Las Vegas Gold (6 page)

8

The Gold were a calm group of ball players prior to the opening game. Before they took infield and batting practice a couple of hours before the game began, Mike Malone had wandered into the clubhouse and introduced himself to them, shaking hands with each one and wishing them well. They were ready.

Opening day at Safeco Field against Seattle was clear and chilly, with a light breeze blowing out of the stadium toward left field. As usual, a celebrity tossed out the first ball, another celebrity sang the National Anthem, both teams were introduced as they stood on the baselines and both managers shook hands before the game began. The noise from the crowd was loud when Molly was introduced, her red hair rippling in the breeze when she doffed her cap. The length of her hair, down to her shoulders, looked no different under a baseball cap, except for the color, than that of Johnny Damon when he played in Boston, or the dreadlocks of Manny Ramirez.

One loud-mouthed fan yelled, “Where's your dress, sweetheart?” his jibe causing much mirth among his pals.

“Gold can't buy a win,” was another popular chant set up from the left field bleachers.

When the time came for the call, “Play Ball,” Danny Johnson walked up to the plate to lead off. He stroked the first pitch of the game into left field for a single, made a wide turn and hustled back to first. Willie Chavez put his arm around his shoulder and said quietly, “Molly's going all out. Did you pick up Jerry's steal sign?”

“I got it. First pitch. I guess she's going all out, all right.”

The lanky short stop took a good lead off first and held it. The Mariners pitcher hardly glanced at him. Right fielder Porter Kipping was the second Gold batter; he swung at the first pitch, even though it was out of the strike zone, just to give the catcher a few seconds delay before he could attempt to throw the runner out at second. As it happened, the catcher momentarily fumbled the ball trying to get it out of his mitt, and Danny sailed into second with an easy stolen base. The pitcher, momentarily shaken, walked Kipping. The rookie center fielder, Diego Martinez, was batting third in Molly's opening day line-up. Batting left-handed, Martinez worked the count to three and two. The next delivery was a curve ball that got away from the pitcher and hung in the rookie's wheelhouse. The kid lofted the ball high into the right field stands for his first Major League home run at his first official Major League game.

In the third inning, something else dramatic happened. Digger Hazen walked, and again, on the first pitch, stole second. He was easily safe, but for some reason, the umpire called him out. Molly was out of the dugout like a shot heading for second. Third base coach Jerry Haley got there first to get between Hazen and the umpire to prevent the angry Hazen from getting himself thrown out of the game.

Molly confronted the umpire without anger. “What, exactly, is the way you interpret Rule 701?” she asked.

“Whadda ya' mean?”

“I mean what I said. How do you interpret that rule?”

“What is the rule?”

“You don't know?”

“I do if you tell me what it says.”

“Call the crew chief over.”

“Sam,” Molly said, when gray-haired Sam Mahaffy, the umpiring crew chief, ambled out from behind the plate, “here's a guy who calls himself an umpire and doesn't know what Rule 701 says. You want to tell him?”

“Archie, you dummy, the rule says a runner is safe when he touches the base before he's tagged out.”

“Oh, that one. Well, I say exactly what the rule says.”

“Archie,” Molly said, “you missed one. Digger clearly touched the base before the short stop even caught the ball, let alone tagged him. TV will show it that way, and we tape every game.”

“Now Molly,” drawled Sam, “you can't use TV replays to make calls like that. You know that, surely.”

“Sam, we're not using the TV for making calls. We're using it as evidence in protests. This game is now officially under protest.” She turned to leave.

“Molly, wait, wait. You don't really mean that, do you?” Sam was clearly distressed. Protests caused reams of paper work and a trip to the league president's office.

“I mean exactly what I said,” Molly retorted, and she stomped back to the dugout. There was considerable noise among the fans when the protest was announced.

On the bench, every eye turned to Molly. “That will set the cat among the pigeons,” she said. “I intend to shake up the umpires all over the league with protests until we start getting some real attention to the rules.”

