The Closer Page 9

  But the man’s appraisal was far too simple. From Rick’s perspective, it ignored a key ingredient. Possibility. Games were ultimately won or lost on the field. As long as that was true, nothing was predetermined. Possibility still existed.

  Hadn’t baseball always been a game of dreams? So much a part of the American psyche. Intertwined with the original American dream—with hard work, anything was possible. If possibility were removed, didn’t the game lose much of its meaning?

  “You’ve had a nice run,” the man said, “for as long as it lasts.”

  At least Rick could agree on the first part of his statement—they had had a nice run. Murdoch’s game-winning single yesterday lifted them to within two games of Texas in the division race, and one and a half of New York for the wild card. The good pitching had continued, while Murdoch’s hot bat sparked the offense.

  “How long you followed baseball?” Rick asked, deliberately edging the conversation into slightly different terrain.

  “All my life. Long before they ever dreamed bringing the big leagues out West.”

  “Guess you remember the old Coast League?”

  “Sure…like it was yesterday,” the man responded enthusiastically. “Those days, the game had heart and soul. Purity…magic…players played for love, not big money. And owners didn’t rip off fans and cities.”

  “What about my team?” Rick asked, trying to establish something positive. “We’ve got heart and soul.”

  “Yeah,” the man retorted, “but other than Murdoch, you got very little talent.”

  Rick didn’t reply.

  “Used to go to those Coast League games all the time,” the man volunteered in a softer tone, perhaps aware of being a little harsh.

  “Where?”

  “Right here in San Diego,” he answered, pointing toward the city, now in view from the airplane window.

  “You don’t recall the old ball park downtown? Near the bay?”

  “Sure,” the man said. “Went there all the time. You must’ve been a kid back then.”

  Indeed he was. Along with their nightly game of catch, Rick’s father introduced him to professional baseball at the old ball park. In fact they attended doubleheaders there almost every Sunday the San Diego team was in town. And, like the man just did, his father often used words like “purity” and “magic” to describe the game.

  “I’ll be watching to see how you guys do,” the man said as the plane was about to land.

  “So we shouldn’t just cancel the rest of our season?” Rick answered, managing a little chuckle.

  “I think you got too much respect for the game to do that,” the man stated.

  Rick nodded. Finally, something on which they completely agreed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Did you go to school in Texas?” Terry asked Lauren, both of them sitting on her living room couch.

  “College,” she answered. “I went to the university. In Austin.”

  “I was wondering…why no accent?”

  “You mean a gooood ole Ta-ax-is drawl,” she mimicked, laughing, providing her own stellar rendition. “My family moved around a lot when I was young. Never long in one place.”

  “Are you close to your family?”

  “Only to my brother. He lives here in San Francisco.”

  “Where does El Paso fit in?”

  “I got my first job there. Right after college.”

  “In social work?”

  She nodded.

  “That where you met your husband?” he asked.

  “Yes…”

  But her voice tailed off. As if she didn’t welcome this specific topic. He should have known. Especially recalling the sadness it caused her the last time, on Billy’s birthday.

  The situation now was pretty much the same as then. It was late evening and the children were in their rooms, although this time Lauren hadn’t stipulated that they get ready for bed. All three were listening to radios—the girls to music and Billy to baseball, the All Star Classic. Terry had listened with him earlier, but with none of his teammates playing, his interest waned and he accepted Lauren’s eventual invitation for coffee in the living room.

  “Billy’s talking to me more,” he said, purposely changing the subject. “He actually spoke five or six sentences while we listened to the game.”

  “He’s trusting you more,” she answered.

  “Trusting me?”

  “That you’re not going to suddenly disappear.”

  “But I haven’t even seen him lately. Not since our last homestand.”

  “He sees you almost daily.”

  Terry, puzzled, didn’t reply.

  “On television…your games,” she clarified. “If you’re not playing, he even looks for you on the sideline.”

  He could only nod, not realizing he’d made such an impact on the boy.

  “You’re to be congratulated,” she said after a brief pause.

  “For what?” he asked, though certain she was about to compliment him on his ongoing pitching success. Or, the team's success.

  “For taking us to do something not involving baseball. That helps him too. Helps him see there’s more to you than just baseball. More to life.”

  He didn’t reply. But, actually felt better than if she had complimented his pitching or the team. That afternoon, for the first time during any of his occasions with Lauren or the children, baseball hadn't been the central activity. In fact, in another first according to Lauren, Billy hadn’t even worn his new Oakland baseball cap.

  On the way home from his very first visit, Terry had noticed a small puppet theater near the subway station close to the Rileys. When he later called the theater, he was told matinees were offered every Tuesday during the summer. Today’s performance had featured takeoffs on several current music stars, which of course appealed especially to Karen and Tammy.

  “Let’s check in on the kids,” Lauren suggested, finishing her coffee. “I’ll go see the girls…you, Billy.”

  “Sure.”

  When Terry entered Billy’s room after knocking, the boy, now wearing his Oakland cap, was still listening to the game. He quickly smiled. But, Terry observed, not so shyly as in the past.

  “Game almost over?” Terry asked.

  Billy nodded.

