by Alan Mindell
The bottom of the tenth turned out very quiet, in more ways than one. Besides the absence of noise coming from near the left field line, Terry entered the game and quickly retired the three Toronto batters, transforming the Oakland lead into a 6-4 victory.
"They're starting to call you The Magician," one of several reporters present told Rick Gonzalez.
"I'm no magician," Rick replied from the podium of the small interview room outside the visitors' clubhouse in Kansas City Stadium. "The guys have played hard and we've caught some breaks."
"Your team's nineteen and five since you became manager," another media person stated factually. "Eight and two on this road trip. Best one in ten years."
"Pitching's been good," was Rick's only comment.
But he did feel satisfied. Especially with the road trip, the final game of which had just ended, a 4-2 victory over Kansas City. He was looking forward to heading back to Oakland soon after this interview, to begin a ten game homestand following an off day tomorrow.
"Murdoch's been hitting," another journalist, this one bald, declared.
Rick nodded in agreement.
"That car incident," the bald man continued. "Hear anything more?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" Rick bristled.
"Sounds like the same old Murdoch...out late, and in trouble."
"Look," Rick answered angrily. "What I see is a guy doin' his job. Day in, day out. Healthy or injured. You guys realize he's played in more consecutive games than anyone in the league?"
"Maybe he's hitting," the bald man conjectured, clearly disregarding Rick's comments, "on account he wants to be traded to a contender."
"We're not far from being a contender ourselves," Rick replied, still angry.
He was correct. Today's win elevated Oakland to exactly .500, and into third place, only five games behind Texas, who led the division.
"Murdoch's your only big salary," the man persisted. "Any chance front office will get you another big salary or two before the trade deadline?"
"My business is what happens on the field," Rick declared. "Any other business I leave to front office."
Despite avoiding the question, Rick was quite sure he knew the answer. What you see is what you got. Management was interested in acquiring new players only if the result were lower salaries, not higher ones. And, as he'd theorized before about Murdoch, they wouldn't even keep him were not most of his contract being paid by Cleveland.
"I'm sure you wouldn't mind another player or two," the bald man countered.
"I like the guys I got," Rick stated. "Anyway, all this is purely speculation. Something I don't have time for right now because we have a plane to catch."
He had already started to leave the room before finishing the last remarks, unzipping his jersey top as he went.
Chapter Ten
The left hander, wearing a white uniform trimmed in blue, fired a fastball over the heart of the plate. The batter swung, but much too late. Strike three. Third out. The left hander trotted off the mound, toward the first base dugout.
Karen Riley, sitting in the grandstand, waved to him. So did little Tammy. Lauren Riley clapped her hands. Terry, seated next to her, on the other side from the two girls, could feel a wide grin cross his face. Billy Riley had just pitched his fifth scoreless inning. One more and he'd record a shutout.
"Told you he's got talent,” Terry said to Lauren.
She smiled at him. He liked her smile, possibly because it conveyed a touch of shyness. He also liked sitting beside her, and had already caught himself glancing at her a couple of times during the afternoon, instead of at the game.
"He looks good in that uniform," he offered.
"He should," she chuckled. "He's had it a week and it's entirely replaced the rest of his wardrobe."
Terry grinned again. As he'd suggested to Billy, he had checked with several teammates about a good Little League. One of them knew a coach who lived near the Rileys. A couple of phone calls and Billy was on "The Dodgers," who played their games here at this park, close to the Rileys' house.
"I was sorry to hear about the children's father," Terry said carefully, once Billy returned to the mound for the final scheduled inning.
Lauren's only response was a solemn nod. Again, it wasn't the time or place to inquire further. He merely sat there silently, watching the game. Billy did give up two hits and a walk, loading the bases, but then managed to strike out the final two batters, securing his shutout.
"What happened?" Terry teased him as they all walked back to the house afterward. "Get tired out there that last inning?"
Billy, as usual, smiled shyly. Terry immediately recognized his mother's smile in his. Something he hadn't noticed before.
"Guess we'd better add a few wind sprints to our next workout," he winked.
This time, when they got to the white house, it was Karen who invited Terry inside, telling him that she and Lauren were baking a casserole for dinner.
"Sounds great," he said. "But I've got my own game to go to tonight."
"Mommy, can we go too?" Tammy bubbled.
"No sweetie. One game's enough for today."
Terry was feeling especially content as he left Oakland Stadium late at night, headed for Collie Quinn's car in the parking lot. Less than an hour ago he had struck out the final batter of the game with the tying run on third, notching his eleventh consecutive save as Oakland won 4-3. Every time Oakland had a tenuous lead in the ninth inning lately, a frequent occurrence in the last two or three weeks, Rick brought him in. No question he had solidified the closer role.
He spotted Collie's car ahead. Surprisingly, when he reached it, he found other players there. In fact, the entire Oakland infield was already seated in the car. Besides second baseman Collie behind the steering wheel, first baseman Phil Steiner, shortstop Felix Oates and third baseman Jack O'Rourke were in the back.
"Get in," Collie told Terry.
