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Authors: Alan Mindell

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BOOK: The Closer
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"Thanks for coming to the game, Mrs. Riley," he said.

"I really have no choice," she smiled. "Since your workout with Billy, that's all he ever talks about. He was thrilled about your trade."

"I'm surprised he heard about it."

"When it comes to baseball, my son doesn't miss much. Wish he paid as much attention to other things..."

Terry grinned. Then he glanced at Billy, still sitting some ten rows away. He'd love to work out with the boy, right here, right now. But there was no way.

"I'm afraid there's a problem," he said. "It's against league rules to invite him on the field."

"I understand, Mr. Landers."

"Terry," he said, flattered that, like her son, she knew his last name.

"Lauren," she replied.

There was a pause, and he looked back up at Billy. Then back to Lauren Riley. He couldn't tell her age. About his, he guessed.

"I'm sorry you made a wasted trip," he said

"It's not wasted," she smiled. "We came to see you play."

"I'll make you a promise," he answered. "If you'll give me your phone number and address, first open day I'll come over and work out with Billy."

She complied and wrote out the information on a piece of paper and handed it to him. After she left him, he watched her go to Billy, put an arm around him and walk with him to where Karen and Tammy sat.

His attention was then diverted by a new bunch of kids approaching, seeking autographs.

 

The Rileys weren't Terry's only surprise that evening. Just before game time, Rick came to him in the bullpen and informed him he'd be the closer.

"For tonight?" Terry asked.

"For's long as you can do the job," Rick answered. "We just put Denny on the DL."

Rick explained that after two separate MRIs on Denny's arm and shoulder, specifically his rotator cuff, the team doctor had determined an operation was necessary. For now, they placed Denny on the 60-day disabled list, but undoubtedly he'd be inactive the rest of the season.

"So you're it," Rick declared. "I don't think any of the younger guys are ready for the pressure."

"You think I am?" Terry asked.

"You're not ready by now," Rick answered. "When will you be?"

Terry wasn't sure he liked Rick's reference to age. There was no questioning his logic, though.

 

The Rileys evidently brought Terry plenty of luck that night. Not only did Rick assign him the closer role, but he got another save, this one much easier than the one in Seattle. Though he did enter the game with the bases loaded in the top of the ninth against Kansas City, there were already two outs and he had a five run lead, 9-4.

Not that, like in Seattle, he didn't require some good fortune. The first batter hit a sharp liner to the gap in right center, which rolled all the way to the wall. But when the batter stumbled and fell rounding second, shortstop Felix Oates took the relay from the outfield and tagged him before he was able to scramble back to the bag.

The win was Oakland's fourth in succession.

 

Later on, well past midnight, Terry decided to leave his little bungalow for a walk because he couldn't fall asleep. So much had happened recently, and so quickly. In less than a week, he'd been traded, gone to Oakland from El Paso, gotten his first two major league saves, become reacquainted with the Rileys, and been named Oakland closer. After thirty-three years of very little happening in his life, all this was a bit unnerving.

It was another cool night, plainly one more thing to get accustomed to. As he began walking around his new neighborhood, a dog howled in the distance. Actually, it sounded like a wolf, reminding him of his days in the country, as a boy, growing up in Indiana.

He thought of his father. How nice it would have been if his dad were still alive to see him pitch that last inning in Seattle. Either in person or on television. How nice it would have been to send him the tape of the game. Possibly even watch it simultaneously, each on their own VCR, Terry in California, his dad in Indiana two thousand miles away, connected by telephone.

His father would have loved the idea Terry was now a big league closer. No matter how long it lasted. And Terry would have loved to tell him that after all these years, his advice—sticking to the task, not giving up—had finally paid off.

As he crossed a street at an intersection, his thoughts were interrupted by a commotion just ahead. Tires screeching, car doors slamming, loud angry voices. His initial instinct was to turn and head back to his place. No sense looking for trouble this late at night. But then he heard a thud, as if someone were being shoved against a car. And he was able to decipher the words of one of the angry voices.

"Hey, Mr. Ten Million, use some a that big money, buy a bodyguard...new disguises."

Because maybe something seemed familiar, Terry edged closer. He could barely make out two cars in the street, one parked at an angle in front of the other, as though it had cut it off. Then he saw someone large, surrounded by four men. Another thud ensued, and this time he was sure it was from the large man being shoved against a car, the one that had been cut off.

"Why you nosin' 'round our territory?" the same angry voice shouted.

Terry moved closer yet, within fifteen or twenty yards. Although he still couldn't see that well, he suddenly realized who the large man was. It was Elston Murdoch. No question, it was Elston Murdoch.

What should he do now? It certainly wasn't his quarrel. And yet Murdoch was his teammate. Murdoch had made the terrific catch for him in Seattle. And Murdoch was now in trouble, being attacked by four men.

Terry noticed that the other car, the one not being used to shove Murdoch against, was still running. He rushed to it and scrambled inside. He gunned the engine and, to the shouts of Murdoch's attackers, sped off.

In the rearview mirror, he saw the four men jump into the other car and begin to follow. It was the start of a high speed chase. Not exactly what he had in mind when he strolled out of his bungalow a little while ago.

Fortunately, the chase lasted no more than about thirty seconds. A police car, probably summoned to the scene because of all the commotion, entered an intersection just before he did, and he nearly broadsided it, swerving and stopping just in time. The police car also stopped.

Would the four men stop too? His question was quickly answered when they whizzed by, barely missing the police car themselves. He saw them turn left at an ensuing intersection and felt, at least momentarily, slightly relieved. Not that they couldn't easily turn around and come back.