  “How we doing?”

  “Losing,” Billy answered, using careful pronunciation. “No Murdoch.”

  Terry grinned at Billy’s explanation, and then went back to the living room couch. When Lauren returned, he noticed she looked tired. No doubt because they’d had a busy day—besides the puppet show, dinner at a nearby restaurant and a drive through some San Francisco hills offering scenic views of the city.

  “Girls okay?” he inquired.

  “Fine…Billy?”

  “Good…except we’re losing.”

  She smiled. Then she cocked her head and frowned. He could tell she was listening to something. Something from one of the kids’ rooms, he assumed.

  “That song,” she said. “I used to sing it all the time.”

  They listened briefly. The music was obviously coming from Karen’s and Tammy’s room. He recognized the song as an old standard, “Fever.”

  “I used to sing it with a band,” she explained.

  “When?” he asked, a little surprised and confused. “I mean…when you weren’t counseling?”

  “Oh, no. Years ago. Back in college.”

  “Professionally?”

  “I guess you could say that. But I wasn’t good enough. I was a much better dancer.”

  “You danced professionally too?” he still sounded a little confused.

  “No, no. Just for fun. We won a few contests…before Billy was born.”

  “What kind of dancing?”

  “Oh…mostly swing.”

  “I’m impressed,” he said, smiling.

  “Thanks. But that was a long time ago.”

  She sighed. He could feel her sadness. Then, as if to erase the memory, she s
miled. Wasn’t this his chance to make another gesture toward intimacy? Maybe, like last time, put an arm around her and pull her close. Then see what happened…

  “There are some more things you don’t know.”

  Her words from their prior encounter came back to him. Clearly, she had something important to reveal. And yet, she’d introduced nothing he could point to, unless it was Billy’s trusting him more or her talent as a singer and dancer. Which he seriously doubted. He sensed that if he made another attempt at intimacy right now, she’d simply rebuff him again, like last time.

  Minutes later, at the door, after he’d said good bye to the children, she seemed disappointed he was leaving.

  There were two outs and runners on first and second in the bottom of the eighth when Murdoch stepped into the batters’ box. Oakland trailed Anaheim 4-3. Murdoch had gone hitless in three trips. With this plate appearance likely his last of the afternoon, the hitting streak, now at fifty-three, was in definite jeopardy.

  Gazing out at Garth Williams, Anaheim’s right handed set-up man, Murdoch was concerned. Not so much about the game. Or the streak. No, the homestand would end today, the team leaving for New York tomorrow, and it would be the first occasion since Carly reentered his life about two weeks ago that he’d be away from her for any length of time.

  He’d actually considered not going to New York. Maybe request a few days personal leave from the team. Even retirement had entered his mind. But he knew by not going he’d only be attracting the media, who’d simply delve into every aspect of his life all over again—no doubt finding out about Carly and making her miserable too.

  Besides, wasn’t it time to let go a little? He couldn’t always be so available to her. “Right down the hall,” as he’d been lately. It just wasn’t healthy for either of them not to have something of a life of their own.

  Their two weeks together had been good, though. He had eaten with her at least once a day, either in his place or hers. Because neither of them welcomed being out in public any more than they had to, they avoided movies or concerts. Instead, Murdoch arranged for the delivery of film and music videos, through a distributor he knew. Also, there was always television and the new sound system in Carly’s apartment, provided by management of the complex.

  Murdoch, without question, had been concerned about her “little problem.” About exactly what to do. Simply feeding her habit by procuring her “supply,” as he’d promised, certainly wasn’t his choice. But he sensed that, no matter how good their relationship, if he pressured her to stop or enter detox, she would merely rebel. Run away again, as she’d confirmed she’d do during their serious conversation about two weeks ago in her apartment. He therefore concluded that his best strategy was to go along with her for now, fulfill his promise, and see what happened.

  Williams’s first pitch was a slider, low and outside. Ball one. Murdoch knew he’d get nothing good to hit. Less because of the streak than the game being on the line. Why pitch to him in this spot—with an open base, trying to protect a one run lead?

  Williams threw another slider, in precisely the same place, low and outside. Ball two. Murdoch couldn’t help thinking this might be the best time for the streak to end. If he did manage to extend it, games fifty-five, fifty-six and fifty-seven would be in New York.

  How ironic—a scenario of tying or breaking the record there, in DiMaggio’s own home stadium. In front of tens of thousands of hostile New York fans. That part certainly appealed to him. But then there’d be the media. In the media capital of the world. They’d be swarming all over the place like flies. Making things unbearable for him, and for everyone else in Oakland uniform.

  Williams fired another slider in exactly the same spot. Ball three. Evidently, the streak would end with a walk. Glaring at the big right hander, Murdoch wondered whether DiMaggio’s last at bat in game fifty-seven had been a walk. Whether DiMaggio had gotten so much as a single good pitch to hit the entire day the great streak finally ended.

  Many of the spectators began booing Williams. When he ambled behind the mound briefly, the noise level grew. Murdoch couldn’t avoid smiling to himself. For one of the few times in his career, fans weren’t booing him, but the opposition, on his behalf.