Some of the veterans on the bench just shook their heads, but most of the players and coaches were grinning. This red-haired woman didn't lose her temper often, but when she did, look out! This looked like a great season.

The score remained at 3-0 until the seventh. Tabby O'Hara was throwing well, mixing all his pitches, and finding they all worked. In seven innings, he limited the Mariners to one scratch single in the fifth. Then the Seattle first baseman caught a fast ball and belted it high into the left field stands, making the score 3-1.

When Tabby returned to the dugout, Molly asked, “Had about enough, Tabby? You're looking tired when you walk.”

“Yeah, I guess that's enough. Sorry about that fastball.”

“Don't worry about it.” Willie Fontana had already called the bullpen, and when the Gold went out in order, southpaw Kenny Sykes took the mound. Sykes was a side-armer with plenty of zip on his fastball, and he set the side down in order. Both Quincey O'Donnell and Mac Driscoll were up and throwing in the bullpen. Molly said to Fontana, sitting beside her, “Might as well see how O'Donnell works under pressure.” So the second of the set up pitchers got a chance to show his stuff in the opening game.

O'Donnell got the first two batters on pop flies, but the third slammed a double into right field. Molly told Fontana, “Get him out of there and bring in Mac.” She had already told Willie he, not she, would make pitching changes during the game. When they had talked about it during spring training, her comment was, “When I go out on the field, I want both players and umpires to know it's really important.” She had proved that this afternoon.

The rookie closer ran from the bullpen to the mound as though he was in a race. He tossed his warm-up jacket to the bat-boy, took the ball, threw his warm-up pitches and promptly struck out the batter on three straight 95 mile an hour fastballs. He struck out the side in the ninth, and the Gold had their first win in the new season. Tabby also had his first AL win, and young Mac Driscoll his first Major League save.

The media divided their post-game interviews among the two who had made the biggest impact, Tabby O'Hara and Molly Malone. Tabby made news in another way: this was his first post-game interview, and he handled himself as though he had been talking to the press all his life. Molly refused to talk about the change in her star pitcher, and she was diffident about questions about her debut as the first female Major League manager. She absolutely refused to answer questions about the protest, now moot since Las Vegas had won the game.

“I'm a rookie manager. The fact I'm a woman doesn't really figure in,” she said without a smile. “If you want to talk about rookie managers, fine. Otherwise, forget it.”

Las Vegas swept the Mariners in that three game series. Rookie T.Y. Hollinger made his Major League debut in the second game, went six innings and got credit for a 6-4 win. Mac Driscoll got his second save. Damaso Gonzalez pitched the third game, and to everyone's surprise, including his own, went the entire nine innings, spinning a neat three-hitter, striking out ten batters, and winning a shutout 5-0. Diego Martinez hit home runs two and three. The first one to offer Gonzalez congratulations on his fine pitching performance was Tabby O'Hara, but the entire team felt the same sense of elation as Gonzalez did. The first big series of the season had gone as well as anyone could have expected, Molly included.

In each game, Molly made her way to the field to lodge an official protest. In the second game, the question concerned the strike zone. When she went out again in the third inning, the umpire was ready for her. “You can't protest balls and strikes,” he said, whipping off his mask as he saw her coming.

“I'm not protesting balls and strikes,” she replied. “I want to know what your interpretation of the strike zone is according to the rule book.”

“Are you crazy? What do you mean my interpretation? The rule is as clear as it can be made. If the ball crosses any part of the plate between the hollow below the knee and halfway between the shoulders and the top of the pants, it's a strike.”

“Good for you. Then why aren't you calling the pitches that way for both sides?”

“I am and you are out of the game!” He made the classic arm motion of throwing somebody out. The crowd roared approval. This rookie female manager was about to learn a thing or two.

“Okay, Molly replied, unperturbed. “How do you interpret Rule 9.05(b)? What “flagrant offense” have I committed or what “obscene language” have I used?”