He didn't know what to do next, so he did nothing except stay in the car. Two policemen got out of their vehicle and came toward him. Just then Murdoch, breathing heavily, clothing awry, trotted onto the scene.

"My car," he panted to the officers. "Been stolen."

"This car?" one of the officers asked him, pointing to the one Terry was in.

"No. Bunch of guys roughed me up. Drove off in it."

"He one of them?" the officer inquired, motioning toward Terry.

Murdoch shook his head.

"You know him?"

Murdoch nodded.

"Want to give us a description of your car?"

Murdoch nodded again.

While Terry remained in the car, Murdoch accompanied the officers to their vehicle. Terry watched as the three of them began processing a police report on Murdoch's car. He wondered whether the officers would want to question him too, once they finished with Murdoch. Minutes later, Murdoch came back alone. Terry saw that his clothing was still unkempt. And his expression grim.

"Take me home," he directed Terry, getting into the car.

"Sure."

After glancing quickly at the policemen, who remained in their vehicle, Terry started the engine and began to drive off.

"Sorry about your car," he said.

Murdoch didn't reply.

"Any chance the police will recover it?" Terry continued.

"No chance," Murdoch answered sullenly. "Those guys got it stripped by now."

"Then how come you went through all the trouble making a police report?"

"Smokescreen," Murdoch replied.

"Smokescreen?"

"Mine wasn't the only car stolen."

Terry could feel his facial muscles contort as he realized that, technically, he had committed a crime.

"What do we do with this one?" he asked anxiously.

"Park it where you found it," Murdoch answered. "Guarantee...those guys'll pick it up by morning."

"You know those guys?"

"Never seen them before in my life."

"Thanks for not implicating me," Terry said while parking the car in almost the exact spot he'd taken it from.

"Least I could do…way you saved my ass."

"Least I could do," Terry replied. "Way you saved
my
ass...that catch in Seattle."

Terry couldn't be certain in the dark, but he thought he detected a slight smile cross Murdoch's face.

 

The first thing Terry did after getting up early the next morning was return to where he parked the car with Murdoch last night. Murdoch was right. The car was gone.

Chapter Eight

Terry entered the game at the start of the ninth inning, with Oakland leading 3-2. He sensed this wouldn't be easy. He'd be facing Boston's four, five and six men in the lineup, all of whom had hit the ball hard earlier that evening.

One thing was to his advantage, though. There was a strong wind—the prevailing one Rick had alluded to the night he informed Terry of the trade, the wind he said would favor the knuckleball. It was blowing off the nearby bay in an easterly direction, from the third base dugout toward right field. As Terry warmed up on the mound, he could tell “the diver” had extra break to it, both down and away from a right hand batter.

The first hitter swung at the first pitch, topping a weak grounder to first baseman Phil Steiner. Terry raced toward first base, received Steiner's toss and stepped on the bag. One out. Two more and Oakland would record its eighth consecutive win, a streak that began with that initial victory in Seattle.

Yesterday's newspaper had featured a lengthy article on the team's resurgence. It gave most of the credit to the pitching staff, especially to the young starters like Myong Lee Kwan, who had come over with Terry in the trade. But Terry would argue that Rick was the major difference, working tirelessly in the bullpen, before and often long after games, tutoring pitchers on arm angle, release point, follow through; keeping baserunners close, developing new pitches.

The next batter took a called strike before bouncing weakly to Collie Quinn, halfway between first and second. Terry again headed for first, but stopped when Steiner, after starting for the ball, reversed himself and got to the bag to handle Quinn`s throw. Two outs.

Yesterday's newspaper carried another story Terry read with interest, though with more concern. It disclosed the theft of Murdoch's car and that no progress toward recovery had been made. While there was no mention of him, Terry grew uneasy that the incident reaching print would heighten investigation and possibly lead to his eventual involvement.

He considered approaching Murdoch for an update. But when he had looked across the locker room at Murdoch at his locker after last night's game, he seemed, as usual, eager to leave. And, within seconds, was dressed and gone.

The next batter tapped the first pitch right back to Terry, who threw to Steiner. Three outs, all easy grounders. After only four pitches, Terry had his third save.

Maybe there
was
something to Rick's “prevailing wind” theory.

 

Terry's first direct contact with San Francisco occurred when he emerged from the subway station a few miles southwest of downtown. He was promptly greeted by a heavy fog, much thicker than the one in Seattle the night of his first save. If he'd found Oakland and San Leandro cool, even cold, San Francisco was freezing, especially for mid afternoon. An icy wind seemed to blow right through him. He soon experienced the hills the city was famous for, ascending and descending them as he walked to his destination, a small white house about a mile away.

Wasn't it time to buy a car? Subways, buses, and begging rides from teammates were growing tiresome. He now resided in an area with plenty to do and see. All he needed was a convenient means to get to them.

In El Paso, at least he had excuses. He could walk to the ball park. The few entertainment activities were close. And, unlike now, a car would have been a luxury he really couldn't afford.

No matter the logic, though, he knew he'd wait. Let at least two or three big league paychecks come in. After all, things could quickly change. Denny had gotten hurt, opening the door for him, Terry, to become the closer. It could just as easily be him on the disabled list. Or he could fall back into the slump he'd experienced in El Paso. A couple of weeks in the majors certainly didn't guarantee he'd stay.

Despite the fog, he found the small white house. He rang the front doorbell. Karen Riley opened the door, little Tammy standing right beside her. Billy, wearing a baseball glove, stood in the background of what Terry could see was the living room.

“Ready?” Terry asked.

“Mommy, can I go too?” Tammy asked Lauren, who had entered the room.

"No, sweetie, it's too cold. You stay here with me."

BOOK: The Closer
10.05Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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