head. But then, as a rookie, he knew better than to expect a called third strike in this situation, against the league's leading hitter.

He looked out at the fog once more, then up into the crowd behind home plate, most of whom were standing and yelling frantically. Here he was, in a spot he had always dreamed of as a kid—bases loaded, two outs, 3-2 count, and the game on the line—facing the league's leading batter. Was this really a dream? Or, more accurately, a nightmare?

He knew he had to come in to Casey, he couldn't walk him, walk in the tying run.
He threw another “diver”, a nice one, which Casey popped foul, off third. The third baseman, Jack O'Rourke, drifted to the grandstand railing and tried to reach beyond to catch the ball. But a spectator hit his glove and the ball bounced off, landing in the lap of a youngster sitting in the second row.

When Casey fouled away the next two pitches, Terry wondered how long this agony would continue. Did he have the nerve to keep throwing strikes to this dangerous hitter? Could he keep throwing strikes?

His next pitch
was
in the strike zone. Right in the middle of it. Casey swung and Terry knew by the loud crack of the bat it was trouble. The ball headed for deep left. He could see its flight briefly, and then lost it in the fog. Had Casey hit a home run? A grand slam home run, resulting in one more failure for Terry?

He
was
able to see Elston Murdoch, the left fielder, racing back to the wall. At the wall, Murdoch leaped, his glove high in the air, above the wall. For an agonizing moment Terry couldn't tell whether the ball landed in Murdoch's glove or on the other side of the wall. Then he saw the second base umpire, who had run into the outfield, thrust his right arm into the air, signaling "out."

The game was over. Oakland had won.

 

Frequent joyful shouts pierced the Oakland locker room, players proclaiming their victory. Several came over to Terry and offered congratulatory handshakes and backslaps. All the attention of course felt great. So did the locker room's warmth, welcome relief from the late-night Seattle chill.

Terry's first priority, even before showering, was to approach Elston Murdoch and thank him for the terrific catch. Several media persons surrounded Murdoch though, despite his repeatedly shaking his head, obviously refusing to talk. When they dispersed, Terry went over.

Once he got close, he was astounded by how large and powerful Murdoch looked. He must have been at least 6
feet 3 inches, 220 pounds. Black body naked except for the trousers of his uniform, he had the hugest chest, shoulders and forearms Terry had ever seen on a baseball player. In fact, Murdoch resembled more the football prototype—a fullback or a linebacker—than a skillful outfielder.

His head seemed too small, no doubt because of his massive physique. His face was handsome, in a rugged way. But he had an unhappy expression, especially for someone who had just been so prominent in his team's victory.

"Thanks," Terry greeted, extending his right hand.

Using a simple gesture of his own right hand, however, Murdoch waved him away. Then he turned toward his locker, grabbed a shirt and hastily began putting it on. Nothing for Terry to do except return to his own locker. Once there, he did glance at Murdoch a couple of times, noticing that he continued to dress rapidly, straight from his uniform to street clothes without a shower, as if eager to be somewhere quickly.

"At least it's not just us he won't talk to."

Terry turned to see a fortyish man gazing at him, wearing a worn business suit. Terry looked at him mutely several seconds before realizing he was probably a member of the media.

"Mind if I ask you about your first save?" the man continued. "As a major league pitcher."

"Rather you ask Rick Gonzalez," Terry replied uncomfortably. "About his first win as a major league manager."

 

Throughout the Seattle series, Terry watched Rick closely. He found him no different as Oakland manager than pitching coach in Texas—so unlike other managers and coaches he had played for, who were critical, gruff, distant, and aloof—always a barrier between them and the players, which no one dared cross.

No question the players liked Rick. Everyone, that is, except Elston Murdoch, who evidently liked no one, which didn't seem to bother Rick. He simply wrote Murdoch's name in the third spot of the lineup card every day, and left him alone. Terry never saw them converse or communicate in any other way.

The players played hard for Rick. Apparently no one minded getting their uniform dirty. Diving for a ball in the outfield. Digging for the extra base. Sliding hard to break up a double play.

All the above occurred during the next two games in Seattle, both wins, giving them a series sweep before they returned home to Oakland.

"Mister...can my brother play with you again?"

By the sound of her voice, Terry knew who it was right away. Yet, lying on the grass near the left field bullpen, doing stretching exercises, he still did a double take. Yes, definitely, it was Karen Riley, wearing the same cute little blue dress she wore at their very first meeting, back in El Paso.

"What're you doing here?" he managed, still on the ground.

"We came to see you play," she replied, as if her answer were apparent.

He got up and moved closer to where she stood, just above him in the grandstand, in an aisle next to the first row of seats. As he looked up at her, the late-afternoon sun was shining directly in his face and he had to take off his cap and use it to shield his eyes.

Since that evening's game was still nearly two hours away, very few spectators were present. In fact the crowd was so thin he easily spotted Billy Riley about ten rows above, wearing his glove.

"How'd you know I was here?" he asked her.

"My brother...he found out. He listens to all the games on the radio."

"He knows my name?"

"I think he knows all the players' names."

Terry, except for a smile, didn't respond. He was still startled over the fact she and her brother were actually here.

"Well, Mister," she said a little impatiently, "you going to let him play with you like last time?"

"Is your mother here?" he asked after slight hesitation.

"Yes. With my sister."

She pointed about halfway up the grandstand, perhaps twenty rows, to the same woman Terry had seen at the game in El Paso. Little Tammy sat directly in front of her.

"I need to speak to her," he said

After giving him a less than cordial look, Karen climbed the stairs to her mother, providing him a minute or so to think. This wasn't the minor leagues, where teams might not be so rigid about spectators entering the field. Where he really wasn't so concerned if they were rigid. No, this was the majors, where things were going well, and he didn't want to risk breaking any rules.

As he waited, several youngsters neared, seeking autographs. An hour or two before the game, while players warmed up or practiced, was always the best time for that. Hoping not to keep Karen's mother waiting, he reached over the grandstand railing for pencils, pens, programs and scorecards being thrust at him, and quickly obliged.

Once the youngsters left, he saw her standing alone in almost the exact spot her daughter had just vacated. He moved to her other side, to where he didn't have to squint into the sun to see her. She had light-colored hair and unusual sparkling hazel eyes. Though thin, her face was pretty. Her figure also seemed thin, beneath simple slacks and blouse, and a green jacket.