Terry did and Collie drove off, to the tune of a little laughter from the backseat. Why shouldn't there be, the way the team had been playing recently? Also, Terry knew that a beer or two in the locker room after a game was more rule than exception.
"Got us a little party to go to," O'Rourke informed Terry. "Hear the women flow even more than the wine."
"Groupies?" Terry asked a bit inanely.
"Plus some local talent," Steiner chipped in.
"Rather just go home," Terry requested, cognizant of being by far the oldest here, with the likelihood he'd get stuck with whomever the others didn't want.
"You're in the big leagues now, Rookie," was shortstop Oates's way of ending the discussion.
Collie seemed to emphasize that by driving nowhere near their neighborhood. In fact he started to ascend into hilly terrain. The roads became treacherous. Then they turned circular. For some reason, Terry flashed back to the old childhood game "ring around the rosy." He had no clue where they were as Collie stopped the car.
"Sorry, Rookie," O'Rourke announced. "Forgot to mention, you weren't invited to the party."
Terry suspected that he was being had; all four of the others getting out of the car provided further evidence. And when they opened his door and pulled him out, there was no doubt.
"Meant to bring you a road map, Rookie," Steiner said. "But we forgot it. Hope you got a good sense of direction."
Right after Steiner's comment, they did play ring around the rosy of sorts. They spun Terry in a circle three or four times. Then they laughed and got back into the car. Driving off, they shouted almost incoherently at him.
About the only words he could make out in their jumble were, "Have a good time, Gramps."
Rookies, according to long-standing unofficial big league protocol, didn't achieve any kind of recognized status with their respective teams until they had undergone some type of rite of passage. Terry knew that no matter how he performed on the field or what value he had for the team, he would sooner or later get his. Clearly, his teammates had ta
ken advantage of his most obvious dependency on them, his constant need for transportation.
His earlier contentment when he left the stadium now changed to fear as he tried to figure out how to get home. He neither knew anyone in this hilly neighborhood, nor anything about the area. He assumed that his best option was to begin walking and hope he came upon something familiar.
But which way to start? He decided that whenever he had to choose a direction, he would pick the one leading downhill. They had driven a lot uphill, so his bungalow must be downhill. After beginning, he heard a dog barking in the distance, the way he was going. He considered that positive, since a dog would most likely be in a populated area, like his own neighborhood.
The night was getting cold and he zipped up the jacket he'd fortunately brought from the stadium. He passed a house with music and loud chatter coming from it and immediately thought of the party his teammates referred to. He had to laugh at himself for the thought, however. There was never a party; it was simply a ruse to dupe him. One that he'd fallen for, hook, line and sinker.
He continued downhill. From the next block, or certainly nearby, he heard what sounded like a wolf. Or, maybe it was a coyote. Whichever, he walked very gingerly, as silently as he could.
Then finally, after stealthily negotiating another half mile or so, he came upon a vista situated above a deep canyon barely visible in the dark. He was able to see lights down below. There were plenty of houses in the distance and he spotted what was unmistakably an arterial.
Encouraged, he quickened his pace and actually started to jog.
Everything was becoming familiar to Terry. The shops and restaurants of downtown San Leandro. The outskirts of his own neighborhood. He even passed the exact place where he'd discovered Murdoch being attacked by the four thugs that night when the police became involved.
There had been no more news about Murdoch's car. Actually, he and Murdoch hadn't even spoken since the incident. Which made it all the more improbable—no, impossible—that Murdoch should drive by now, spot him walking and stop. Yet, that's exactly what happened.
"Get in," Murdoch instructed after opening his passenger door.
This was the second time that night that Terry had heard these words and he was much slower to react now. In fact, he glanced up and down the street, first looking for teammates and then for characters possibly following Murdoch. Seeing no one, he got into the front seat, and quickly noticed beside him a couple of items that looked like a fake beard and an orange hairpiece.
"So they found your car," he commented as Murdoch drove off.
“`Fraid so,” Murdoch replied gruffly.
Terry was confused by Murdoch's response, since his car seemed both luxurious and in perfect condition.
"This is a rental," Murdoch addressed Terry's confusion. "Mine was completely stripped. Worthless."
"Oh...they get the guys?"
"Yep."
"Going to press charges?" Terry asked, a little anxiously.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Media'd crucify me."
Terry didn't reply.
"Anyway, those guys'd prob'ly press charges against me," Murdoch added. "Stealing their car."
"You didn't steal it. I did."
"Things have a way getting turned around. Next thing you know, I'm the one in court."
Murdoch had driven into the parking lot beneath the same apartment complex Rick lived in. Evidently Murdoch lived here too. Evidently, he didn't know Terry didn't. By then, because of his long walk and lateness of the hour, Terry was too tired to tell him.
Instead, he merely got out of the car, told Murdoch good night and managed the block or so back to his bungalow.
Before the homestand ended, Terry came to a decision. It was time he made arrangements for a car. Not a purchase, but a rental, as Murdoch had done. He went to an agency at the Oakland airport and selected a blue sedan. Though definitely nothing extravagant, much better than subways and buses.
