by Alan Mindell
The CLOSER
A Baseball Love Story
ALAN MINDELL
The CLOSER
Copyright © 2013 by Alan Mindell
Cover Copyright © 2013 by Sunbury Press, Inc. Cover art by Lawrence von Knorr.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION
Printed in the United States of America
June 2013
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-240-1
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-241-8
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-242-5
Published by:
Sunbury Press
Mechanicsburg, PA
www.sunburypress.com
Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank the following for their wonderful help and support:
Bobbi Lona, Jerry Mindell, Paula Mindell, Devra Mindell, Jobi Mindell, Joe Mindell, Kea Warner and her San Diego area writers` workshop, Bonnie Owen, Nick Nichols, Linda Luke, Leslie Moffet, Judy Brown, Daisy Ramstetter, Heather Fritz, Daniel Levy, Ed Alston, Debbie Hecht, Judy Bishop, Lisa Wolff, Lief Hendrickson, Bill Gifford, Jon Udell, Gary Dolgin, Leslie Perlis, Hope Weissman, Debbie Klein, Therese Tanalski, Ginny Burt, Michele Vinz, Marvin Zuckerman, Fred Close, Eva Close, Christine Candland, Barry Withers, Jan Maxted, Lawrence Knorr, Janice Rhayem, William Gohlke, Debbie Gohlke, and the San Diego Swingcats.
Chapter One
It was the fifth inning and Terry Landers sat on the left field bullpen bench. To his right, fellow relief pitcher Clyde Alberts was fanning himself with his glove. Terry had never recalled weather this warm on opening day. But then this was Texas.
Earlier in the game, he had glanced into the packed grandstand and observed quite a few spectators wearing fine clothing, despite the heat. Of course he knew their attire had nothing to do with the beginning of baseball season. No, today was Easter Sunday and undoubtedly many people had come directly to the stadium from church, without going home to change clothes.
Terry certainly didn't feel like celebrating the holiday. It was 1999, the year he would make the jump from Triple A to the big leagues—the year he would spend opening day in Philadelphia. At least that had been his plan. The fact he was still in the minors—where he'd been fifteen years now—facing another hot Texas summer, left him less than festive.
"Mister...will you sign my scorecard?"
Terry looked over his left shoulder and saw a girl standing on the other side of the short green wire fence separating spectators from players. She had light-colored hair, blue eyes, and wore a blue dress. Perhaps she was eight or nine. Over the years, literally thousands of children had asked for his autograph. But there was something about her that made her stand out.
"You sure you want my signature?" he replied dryly.
"It's not for me," she answered curtly. "It's for my brother."
She pointed toward a boy who looked bigger and older than she, seated in the grandstand nearby, with a woman and a very young girl. She handed him a team program and pen. Ordinarily, he didn't sign autographs during a game, a violation of team policy. But the game was now between innings, and in his current state of mind, rules seemed almost incidental.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Karen...Karen Riley."
"And your brother?"
"Billy."
"That your little sister there?"
"Tammy," she replied, nodding.
He addressed the autograph to all three children and handed her back the program and pen. She thanked him before leaving. He took a quick peek into the grandstand and watched her give the program to her brother, who smiled.
Terry Landers stepped off the mound, toward second base, and removed his cap. Using the wrist of his pitching arm, the right one, he wiped perspiration from his forehead. Despite the passage of several more innings and the afternoon now growing late, the temperature hadn't diminished.
Terry returned to the pitching surface. It was the top of the ninth and he had entered the game two batters ago, at the start of the inning. His team, El Paso, Philadelphia's top minor league affiliate, led Wichita 7-4—what should have been an easy "save" opportunity.
Except the first Wichita batter had lined Terry's initial pitch into center field for a single. And the next batter had walked on a close 3-2 pitch— much too close to take. Most minor league umpires would have given Terry the call, if only to speed up the game and get them all out of the heat sooner. This umpire evidently wanted to impress his supervisors though, regardless of any discomfort he caused.
With runners now at first and second, nobody out, Terry's first pitch to the next hitter, a knuckleball, was directly over the right hand batters' box, sending the hitter sprawling to the ground. Ball one. After getting the sign for his next pitch from the catcher, Bottoms, Terry wheeled off the pitching rubber and bluffed the second base runner back to the bag. The following pitch, another knuckler, drifted far outside. Ball two.
Collum, the squat sixtyish pitching coach, emerged from the El Paso dugout and walked slowly toward the mound, his expression grim, as if he didn't believe in Terry. More likely, he didn't believe in the knuckleball, Terry's main pitch. Not like Rick Gonzalez, the previous pitching coach, who had taught it to Terry, replacing a declining fastball with a pitch that sunk, danced and darted. But Rick was gone—to the big leagues with another organization, Oakland—leaving Terry behind.
"Get that thing over," Collum declared disdainfully after joining Terry and catcher Bottoms at the mound.
"Had the last guy struck out," Terry countered.
"And you're 2 and 0 on this guy. Throw strikes. Even if you got to go with your fastball."