The umpire just looked at her. “I tol' you, you're out of the game. Now move it.”

“This game is now officially under protest.” She turned and headed toward the dugout.

Once again they went through the routine of Sam Mahaffy trying to talk her out of the protest. Once again she stuck to her guns. She watched the rest of the game on TV from the dressing room.

In the third game, her protest arose over a call of a trapped ball that the second base umpire, Sam Mahaffy himself this time, called “caught.” In Molly's opinion, backed up by the TV, the umpire was out of place to make the call, and the ball was clearly trapped by the Seattle left fielder.

She had dinner with her father before the team flew back to Las Vegas and the two toasted each other's success, looking forward to their own home opening in two day's time. Mike asked about the protests, and, satisfied with her reply it was about the umpiring abilities and not about winning or losing, said no more than, “Go for it, Molly dear. You're like a breath of fresh air out there.” Privately, he thought to himself, “There's a chip off the old block.”

The newspapers and TV talk shows were full of comments pro and con about the number of protests, and whether a woman manager really knew how to manage a Major League baseball team. The West Division of the American League was garnering more publicity than the other two divisions together, and the New York sports writers didn't like that very much.

* * *

Malone Stadium in Las Vegas was jammed to the rafters for the first Gold home game. It helped that the Oakland A's were the opponents for this historic game. The crowd seemed to approve of the entire structure of the new stadium; fan comfort had been a high-end priority in the building design. The roof was open on the bright spring day. The pre-game entertainment, with all of the usual fanfare, pleased the fans, and now they were getting impatient for the game to begin.

The fourth starter, Connie Armstrong, a strapping, 24 year-old left hander, had drawn the pitching assignment for the home team. His 16-5 record the previous year with the National League Cardinals could have qualified him to be the ace of the staff, had Tabby O'Hara not taken over that position. But as Willie Fontana had told his pitchers several times, a six-month season was bound to have changes in the pitching rotation, and who was number one and who was number four really was not an issue. Armstrong took his warm-ups and was ready for the first Oakland hitter. The game was underway with the first pitch, a forkball that went for ball one.

That batter eventually flied out to left. The second struck out, and the third grounded out as Tubby Littleton came up with a dandy play at second, running far to his left toward right field to throw the runner out at first. Danny Johnson led off for the Gold with a long fly ball to center. Porter Kipping followed with an infield grounder for a single, even though the shortstop momentarily bobbled the ball. Then he died there when Diego Martinez struck out on a wicked three and two slider he couldn't catch up with.

The game remained scoreless until the ninth. Armstrong had stayed until the middle of the eighth, when he tired and loaded the bases with one out before Willie took him out and sent in Freddy Greeley to make his initial appearance. He walked the first batter he faced, and Molly instantly pulled him for Jimmy Brandon who got the next A's batter to ground into a round-the-horn double play, third to second to first. Las Vegas came to last bats, trailing 1-0. DH Horace Mayhew was the lead-off batter. The veteran had had a disappointing series against Seattle, coming up empty in eight at bats. He made up for it this time when he drove the first pitch over the right-field wall into the Oakland bullpen. Mayhew was followed by first baseman Jerry Lyons, who followed with the same thing, except his first homer of the season went into the Gold bullpen behind the left field wall. He was greeted at home plate by the entire bench, and the players from the bullpen were running across the field. Back-to-back home runs in the ninth in a walk-off game sent the crowd home happy.

The Gold remained undefeated in four games. Molly's protests continued. Once again, she protested that an umpire, the first base umpire in this case, was out of place to make a proper call. “You can't call what you can't see,” she told him, stomping back to the dugout before he could make up his mind whether to throw her out. Red-faced, he decided not to make that decision. The episode made the fourth protested game in a row. Umpires around the league fumed and began to study the rulebook.

9

Tabby O'Hara got a phone call late that evening. He had almost forgotten the gravelly voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Tabby. How're ya' doin'?”

