The Closer

by Alan Mindell

"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."

  "Any suggestions where to go?" Terry asked Lauren, now at the door.

  "There's a little park in the next block. Billy and Karen know the way."

  "Mommy, I want to go too," Tammy squealed.

  "No, honey. Maybe we'll walk over in a while."

  Lauren was right about the park being close. Their only problem locating it was caused by the fog, now extending clear to the ground, which, together with the cold, no doubt accounted for Terry's inability to consistently catch Billy's pitches. Plus the fact that his left handed deliveries had so much movement, even more than Terry remembered from their previous workout, weeks ago in Texas. Fortunately, Karen was there to help him retrieve.

  "Your brother has a terrific arm,” Terry told her at one point, after she'd picked up the ball and handed it to him. "I guess he practices with your father."

  "He used to," she answered. "Before my father died."

  Terry felt bad. Not that this information should have been totally unexpected, since none of his previous encounters with the Rileys involved a paternal figure. What did surprise him, however, was her candor in presenting the news. Of course he hadn't had time to get a clear reading on her. All he knew for sure was that her assertiveness seemed to counteract her brother's shyness.

  After Billy had pitched nearly half an hour, Terry called him over. He clarified the strike zone and offered some pitching strategy. Then he explained how to do wind sprints. After the youngster had done several—repetitions of running full speed fifty yards and walking back to the starting point—their workout was over.

  "One thing, Billy," Terry said as he, the boy and Karen left the park. "No curve balls."

  Billy, t
hough definitely listening, didn't reply.

  "I threw too many when I was a kid," Terry continued. "Hurt my arm. Now I've got nothing left on my fastball."

  The boy kept listening.

  "No curves," Terry reemphasized. "But next time I'll teach you a change up."

  While heading back to the house, they almost, quite literally, ran into Lauren and Tammy. The truth was, had their paths not converged, they might not have spotted them in the fog. Tammy wore a tiny green baseball cap, while her mother had on the same green coat she'd worn at the game.

  "I think Billy's got a future in baseball," Terry told Lauren as all of them walked together.

  "You can say that when he's only ten."

  "I can say that because he's only ten. I wish I had his arm. Plus he's left handed."

  Terry then presented the common baseball adage that left handers, especially pitchers, were at a premium. The demand for good ones far exceeded the supply. If Billy developed like Terry anticipated, many more doors would open to him than to right handers.

  "Ever consider Little League?" he asked the boy.

  "See. I told you," Karen chimed in.

  "I could check with some of the guys," Terry said. "See who knows a good league."

  The boy smiled.

  While they continued walking, Terry considered asking about why Billy never spoke, at least in his, Terry's, presence. He also considered asking about the children's father. But then this might not be the time nor place, so he didn't. Instead, he noticed the little white house as they neared it, and observed that it seemed to glow in the fog.

  "Do you own?" he asked Lauren at the front door.

  "No," she answered promptly. "Come in and I'll make us all a warm drink."

  "Afraid I can't. We leave on a road trip tonight and I still haven't packed."

  Did she look disappointed? He couldn't tell. After unlocking the door, she thanked him for coming, extending her hand. When he took it, he noticed how small it seemed inside his. Heading off, he waved good bye to the children, who returned the gesture.

  During his long walk back to the subway station, the wind was just as cold. But the fog appeared to dissipate.

  Chapter Nine

  "Hey, Black Boy...nice to see you again."

  Once more, trotting to left field to begin the bottom of the ninth in Toronto Stadium, Elston Murdoch heard the same shrill male voice that had heckled him all night. Coming from just beyond the foul line in the first row, no more than fifty or sixty feet away from where he normally played on defense. Like the guy had measured the closest seat to him and that's the one he bought.

  "Hey, Black Boy...only time I'm here is when you come to town."

  "Man," Murdoch muttered to himself as he threw a warm-up toss to someone in the Oakland bullpen. "Can't he come up with something fresh?"

  Evidently not. Every single comment all night long had been prefaced by "Hey, Black Boy." And, as his last statement inferred, he had ragged on him before. In fact, Murdoch remembered him from trips here several years ago, back in his days with Cleveland.

  "Hey, Black Boy...looks like the hitting streak's over."

  He was right. Murdoch had gotten at least one hit in fourteen consecutive games, a streak that began with the game-winning home run in Seattle. But tonight against Toronto, he was 0 for 4. The streak had ended, unless the game went into extra innings, which might actually happen, since it was now tied 4-4.

  "Hey, Black Boy...after the game, gonna go beat your ex-wife?"

  This guy never let up. During the course of the game, in addition to Murdoch's marital problems, he had introduced his legal difficulties, his years in Cleveland, even his childhood. Murdoch had to give him credit for at least one thing though—he'd certainly done his homework.

  The truth was Murdoch did have an exchange with his ex-wife, except right before the game, not after as the heckler was suggesting. She had reached him by phone in the clubhouse. Their regular unpleasant dialogue about money. She had none left, as usual, and would he send more? She called at least three or four times a month, always managing to locate him, no matter what city he was in.

  "Heard from Carly?" he had asked her, also a regular subject.

