The Closer (13 page)

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Authors: Alan Mindell

BOOK: The Closer
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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 his 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."

Almost as if for effect, a door slammed loudly down the hall, causing all three men to glance in that direction. A brief silence followed, like they expected something else to happen. When nothing did, it was Rick who resumed the conversation.

"Hate to see you out of the lineup...but I think it's best."

"Haven't missed a regular game...more than two years," Murdoch muttered. "And what about the streak?"

"Break it in our park in a couple days," Rick said. "Brass'll love you. All the extra tickets they'll sell."

"Our fans aren't exactly hospitable either," Murdoch stated.

"Maybe," Strader interjected. "But nothing like New York."

Murdoch thought. No, this wasn't his way. Letting himself be bullied. Cowering from some random threats. He was a ballplayer. That was his job. In good weather or bad, healthy or not, he played...

"No," he said.

"No, what?" Strader responded.

"I'm not sitting out."

"At least let me DH you," Rick offered. "Keep you from being an easy target out there all night long."

"No," Murdoch declared. "I'm the left fielder."

 

Once Rick and the police captain left, Murdoch went straight to the phone in his room and dialed Carly's number. 2:00 a.m. in New York was 11:00 p.m. in California. She might not have gone to bed yet. He had called earlier, right after getting back to the hotel from the stadium, but she hadn't answered. Following several rings now, he became concerned. Where was she? And then she finally picked up.

"Where were you earlier?" he asked once they'd exchanged greetings, hers sounding sleepy.

"I went out for a walk after your game on TV. Got a little air."

"Oh."

"Dad, you worry too much."

"That guy delivering your stuff?"

"Perfect," she answered cheerily. "Like clockwork."

"Told you I'd take care of it."

"Thanks, Dad."

She
should
thank him, considering the sum he was paying. He'd been aware delivery costs were high, but this was outrageous. Probably taking advantage because it was him. Good thing he was making the money he was making. Anyway, what was the alternative? Other than picking up her supply himself.

"You staying in the rest of the night?" he asked.

"You worry too much, Dad."

"Carly...stay in the rest of the night. Don't go anywhere."

"Okay, okay."

"See you in a couple days, honey."

"Couple days." she said before hanging up.

Chapter Seventeen

Rick was having a terrible game. Not because Oakland was losing—they weren't. Or that Myong Lee Kwan, the starter, had pitched badly—he hadn't. Or that they were playing poorly—actually this might have been their best defensive performance of the season, featuring an assortment of great plays, at almost every position. In fact, artistically, it had been a terrific game, now tied 2-2 entering the ninth.

Simply put, Rick's problem was Murdoch. Every time Rick heard an unusually loud noise, he immediately looked toward left field. Was Murdoch okay? Or had some New York crazy done something crazy? In the second inning he heard a loud cracking sound, like a gunshot. He was sure he had seen Murdoch flinch, like he'd been struck, but it turned out to be nothing more than his own imagination.

If Rick agonized over Murdoch's safety all evening, he certainly found no solace in New York's strategy toward him, Murdoch. To prevent his tying DiMaggio's record. They had thrown him sixteen consecutive pitches nowhere near the strike zone. His only contact came when he swung at a 3-0 slider in the dirt and grounded out sharply to the third baseman. Scheduled to bat fourth in the top of the ninth, he might not get another opportunity. Unless of course Oakland mounted some type of threat, or the game went extra innings.

The first batter, catcher Bailey, lined a single to center. Oates, the shortstop, after fouling off two bunt attempts, hit a double play grounder to the New York second baseman. He bobbled it, though, and both runners were safe.

After New York brought in their closer, Carrasco, Rick considered instructing the next batter, Collie Quinn, to bunt. If Quinn sacrificed successfully, however, advancing the runners to second and third with one out, New York would no doubt once more deliberately walk Murdoch, the following hitter. Rick did flash a series of signs to Clayton, coaching at third, but none of them meant anything, meaning Collie was to swing away. When Carrasco's very first pitch grazed Quinn's jersey, entitling him to first base, Rick couldn't believe their good fortune. Bases loaded, none out, game tied, Murdoch coming to the plate. They'd have to pitch to him now, wouldn't they?

 

Stepping into the batters' box, Murdoch couldn't believe the good fortune either. In this situation, Carrasco would have to give him something to hit. Something he could drive, enabling him to keep the streak alive, and break the 2-2 tie.

Murdoch looked out at Carrasco on the pitching surface and noticed he appeared confused. In fact Carrasco glanced repeatedly into the New York dugout, as if seeking instruction. Or wanting someone to come to the mound and offer clarification. But no one came.

He fired his first pitch, a big overhand curve, very low and outside. Ball one. Seventeen consecutive pitches nowhere near the strike zone. Murdoch shook his head. New York, an organization with so much history and tradition, taking this cowardly approach to protect the record of one of its former stars.

Last night, after Rick and the police captain left, Murdoch had trouble falling back asleep—not because of the streak or any fear the death threats aroused about his own safety. No, he was worried about Carly. The fact Strader had implied she was in jeopardy. And he, Murdoch, was three thousand miles away, powerless should anything happen.

He had phoned her twice more this morning. Waking her both times. But she'd been fine, in good spirits, even chiding him again for being overprotective.

To counteract his insomnia, he'd tried some late-night television, hoping it would make him drowsy. A futile attempt. He could find nothing of interest except sports. And seemingly, every time he switched channels, someone brought up the streak.

One commentator labeled DiMaggio's achievement the last great baseball record. He pointed out that in recent years Mark McGwire had shattered Roger Maris's home run standard, and Cal Ripken Jr. snapped Lou Gehrig's consecutive games played streak. Now DiMaggio's was the only venerable record that remained. Enduring more than half a century.

The commentator also managed to work Babe Ruth into his essay. And the fact that Ruth, Maris, Gehrig and of course DiMaggio all played for New York. Standing there at home plate, Murdoch couldn't fathom a team with such rich tradition doing what they now were doing.

Carrasco's next pitch, another curve, was even lower and farther outside. Ball two. Murdoch could only shake his head again. A deliberate walk with the bases loaded in a tie game?

What would the media say about this? Would they attack the New York team for its utter lack of integrity? Or applaud them for preventing someone like him from tying the record?

Murdoch had been right about the media swarm here in New York. Making everyone's life miserable. And he knew it would only get worse tomorrow, if he somehow managed a hit today.

Carrasco glanced at the New York dugout again. Then he fired. Another curve. Farther from the strike zone than the previous two. Ball three.

As Carrasco looked at the New York dugout once more, Murdoch, out of habit, glanced at third base coach Clayton. No way would Clayton give him the "take" sign. Not in this spot, with so much at stake. Clayton grabbed his belt with his right hand—the "hit" sign.

Murdoch had an idea. Anticipating another pitch low and outside, he would step toward right field and reach beyond the plate, as he'd done against Anaheim in the final game of the homestand to keep the streak alive. Carrasco fired again. A fastball, high and inside, directly at Murdoch's head. There was no way he could hit it.

In fact, it would have hit
him
had he not dropped quickly to the ground.

*****

On the flight back to Oakland late the next night, Rick sat near the rear, alone. Not that he would have minded some company. But the entire New York series had been so draining that he, like seemingly everyone else on the team, preferred to catch up on sleep.

Eyes closed, he wondered if he felt worse about Murdoch not equaling the record, or that they had lost two out of three. No question, Murdoch. Actually he felt pretty good about the team. Without doubt, they had accounted themselves well. Challenging New York throughout. All three games decided by one run. And the two they lost—when Collie Quinn got thrown out at the plate in the first game, and earlier tonight—they could have won.

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