“Who's this?” he asked, to give himself some time to compose an answer to the question he knew was going to be asked.

“Hey—y'ain't forgot your old pal Pat, have ya'?”

“Nah, I remember. You're wastin' both your time and mine. Don't bother callin' no more.” And he hung up the phone. When it rang again, he ignored it for the first 15 rings, then he picked up the receiver long enough to stop the ringing, and then hung it up again. Evidently, Trenowski, for that's who the caller was, got the message, and there were no more calls that night.

First thing next morning, Tabby called the phone company, had his number changed and made it unlisted. He was visually disturbed as he arrived at the stadium to get ready for his evening pitching turn. The other players could sense it, Willie Fontana could sense it, and Molly herself could tell something was wrong. She found Tabby in the bullpen and walked him away to a spot where they were alone.

“What's wrong, Tabby? You not feeling well?”

“No. Nothin' like that. I can't really talk to you about it. I'll be okay when the game gets under way.”

“You sure? You look and act as though you're upset.”

“No, I'm not upset.” His voice rose. “But I'm gonna' be if you don't leave me alone. Just take off, will ya', and leave me be.”

Molly said nothing, but she stopped by Fontana and said, “Something's bothering Tabby. He won't talk about it, and the old Tabby temper is just barely under control. Get Lynn Meriweather ready. We may need him tonight.”

Tabby did not pitch well. He lasted into the sixth inning, allowed five runs on a dozen hits, walked four, and generally worked quite obviously with something else on his mind. At the end of each inning, he slouched off the mound and sat by himself at the end of the bench. The other players took their cue from the coaches and let him alone. When he left the game, he took himself out before Molly had to send Willie out to the mound to take him out. He told the pitching coach it was time to get somebody else in to pitch; he was not coping, and he went immediately to the dressing room. Head trainer Eli Stryker followed him, but came back in a few minutes to tell Molly Tabby was okay, he was showering and wanted to be left alone.

Still, O'Hara did not take a loss on the game, just a “no decision.” With some clutch hitting by Bobby Joe Comingo, Jerry Lyons and Judd Matthews, who was DHing that night, plus another fielding gem by Diego Martinez, the Gold pulled it out and won 6-5. Jimmy Brandon got credit for the win and young Mac Driscoll racked up yet another save.

When the players came trooping into the clubhouse, tired but laughing with the joy that comes from a come-from-behind win, Tabby was dressed in street clothes, waiting to congratulate them. “Hey kid,” he called to Diego, “hurry up and let's go have that hunnerd dollar meal I owe you.”

“But you weren't pitchin', Tabby. An' anyway, how did you know it was a good catch? You were down here.”

“The promise was for anytime you made a big play, whether I was pitchin' or not. An' I was watchin' the game on the TV here.” (He pronounced it TEE-v.)

“Well, Tabby, I been thinkin'. Maybe I should change that favorite charity to my church back home. You put the money there, an' tonight I take
you
out to dinner. You look like you had a hard day.”

Molly could hear the exchange from her office where she was talking with Kenny, and she put her finger to her lips. She wanted to hear Tabby's reply.

“You can say that again, Diego, my friend. I'll take you up on your offer. I can't remember when was the last time somebody bought me dinner. Hurry up 'n shower. I'm hungry.”

* * *

Next morning, Tabby showed up looking as though he hadn't slept at all. Molly called him into her office, shut the door, and sat down beside him. For a couple of minutes they sat in silence, Tabby looking at his shoes, Molly looking at his face.

“Okay, Tabby. Talk to me.”

Tabby sat in silence for another thirty seconds or so, his mouth working but emitting no sound. Then, “I can't talk about it, Molly. It's something I gotta work out for myself.”

“
Listen
to me. Something affecting you this badly affects the whole team. You have been doing so well with the remake of Tabby O'Hara into a civilized man, you can't—the team can't—afford to have you come unstrung. If you can't, or won't talk to me, is there anyone else you can talk to?”