Terry shrugged as Collum returned to the dugout. Wasn't it obvious how his pitching coach felt? He hated the knuckleball—which made no sense to Terry. Not in the current era of baseball, with its notorious lack of good pitching. At the very least, because the knuckleball didn't put as much strain on the arm as, say, the slider or split finger, a knuckleballer could give his team "innings" by pitching farther into a game and more frequently than other members of the pitching staff. Longevity was another benefit. Hoyt Wilhelm, relying almost exclusively on a knuckler, was an effective closer into his late forties. And the Niekro brothers—didn't one of them win 300 games, pitch into his fifties and make the Hall of Fame?
Maybe Collum's negativity was over Terry becoming pretty much a one-pitch pitcher. Since his fastball had lost its zip, batters could look for his off-speed deliveries, rendering his curve and change up almost useless, leaving the knuckleball his only viable option.
Rick had taught Terry a certain type of knuckler, one they called "the diver" because it suddenly dove toward the ground. At its best, it would sink from above the strike zone to a spot below the knees. When batters did make contact, the standard result was a weak grounder. Unfortunately, during spring training in Florida the last few weeks, Terry hadn't been able to get the
usual dip on the ball, no doubt accounting for the hitters' success against him and his not making the leap to the majors.
Before seeking the catcher's sign for his next pitch, Terry again stepped off the mound, this time toward third base. As he once more wiped his forehead, he couldn't help noticing several people in the grandstand fanning themselves, either with cap, scorecard or newspaper. He should have become accustomed to the Texas heat by now, having played here the last two seasons, but his tolerance had actually declined.
He moved back to the pitching rubber. Bottoms flashed the fastball sign, no doubt influenced by Collum's admonition. Terry rubbed his jersey with his glove, shaking him off. Bottoms flashed the same sign again and Terry rejected it, realizing he was also rejecting Collum. Finally, Bottoms relented, flashing the signal for knuckleball.
After checking the runners, Terry fired "the diver"—a perfect one, sinking to the batter's knees, over the outside corner. The batter swung, making contact. The result was ideal for Terry, a two hopper to the shortstop, Clauson, a perfect double play ball, except Clauson bobbled it and it rolled behind him. The bases were now loaded.
Terry glanced at Collum in the dugout. No reaction, not even a little perfunctory encouragement. Terry considered backing off the mound again, but didn't. Why prolong this agony?
The next batter, a lefty, came to the plate and Terry peered in for Bottoms's sign. Knuckleball. Terry fired "the diver" and the batter fouled it off. Terry wasted no time before his next delivery, another knuckler. Another foul. Two strikes and no balls. He purposely threw a pitch into the dirt, hoping the hitter would chase. He didn't.
Bottoms flashed the knuckleball sign again and Terry fired. A perfect darting "diver" catching the inside corner at the knees. The umpire lurched, as if about to thrust his right arm into the air, signaling strike three. But he apparently changed his mind. Ball two. Once more Terry glanced toward Collum. This time the pitching coach did react—he motioned a pitcher in the bullpen to warm up.
Bottoms signaled fastball. Terry shook him off. Bottoms repeated the sign. This time it was Terry who relented. Maybe Bottoms was right to try the fastball. Especially if this umpire refused to give them a break on the knuckler.
Terry fired the fastball. Inside, off the plate. But not far enough inside. The batter swung and connected, hitting a towering fly to right field. The ball always carried well on hot days. This one carried over the right field fence. Grand slam home run, El Paso now trailed 8-7.
Collum came out of the dugout again. He motioned for the pitcher in the bullpen to replace Terry. Head bowed, Terry trudged off the mound.
"Cupid's here," a voice greeted Terry Landers following a knock at his bungalow door.
"Come in."
Rich Harkey did. He was the El Paso first baseman. At 6 feet 7 inches, 240 pounds, he barely fit through the door.
"Me and Bottoms got three girls over my place," he said. "One for me, one for Bottoms, one for you."
"Triple date," Terry commented blandly.
"Yeah. Something like that. 'Cept I don't think they want to go out."
Terry thought. After his performance earlier, he could certainly use some company this evening. And Harkey's track record was pretty good. He'd arranged things many times before, normally during road trips, and they usually worked out.
"Yours is a little older," Harkey noted.
That's all Terry needed to hear. So, at age thirty-three, he was about to be regarded as the old man on the team again. In fact last season, other players—teammates and opponents alike—had started calling him "Gramps."
"I'd better pass," he said.
Harkey presented only brief resistance. Terry watched his hulking frame disappear into the darkness. What a striking contrast to his own build. Harkey stood out any time he entered a room. While he, Terry—at five-eleven, 170 pounds, with plain brown hair and eyes—hardly made an impression.
Harkey, at age twenty-one, was considered a "can't miss" prospect, unlike Terry, who evidently had no future.
*****
About twenty minutes later, because his bungalow was still very warm from the hot weather, Terry opted for a walk. His regular path took him right by Harkey's place. He decided to stop in front so he could possibly get a glimpse of "the older woman." But when he recognized shortstop Clausen's raucous laugh, he headed back home. Obviously, he'd been replaced in Harkey's lineup for the night.
