The Closer Page 3

  Administration didn't stop there. Another way to achieve economy was to trade talented, albeit high salaried, players for players with some potential, but whose current earnings were low. The trade for Terry, completed just hours ago, was a perfect example. Oakland sent Jack Mott, an overpaid infielder in his option year, and Lonnie Frish, an often-injured outfielder, to Philadelphia in exchange for Myong Lee Kwan, a twenty-two-year-old Double A pitching prospect, and Terry, neither of whom would earn more than the major league minimum. Thus, Elston Murdoch's was Oakland's sole remaining big contract. No doubt they'd seek to trade him too, except Cleveland was paying virtually his entire salary.

  Continuing to lay there, Rick knew, despite the negatives, he needed to remain positive. Actually, he didn't have much choice. He had a living to make, expenses to meet. He promised his wife before she died five years ago that he'd make sure their two daughters, both living in the family home in San Diego, and now in grad school, finished their educations.

  It wasn't really his fault he'd never made good money in baseball. As a player, he'd come along too soon, well before salaries had mushroomed any place near where they were today. He was a terrific pitcher, known for his curve ball. Arm problems, however, shortened his career. Since, he'd been able to secure coaching positions, but climbing the minor league ladder had been slow and not especially rewarding.

  At the first sign of daybreak, he got out of bed. The lack of sleep definitely hadn't helped his nerves. He knew he needed to do something today to pass the time. Maybe he'd meet Terry at the airport later on.

  That would still give him most of the afternoon to prepare for tonight's game, his first as a major league manager.

  "I feel honored," Terry said in the crowded baggage area of the Oakland airport, after Rick had approached and shook his hand.

  "Why?" Rick asked.

  "Never had a manager meet my flight. Especially a big league manager."

  "You heard..."

  "On TV at the El Paso airport before I left. Why didn't you tell me on the phone?"

  "Guess it hadn't sunk in."

  Terry observed that Rick's stint in the majors hadn't in any manner altered his appearance—tall and slim, with dark refined Hispanic features. Once they claimed Terry's luggage, Rick drove him a short distance to a pleasant neighborhood with small quaint houses and wide, tree-lined streets. Terry was amazed at how cool the weather was, especially for early afternoon, and the fact he actually had use for a jacket. Rick drove into a parking lot beneath a large apartment complex.

  "Where are we?" Terry asked.

  "San Leandro...suburb of Oakland...not far from the stadium."

  "No, I mean this place."

  "I live here," Rick replied while parking the car. "So do lot of the other guys. They let us rent short term for the season."

  Terry nodded. He and Rick took his luggage to Rick's apartment. Then Rick gave him a full tour of the complex. Lavish landscaping, two swimming pools, Jacuzzis, gymnasium, tennis courts. Model apartments furnished exquisitely, complete with large television, stereo, VCR and housewares. All the amenities one could want.

  "Definitely big league, "Terry remarked as they left the model.

  "Checked this morning," Rick informed him. "Couple one-bedroom vacancies. You could move in now if you like."

  "Seems a little rich...I better look around."

  "Suit yourself. Till you decide, you can bunk with me. I got a pullout couch."

  "I feel honored again," Terry chuckled. "Sleeping with the manager."

  "Not with the manager," Rick quickly corrected. "In the manager's apartment."

  Finally convinced Rick's phone call in the middle of the night wasn't a dream, Terry had permitted himself a brief nap on the plane to Oakland. He took another in Rick's apartment. Later that afternoon, while Rick reviewed some scouting reports and Oakland team statistics, he went out for a walk to familiarize himself with the locale. He'd never been in this area before. In fact, other than a brief stop at the Los Angeles airport, this was his first time in California.

  He quickly noticed the small town atmosphere near Rick's apartment. Quaint library, several homey restaurants, plus numerous little stores and markets. If he settled here, he might avoid buying a car, like in El Paso. That is, if he could get a ride to and from the stadium. While walking, he even checked some bus routes, and found one went right there.

  Heading back to Rick's place, within a block of it, he saw a "for rent" sign in the front yard outside a large house. The sign read "furnished bungalow," with an arrow pointing behind the house, along a narrow driveway. He was amazed that the setup looked almost identical to his place in Texas. And upon closer inspection, so did the bungalow itself—the outside was old and brown. He wondered if the inside was brown too, and the furniture also, to conceal its age.