“NO!” Tabby exploded, then sat in silence again.

“Then
talk
to me, Tabby. Tell me what's going on. I told you before I was a first class secret keeper.”

He got to his feet and paced back and forth in front of her, from one side of the room to the other. “Okay!” The word was almost an explosion as he spoke it. “Okay,” more quietly. Then he went silent for several crossings of the office floor.

“Well?”

“Well, I got a phone call, each of the last two nights. Several phone calls. After the first one, I kept hanging up. I changed my phone number after the first night and had it unlisted, and they still found me.”

“Who's
‘they'
? Who was calling?”

“A pro gambler who wants me to throw games for him and his pals.”

“So—we call the office of the Commissioner and have them stopped. Who are they? Or do you know their names?”

“Oh, I know the name of the guy that does the calling. And it ain't as easy as calling the Commissioner. Do that and I'm either dead or banned from baseball. One's as bad as the other, 's far as I'm concerned.”

Tabby, you'd better tell me the whole story.”

Little by little, over the space of almost half an hour, the story came out. Molly was horrified, but she managed to keep her face and body language from betraying her feelings. Finally, he stopped.

“That all?” He nodded. “How many games did you throw in all?”

“I dunno fer sure. Six or seven. Then, like I said, when I came here and found out how great you guys treated me, I made up my mind if they tried again, I was gonna tell 'em to go to hell. Well, they're trying, I told 'em, and they say it's either that or I'm dead, and if I tell the cops, I'm just as dead.” He sat down again, slumped in his chair. “So now you know.” He sighed. “I might as well retire. Maybe I can be a minor league pitchin' coach or something. I don't know nothin' else but pitchin' baseball.”

“Is there any proof you threw those games for pay?”

“I doubt it. I sure didn't keep any receipts, the money was cash, and I can't b'lieve they'd keep records of something like that. Maybe the Vegas gamblers did. I dunno.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Molly turned the matter over and over in her mind, considering the ethics and the legalities. Then she turned to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Tabby, look at me. I said you can trust me, and you can. I mean it! Leave this whole thing with me. Go on with your usual routine. They aren't likely to bother you until your pitching turn comes up again, are they?” He shook his head. “Okay, if you have to miss a turn in the rotation, the world won't come to an end. We can put it down to some minor reason—mild soreness in the arm or something. Just leave it with me and let me see what I can do.”

She stood up, moved behind her desk, and for the first time in the interview, sat down behind her desk and looked more official. “It's no good for me to tell you not to worry, but you're a pretty good actor. I heard you with young Martinez last night. Get on with being your new friendly self, keep yourself surrounded by teammates. I'll have a guard on your apartment and on you while you're traveling alone. You won't even know he's there. Just trust me. I'll see you through this. Truly.”

Tabby stood up and walked around the desk toward her. She stood up to meet him. He gave her a big hug. “Molly, you're the first real friend I ever had. Thanks.” His eyes were moist as he walked out of the office.

Molly's first call was to the team's Security Chief to arrange for close surveillance. She only said there had been threats. Then she called her father and got him out of a business meeting. “Sorry Dad. We've got an emergency. I need to talk to you and Larry and a good criminal lawyer. Call the best one you know. We'll meet in your office here at the stadium this evening, some time after this afternoon's game. I'll arrange to have dinner sent up there…. No, I can't tell you what it's all about until then. Sorry.” She hung up and made the same arrangement with Larry, refusing to give him any information, either.

Her next visit was with Kenny Boyce. “Kenny, I'll be in uniform for the game, but my head is going to be elsewhere. You're going to be making the decisions.”

“You got problems?”

“One. Big one. That's all I can tell you.”

“One guess. O'Hara.”

“You got it in one, but I didn't tell you.”