  Williams didn’t alter his tactics. One more slider, low and outside. Except this time Murdoch was ready. Stepping toward right field with his lead foot, the left, and reaching beyond home plate, he swung hard. Though the pitch was even farther outside and lower than the three previous, he did manage to make contact. But just barely. A weak fly, along the right field line. All the fielders, as usual, were swung around toward left, however, playing him to pull. The ball dropped fair by five feet. Both runners scored as Murdoch trotted into second with a double.

  Once Terry retired the three Anaheim batters consecutively in the top of the ninth, Oakland had a 5-4 victory. And Murdoch’s streak, now fifty-four, was still very much alive.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Even with all his years in baseball, Terry had never been to historic New York Stadium. Actually, he'd never been to New York. When he boarded the team bus for the stadium late in the afternoon, his teammates must have viewed him less as a ballplayer than an awestruck tourist. Neither the height of the buildings near their hotel nor the incredible noise volume of the city seemed possible.

  Nor could he believe the stadium itself, once the bus arrived there. He found the outside magnificent, with its circular bluish-gray facade. However, the inside was even more remarkable. Like he had just discovered a wonderful oasis in the very heart of this gigantic metropolis. Walking across the field the first time, during pregame practice, he felt a delightful spring in his stride, as though the splendid green turf were really some form of rubber.

  The game itself developed into a tight pitching duel, Terry watching from the bullpen beyond the left field wall. He became particularly focused whenever Murdoch came to bat, experiencing tension each time, as if he himself were hitting. Of course the capacity crowd strenuously booed each plate appearance, sounds Terry was certain carried for miles in the warm night air. But the boos quickly turned to cheers after Murdoch struck out, popped up and grounded out weakly in his first three tries.

  New York led 3-2 when Murdoch came up in the top of the ninth. Once again, unless extra innings generated more plate appearances for him, his streak was on the line. Collie Quinn, the tying run, was at first with two outs. Terry expected New York to walk Murdoch. Or at the very least give him nothing good to hit. When Alfonso Carrasco, the right handed New York closer, poured the first pitch right down the middle, he was therefore surprised. Evidently, so was Murdoch, because he took it for a called strike.

  The bullpen phone rang. It was Rick, instructing one of the bullpen catchers to tell him, Terry, to warm up, in case Oakland tied the game or went ahead, forcing a bottom of the ninth. Starting to throw, he didn't see the next pitch to Murdoch. He did hear the loud crack of the bat, though. And turned to see the New York left fielder heading his way, toward the wall. Then he heard another loud crack nearby, of the ball slamming against concrete.

  The left fielder caught the carom after one brisk hop and hastily fired the ball to the shortstop, who quickly relayed it to the catcher. Quinn, dashing around the bases, attempting to tie the game on Murdoch's long hit, reached home plate simultaneously with the ball. A dusty cloud occurred, from Collie diving for the plate and the New York catcher diving for Quinn.

  The umpire's right arm ascended. Quinn was out. The game was over and Oakland had lost. But Murdoch's streak was now fifty-five.

  Just one more hit tomorrow and he'd equal the great DiMaggio.

  Murdoch was awakened by a loud knock at his hotel room door. Without turning on a light, he glanced at the clock near the bed. It was almost 2:00 a.m. Who could be knocking now? He'd left his usual instructions with the hotel desk—no phone calls (except from Carly), no visitors.

  There was another loud knock. And shuffling of feet from the corridor outside hi
s door. Then a voice.

  "Murdoch. I'm sorry. You there?"

  "Who is it?" Murdoch asked angrily.

  "Rick...Rick Gonzalez. We got a problem."

  Murdoch turned the night table lamp on, got out of bed, located a bathrobe and put it on over his naked body. As he made his way to the door, there was another knock.

  "Yeah...what's the problem?" he uttered.

  "Police captain's with me," Rick answered. "Can we come in?"

  Murdoch opened the door only as far as allowed by the chain lock he had attached earlier. After confirming it was Rick, he unhooked the chain, opened the door wider and stepped aside. Rick entered the room along with another man—early fifties, heavy, wearing sports coat and tie, flashing a police badge. Murdoch nodded toward two chairs in a corner of the room and the two men sat down while he remained standing near the door.

  "Strader...New York Police Department," the man said, New York accent evident. "Can I get right to the point?"

  "Yeah," Murdoch responded. "Wish you would."

  "Since you got here, we received six death threats."

  "On me?" Murdoch asked.

  "On you."

  Murdoch didn't reply.

  "Some of them are obvious hoaxes," the police captain continued. "But we're taking two very serious."

  Again Murdoch didn't reply.

  "One of them mentioned your daughter."

  "My daughter!" Murdoch exclaimed. "How they know about my daughter?"

  "Sometimes some of them know a lot. Those are the ones we take serious."

  Once more Murdoch didn't answer.

  "I'll get to the point again..." Strader said. "We don't think you should play tomorrow or the next day."

  "Don't play..." Murdoch said, practically under his breath.

  "Right. You make an easy target out there in left field."

  "You think someone's gonna shoot me..."

  "There'll be fifty thousand people, and you know New York. Some of them'll be crazies."