  He went to the front house. A thin elderly man answered his knock and led him back to the bungalow. And yes, other than having no air conditioning ("Don't need it here," the man explained), the interior was virtually the same. Almost as if, along with himself and his luggage, Terry had flown the bungalow in Texas to Oakland.

  "How much?" he asked the man as they stood inside.

  "Seven hundred a month."

  "I'm a ballplayer. No telling how long I'll be here."

  "Seven hundred a month," the man repeated. "For whatever time you're here."

  Terry thought. How lucky to find this place, on his very first afternoon. But then there was Rick's apartment complex to consider. It certainly would be nice to live there. Regardless of the cost. After all, wasn't he in the big leagues now? And yet, who knew how long he'd remain? The way he'd pitched lately, it might not be more than a week or two. Regardless of his association with Rick.

  "I'll take it," he told the man.

  Terry's feelings of elation certainly didn't subside once he rode to Oakland Stadium with Rick. As they neared the parking lot entrance, he was absolutely thrilled by his first glimpse of the edifice. It looked colossal, bigger than any stadium he'd ever seen. And he loved its outline in green and gold, Oakland team colors.

  Once inside, they walked to the team locker room, where he was further thrilled at the sight of his white uniform shaded in green and gold, with Number 20 and Landers stitched on its jersey back. Twenty minutes later, after donning the uniform, he was again thrilled when he stepped onto the splendidly manicured field for the first time, for pregame drills, and gazed up at the tens of thousands of seats surrounding him. And then meeting with Rick, the catchers and other pitchers as they reviewed scouting reports on that night's opposition batters, from Texas.

  Texas. The mere mention of that name and his euphoric state of mind began to unravel. He started to feel tense, his stomach knotting, at the irony that this was their opponent in his very first game. Even with all the distance he'd traveled this morning from El Paso, he couldn't get away from Texas. He quickly questioned his choice of living quarters. Maybe instead of the bungalow, he should have selected something entirely different, something in no way related to his time in Texas.

  But those were his thoughts before the evening really got bad—before Ronnie Laker, the Oakland starting pitcher, was knocked out of the game in the third inning—before Laker's replacement, Chaz Stewart, got shelled too—before Terry found himself on the mound at the start of the top of the fifth inning.

  The score was already 12-1, Texas of course leading, when Terry fired his first pitch. It was a knuckler so far outside and in the dirt that it bounced past catcher Chris Bailey, all the way to the backstop. Once the umpire tossed him a new ball, Terry turned toward the outfield and took repetitive deep breaths. Considering that the afternoon had been cool, the evening inside the stadium was surprisingly warm, certainly no excuse for the chill he was feeling. Maybe he was simply in a state of shock.

  He fired another knuckler. This one headed straight for the batter, in the right-hand box. Fortunately, the pitch was so slow that he could easily duck out of the way, wh
ich didn't keep him from glaring out at Terry.

  "Better throw a strike," he muttered to himself after more repetitive deep breaths. He did. Another knuckler. Over the middle of the plate. The batter swung and connected. Terry didn't need to turn around and look, the sound of the bat told him where the ball was headed. He finally did look, and saw that left fielder Elston Murdoch hadn't even moved. A spectator at the very top of the left field pavilion caught himself a souvenir.

  "Great," Terry mumbled. "First batter in the bigs. A tape measure job."

  Things didn't get much better. The next batter singled to center. Followed by a ground-rule double that bounced over the right center field wall. Runners at second and third, with no outs.

  At least Terry was feeling warmer. He glanced at Rick in the dugout. Rick's expression showed no emotion at all, however. Almost as if he too was in a state of shock.

  Terry pounded his fist into his glove with determination. The next hitter was a left hander. No sense considering intentionally walking him to load the bases and set up a possible double play, though. Not with no outs and the score already 13-1.

  Terry threw a fastball. He got the grounder he might have been looking for were the bases loaded. Except the ball scooted past diving second baseman Collie Quinn. Both runners scored and the batter went to second on a play at the plate which wasn't even close.

  Terry turned toward the outfield again and saw there was action in the Oakland bullpen. So far, he definitely hadn't been any better in the majors than he'd been lately in El Paso. Again, he glanced at Rick—still expressionless. Terry briefly scanned the grandstand and observed that many people seemed to be leaving. Who could blame them, with the score now 15-1?

  He sized up the next Texas hitter, a tall skinny right hander who wore his batting helmet to one side. Terry decided to try a curve, a pitch he used infrequently. With an open base at first, he didn't intend to throw it for a strike. But it broke nicely, right across the plate. The batter swung and lofted a long fly down the left field line. The ball kissed the foul pole for another home run.