Las Vegas won the afternoon game 8-2, sweeping the Oakland A's and now standing undefeated in six games, with two straight sweeps of the teams expected to be fighting for the division lead in the AL west. The media were incredulous in their reports and comments about the great job the Malones and Larry Henderson had done in assembling such a powerhouse expansion club. They also noted this was the first game of the young season the Gold had not played under protest. Molly waited until the reporters, players and coaches had almost all left the clubhouse before making her way upstairs to her father's office. The others were already there. Mike introduced her to George Halverson, a distinguished looking man in his fifties, tall enough without being overpowering, who offered a firm handshake and said nothing but the usual greetings.

“Well, Molly, what's so drastic on your mind?” Mike went right to the point of the meeting, his usual style in conducting business.

“It's complicated. That's why I asked you to be here, Mr. Halverson.”

“George.”

“George. We have what I believe is a criminal matter on our hands, but I'm not sure exactly what it is, who is involved and how much we are involved. Certainly Major League baseball either is or will be involved. If you and Larry do not wish to be involved, Dad, then tell me now and Mr., uh, George and I will move to my office and discuss it together.”

“Why wouldn't we want to be involved?”

“Larry, there's a possibility if you are in the know, and the worst scenario comes to be the truth, both you and I and somebody else could be banned from baseball for life.”

“That's pretty heavy, Molly,” Mike Malone rumbled. “But you're my daughter, and I'm in it—whatever ‘
it
' is—as deep as you are.”

“And I'm part of this organization, and have been since the beginning. Count me in, also.” Larry Henderson reached over and shook hands with Molly.

“Okay, then. Brace yourselves.” And Molly told the tale much as Tabby had told it to her. “There's an ethical, a moral and a legal problem here, it seems to me. I have already got Sam Blackwell setting a security guard on Tabby and on his apartment, whether he's home or not. And that's the end of my tale.”

Silence left the room as quiet as a cemetery at midnight. Before anyone could speak, their dinner arrived, and the waiter set things up in front of the picture window looking out over the playing field, then quietly left the room. The four left their seats and sat around the table and began to eat, nobody having yet spoken.

George Halverson broke the silence. “I guess it's up to me to begin,” he said, smiling thinly at no one in particular. “I see no point in involving the Commissioner's Office at this time. The first thing is to find out who is threatening this man O'Hara and how we can stop it. I'm afraid the FBI will have to be brought in to do it because it's an interstate matter, involving a death threat.”

“They'll discover the gambling, won't they?” asked Mike.

“Maybe. Maybe not. They can say they got him to throw games, but it's pretty difficult to prove. His word against theirs, and they have obviously committed a crime—several crimes: offers of bribery, conspiracy to commit fraud against Major League baseball, conspiracy to commit murder, probably others we don't know about. If they try to prove he
did
throw games, they're looking at another serious crime for which they can be charged.” “So what are you saying?” Molly asked.

“How strong a man is O'Hara?” Halverson was obviously not a baseball fan.

Molly told him the story of Tabby's rough early life, his first years as a player with a surly reputation, and the metamorphosis she and the coaches had been able to bring about so far this season. “So,” she concluded, “I believe if he is approached the right way, he can be very strong.”

“It seems to me,” threw in Henderson, “you are the one to approach and guide him through this mess, Molly. He obviously trusts you.”

Halverson nodded. “I agree.”

Molly sighed. “Yeah. You're probably right, but it is definitely not going to be easy. I'm going to have to involve Kenny as far as is necessary concerning the threats and the FBI, and he's going to have to take a whole lot more responsibility for the day-to-day operations of the team. I'm going to have my hands full just looking after Tabby until we get this business settled, one way or the other.”

“Just be careful, honey, how much you involve them. The less anyone else knows, the less chance there is for some reporter to go digging on his own.” Mike was obviously concerned for his daughter.

“Okay then, I will call in the FBI this evening and tell them what I think they should know.” Halverson sat with his chin resting on his palm, elbow on the table, obviously thinking as he spoke. “I think we should all be here so everyone gets the story straight. Let's say ten tomorrow. That okay?”