The faint sight of his bungalow in the dark brought a smile to his face. He'd had it for two years, minus the seven weeks of Florida spring training during which he had given it up. Fortunately, a few days ago he'd been able to get it back, which was about the only good thing that had happened lately.
Certainly he'd done well enough last year to warrant surrendering the bungalow for a place in Philadelphia when he made his planned leap to the big leagues for this season. A 5-4 record, with twenty-five saves. Earned run average under 3.00. Of course that was with Rick Gonzalez as his pitching coach, not Collum.
As he neared the door to the bungalow, his smile turned to a frown. What else did he have besides this place and the clothes on his back to show for fifteen years in professional baseball? Not much. Wasn't it time to face facts? His baseball career had been a failure and he was wasting his time staying with it any longer.
Fifteen years. How many tens of thousands of wind sprints had he run? Or times had he simulated covering first base on grounders hit to the right side of the infield? How many hundreds of second-rate hotels had he stayed in during road trips? Or bus miles had he racked up?
Fifteen years with the same organization, Philadelphia. His resume read like a Greyhound bus schedule—stints at Rapid City, Keokuk, Bend, Walla Walla, Natchez, Savannah, Boise and now El Paso. Shouldn't loyalty and persistence count for something? Unfortunately, he knew the answer.
Maybe he should feel some gratitude. At least he had a job. Thirty-three year old career minor leaguers weren't exactly hot commodities. If he weren't a pitcher, even a knuckleballer, no question he'd be forced to try and find some other line of work.
And what were his prospects outside, in the "real world?" Two years of community college didn't exactly qualify him for a career in medicine, law or rocket science. Over the years, feeling bad about not getting a four year college degree, he had read a lot—psychology, history, different cultures. But reading didn't mean much on the job market. Nor did his non-baseball experience—brief stints as a shoe salesman, delivery truck driver, retail clerk, and delinquent-account collector.
He opened the door and went inside the bungalow, which sat behind the owner's house and was bordered on one side by a long narrow driveway. Like the outside, the interior was brown. Even the sparse furniture in the four small rooms was mainly brown, perhaps to conceal age.
He walked over to the television in the living room. On top of it was a picture of his father, who had died a couple of years ago at the family home in rural Indiana, soon after the death of his, Terry's, mother. His father had always encouraged his baseball, making it clear he wanted his only child to be a major leaguer. Not a very original sentiment, but without question it was partly responsible for Terry staying around the game this long.
His father had always emphasized working hard, sticking to the task, never giving up. Yet good things never seemed to happen to him, Terry, like they did to others. For example, Rick Gonzalez, now a big league pitching coach in Oakland, leaving him here in El Paso to deal with someone like Collum.
He flipped on the television. A big league game came on. He quickly turned it off.
He'd had enough baseball for one day.
Chapter Two
Tonight's disguise wasn't among Elston Murdoch's favorites. Driving his rental car through deteriorated Chicago neighborhoods, he wore shades, a wide-brimmed hat and frayed clothing. Fairly standard stuff, certainly fitting the area, but if someone looked close, his outfit might not conceal his identity. On these streets, though, someone wasn't likely to look close.
Murdoch preferred last night's disguise. Full beard, orange hairpiece, checkered vest. His Dennis Rodman look, he had chuckled to himself. Not that it had brought him luck, however.
Tonight he recognized many leftovers from last night's cast. Drug dealers, women in tight skirts, wandering alcoholics. Despite being big, strong and, like the majority around here, black, he still felt a little apprehensive. The fact he'd injured an ankle earlier that evening, trying to make a shoestring catch in left field, no doubt influenced his mood, which wasn't helped by the fact that his team, Oakland, had now lost nine of ten games to begin the season.
Two or three times during his drive, he considered returning to the hotel to ice his ankle. Especially since he hadn't stayed at the stadium after the game to get treatment. But until he'd covered enough territory, he knew he'd keep driving. There was plenty of time for his ankle tomorrow, before the game.
Eventually, a drizzle began. Then it rained harder. Other than an occasional homeless sprawled in a doorway or under an awning, the area emptied quickly. As the rain persisted, Murdoch realized his task was futile.
He made a U-turn and headed back to the hotel.
When certain specific criteria are met, a "save" is credited to a relief pitcher who protects his team's late inning lead. A "blown save" is charged to a relief pitcher who could have had a save, but relinquishes his team's late inning lead. "The closer" is the relief pitcher regularly assigned "save" opportunities.
Terry began the season as the El Paso closer. By the end of the second week, though, his blown saves exceeded his saves by three. Unless he soon reversed the trend, he knew he'd lose his job. So, when Collum brought him into a game in Albuquerque with a 10-7 lead at the beginning of the bottom of the ninth, he welcomed the chance.
The first batter dispelled any notion that this would be an easy save. He hit a high fly that, in the late-night light Albuquerque air, cleared the left field wall. The second batter followed suit with a ringing triple that one-hopped the right center field wall. Runner on third, no outs, tying run coming to the plate.