  Rick didn't even bother to come to the mound himself to remove Terry from the game. Instead he sent one of his coaches. While trudging to the dugout, Terry could only shake his head. What a debut in "the show." He'd given up five runs without retiring even a single batter. Earned run average of infinity. And likely a one-way ticket back to Triple A, or worse. Or, more likely, an outright release.

  For the rest of the game and the remainder of the evening, Terry did manage to avoid Rick, so at least he didn't have to right away face the man who'd brought him to the majors. The man who'd done so much for him and his career.

  After the game, he got a ride back to his bungalow with Collie Quinn, who lived in Rick's complex, a block away. And he was certainly relieved that, rather than having to spend the night at Rick's, he'd decided to rent the new place. Regardless of the fact that he associated it with Texas.

  Very late that night, though, lying in bed at the bungalow, he couldn't help thinking about Rick. About how he had just endured an embarrassing 19-2 loss in his own debut, as a major league manager.

  "Two things wrong with your knuckler," Rick told Terry. "One is, you've got to come more over the top. Your release point is too much from the side."

  Terry nodded. Both wearing Oakland practice gear, they stood together in the right field bullpen at the majestic new ball park in downtown Seattle. Of course Terry had never been here, and he found his initial contact with the stadium breathtaking.

  "And two," Rick continued, "you’ve got to keep your wrist stiff. I noticed you were bending it before you released the ball. That's fine for your fastball, not for your knuckler."

  "I understand." Terry replied.

  "The movement on your ball is too flat. We want more downward trajectory. Otherwise it's not a ‘diver’. Didn't Collum point that out?"

  "Collum hardly pointed anything out. We hardly spoke."

  "Let me guess," Rick said. "Didn't like the knuckler."

  Terry nodded again.

  "Whole organization's pretty conservative," Rick commented. "One reason I didn't mind leaving."

  Terry nodded once more. Their dialogue had been punctuated by sounds from a nearby batting cage, as Oakland players took turns hitting automated pitches. There was no game today and Rick had scheduled a voluntary practice. Tomorrow night's game would be the opener of a brief road stretch. Two days had passed since Terry's and Rick's ignominious debuts. They had lost again to Texas yesterday, but much more respectably, 5-2.

  As he'd spoken, Rick demonstrated proper arm angle plus a stiff wrist, and, while holding a ball, showed Terry how it should move. This wasn't the first time Rick had presented these concepts to him and it wasn't difficult for Terry to understand.

  During past sessions they'd had last year and the year before, Rick had offered other theories on the knuckleball, some of which were more difficult to understand. Things like digging fingernails into the ball at specific places, establishing a complete lack of spin or rotation on the ball, the role of a baseball's stitches in creating turbulence in the airflow, and even a brief lesson in aerodynamics.

  "Normally, I take pitchers out of games myself," Rick said in an apologetic tone. "But I felt guilty the other night about you."

  Terry looked at him questioningly.

  "Throwing you to the wolves like that," Rick continued. "Right off the plane, before we had a chance to go over your delivery. But, I had a good reason."

  Terry maintained his questioning gaze.

  "I wanted to get a firsthand look myself," Rick explained, "at exactly what your problems were."

  A slight smile crossed Terry's face. Here he was, in the big leagues. But more importantly, he was back with Rick.

  Chapter Six

  Terry sat by himself on the bench in the right field bullpen. The same area of Seattle Stadium where yesterday Rick had given him instruction. He wasn't alone by choice. No, every other relief pitcher, plus one starter, had warmed up and entered the game already. And he'd become aware that the two catchers assigned to the bullpen, sitting in folding chairs almost 100 feet from him, preferred only each other's company.

  It was the bottom of the sixteenth inning of what had been a very tense game. Oakland had gone ahead of Seattle 7-6 in the top of the sixteenth on a home run by Elston Murdoch, now almost fully recovered from his ankle injury. Carlton Denny, the Oakland closer, had just entered the game. Three more outs, Terry thought, and Rick would have his initial managerial victory.

  Denny, a big right hander, fired his first pitch. The Seattle batter lifted a long fly to right, into the cold late-night air. Todd Slater, the right fielder, ran back to the wall. He leaped, but the ball hit the wall just above him, then caromed off his glove and rolled toward the foul line. By the time he retrieved it and threw it into the infield, the batter stood on third.

  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.