His plan worked perfectly. He had use of the car for a couple of days (he took it to a museum and did some local sightseeing), then dropped it at the airport as the next road trip began, and made a reservation to pick it up again when the team returned to Oakland for the following homestand.
"Brass isn't happy," Rick Gonzalez told Terry, the two of them sitting in a little office outside the visitors' locker room at Tampa Bay Stadium.
"About what?" Terry asked, instantly defensive at Rick's tone.
"About some scrape you and Murdoch got in late one night."
Now alarmed, Terry didn't reply.
"They don't think there'll be any legal action," Rick said.
"Then what’s the problem?"
"PR.... Something they don't take lightly."
Rick then asked him more about the incident, which apparently had come to the attention of management either via the police or the media. Providing as little detail as possible, Terry told him what happened. How he had discovered Murdoch being attacked. How he'd driven off in the assailants' car.
"Quick thinking," Rick commented.
"Felt more like reflex."
"It worked."
Terry simply shrugged.
"It's pretty common knowledge," Rick continued, "that Murdoch goes out late every night."
"No crime in that, is there?"
"Depends on what he's doing...any idea what he's doing?"
"None."
"Brass is very sensitive...they..."
But Rick was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Clayton, Oakland's hitting coach, who stuck his head into the office to inform them the team was due on the field in five minutes for that night's pregame warm-ups. Then Clayton left.
"Heard Murdoch hits some pretty raunchy neighborhoods," Rick started up again. "Like he's in some kind of trouble. Or looking for some."
Terry didn't answer.
"Brass gave me a choice," Rick stated. "Either I get some answers or they will."
"You going to talk to him?"
"Murdoch doesn't talk to me."
"What then?"
"We tail him one night," Rick said softly, like he was a bit embarrassed.
"We?"
"I'll go to satisfy brass. You go 'cause you're at least a little involved."
"Might be dangerous," Terry replied, frowning.
Rick shrugged.
"Something else bothers me," Terry went on.
"What?"
"I've never known you to care what brass thinks."
"I don't," Rick answered quickly. "But I'm afraid if we don't do something, they will. And if he's in trouble, we might be able to help."
Terry nodded. There was another knock at the door. Clayton again. Time for pregame practice to begin. Terry and Rick got up and followed Clayton out of the room.
Oakland kept winning. Midway through the road trip they swept a doubleheader in Detroit, improving to five games above .500 and moving ahead of Seattle into second place in their division, only three and a half games behind Texas. Plus, in the wild card race (the second place team with the best record in each league qualified for the playoffs at the end of the season), they trailed only New York, by just two games.
Terry continued his fine pitching, recording his fourteenth straight save in the nightcap of the doubleheader. And Rick's magic with the young pitchers, especially Myong Lee Kwan, persisted. In fact, over the last thirty games, the pitching staff's combined earned run average was below 3.00, the best in the majors during that period.
But the big news was Murdoch's torrid hitting. It had become the talk of baseball. Since that first game in Seattle, he'd batted above .450, and his season's average climbed to .320. And near the end of the road trip, his consecutive game hitting streak reached thirty, the longest in the big leagues in more than three years.
Murdoch's name was now being mentioned in connection with Joe DiMaggio's long-standing record hitting streak of fifty-six games in a row.
Chapter Eleven
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"I don't think he's after a hooker," Rick said while driving, he and Terry following Murdoch through a rundown Boston neighborhood. "Not when he could get practically any woman he wanted, without costing himself a penny."
"Maybe he doesn't want to risk any publicity," Terry replied.
"All some media guy'd have to do is spot him down here. He'd get plenty publicity."
"Maybe he doesn't care."
"But I care," Rick answered firmly. "Guy chasing DiMaggio's record... Chasing whatever he's chasing down here."
Terry merely shrugged, probably less at Rick's comment than at his own inane responses. Perhaps he could be excused though, because it was late, he was tired and didn't feel especially comfortable in this vicinity.
"Besides," Rick added. "He doesn't care if someone recognizes him, why the disguise?"
Terry couldn't disagree. Ten minutes ago they had come up behind Murdoch—like Rick, driving a rental car—and observed him wearing a brown pullover knit cap above a long dark wig. He looked much more like a strung-out poet or musician than the ballplayer who'd gotten a key ninth inning hit just an hour ago, in their 5-3 victory over Boston.
"He's not looking for drugs either," Rick said, sounding speculative.
"What makes you say that?"
"He'd have stopped and scored by now. Only profession outnumbering hookers around here is the drug dealers."
Terry had to agree. He'd seen them standing on practically every street corner. Police were also well represented. In a span of five minutes, he'd counted almost a dozen patrol cars.
"I'm sure you're the only manager in baseball that would be out here like this," Terry said.
Rick didn't answer right away. Terry noticed, even in the dark, a very serious expression cross his face. When Rick finally spoke, he sounded distant.
"This neighborhood's a little too familiar."
Unsure of his meaning, Terry didn't know how to react, so he remained silent. Besides, his attention was diverted by a large group of men in the middle of a block, huddled around a bonfire, obviously for warmth.