  "No."

  "Any idea where she is?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  "Where was she when you heard from her last, Sheila?"

  "Denver, I think...or maybe San Antonio."

  "You're a terrific mother," he had said angrily.

  "No worse than you were a father."

  This was how their conversations usually ended. Then one of them would hang up on the other. Tonight it had been Murdoch doing the honors.

  The marriage had probably been doomed from the start. Simply put, they were too young, the wedding occurring before either of them graduated from their inner city Philadelphia high school. But Sheila was already pregnant with Carly, and Murdoch, about to sign his first professional baseball contract, wanted her with him for his initial minor league assignment.

  She had trouble adjusting as a baseball wife—staying home alone with their daughter while Murdoch went on road trips, moving frequently while he rapidly climbed the minor league ladder. And then there were the drugs. By the time he reached the majors, her recreational habit had become full blown. Plus, she'd taken to alcohol, which neither mixed well with the drugs, which had mushroomed into an arsenal, nor her personality.

  Of course Murdoch was no bargain himself, his anger and bad temper often spoiling what little harmony they had. But he did keep fighting for the marriage, steadfastly postponing the inevitable. He had good reason though. Very simply, he adored his daughter.

  Finally, about three years ago, when Carly was twelve, the divorce occurred. Things between Murdoch and Sheila had gotten so toxic by then that he paid off her alimony and child support entirely, in one huge lump sum, hoping not to have to deal with her again. Standing now in left field, he knew what a useless gesture that had been.

  "Hey, Black Boy...Ever think about that guy you sent up the river?"

  Murdoch felt himself grow angry. Not about this guy or his comments—he was a jerk. No, he was angry over the memory of the media being so diligent in ferreting out the sordid details of his life, then making public various implications and innuendos that had only the slightest grain of truth.

  They could have let it go at his marriage, which was bad enough. Had they, he might have even agreed to talk to them again. But they had to keep digging and digging.

  One of their stories was what this guy was referring to in his last comment. How he, Murdoch, had avoided prosecution and inevitable jail time for drug possession by paying someone to take the rap for him. The only shred of accuracy in their entire account was that he did know who took the rap.

  The first Toronto batter in the bottom of the ninth, after fouling off several pitches, worked the count to 3 and 2. He lined the next pitch into right center for a double. The Toronto manager sent in a pinch runner for him. The next batter dropped a sacrifice bunt down the first base line, advancing the runner to third with only one out.

  "Hey, Black Boy...party's almost over."

  Murdoch tried to ignore the fact the guy was probably right. Along with the other outfielders and all the infielders, he moved way in, trying to keep the winning run from scoring. The next two Toronto batters were intentionally walked, loading the bases, creating a force play at home and potential double play. From the dugout, one of the Oakland coaches waved Murdoch even farther in, and over toward left center.

  The next Toronto batter didn't cooperate with this alignment. He hit a fly near the left field line, close to the area Murdoch had just vacated. Murdoch raced over and made a one hand catch. Now the difficult part—trying to throw out the runner from third base, who had tagged up with the catch and began speeding to the plate. Murdoch planted his right foot as best he could on the Toronto Stadium artificial turf, then took a couple of quick hopping steps and hurriedly fired toward Bailey,
the catcher.

  Watching the ball descend, Murdoch knew his throw would have to be perfect to keep the game alive. Ball and runner arrived at their destination simultaneously, the runner sliding, but Bailey blocking the plate as he caught the ball. The umpire elevated his right arm. Extra innings.

  "Hey, Black Boy...nice goin'. We get to party some more."

  When Murdoch reached the dugout, several teammates came over, offering high fives. He motioned them away though. He was scheduled to bat fifth in the top of the tenth, but when the first two Oakland batters struck out, it appeared he'd have to wait until the next inning—if there were a next inning. A subsequent single and walk, however, brought him to the plate.

  His arrival there was greeted by the usual loud boos, but not loud enough to drown out his companion along the left field line. Was he using some kind of amplification, or was his voice just naturally shrill?

  "Hey, Black Boy...good thing you kept the party alive. Now you can make an out and go 0 for 5."

  Murdoch had to smile to himself. Evidently, this guy was now into rhyme. As the two runners edged off their bases, Murdoch took a couple of practice swings. The bat felt great in his hands, like it had all the time lately. During the streak, he'd raised his average about sixty points. Not unusual for him this time of year. As the weather began to warm up in the East and Midwest near the end of May, so did he.

  When he got hot like this, he didn't care who was pitching. Often he didn't even know who was pitching. First good pitch, rip away. Exactly as he did now.

  It was a curve, outside corner at the knees. He didn't try to pull the pitch; instead, he went right with it. Heading to first, he watched the ball land in right center and roll all the way to the wall. Double, both runners scoring. Oakland led 6-4. Hitting streak now fifteen.

  Trotting to left field for the bottom of the tenth, Murdoch actually looked forward to the shrill voice. Who got the last laugh, pal? But he attained no such satisfaction. He even looked over to the guy's seat, something he rarely did. The guy was definitely gone though. Where were these people when he turned the tables, whenever things didn't go their way?