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Authors: Alan Mindell

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"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.

Terry stepped off the mound. He certainly didn't have hot weather to blame for his outing so far, not with a cold wind blowing from left field to right. He had to get the next batter out.

He almost did. His third pitch, a 1-1 knuckler, danced nicely out of the strike zone. The hitter, a right hander, swung and tapped a soft grounder down the first base line. It should have been an easy out, but the ball hit the bag and squirted past first baseman Harkey, into foul territory. Double, 10-9, tying run on second.

The next batter didn't hit the ball much harder. He placed it perfectly, though—a looper that found vacant turf between the right fielder and second baseman for a single. The tying run moved to third.

Disgruntled, Collum emerged from the third base dugout and motioned toward the left field bullpen. Clyde Alberts entered the game. Terry's night was over. The four batters he'd faced had hit for the cycle in reverse—a homer, triple, double and single. Perhaps the most dreadful performance of his entire career.

Alberts threw only two pitches. A pop fly and double play grounder ended the game. El Paso won 10-9.

But Alberts, not Terry, got credit for the save.

*****

Elston Murdoch entered Cleveland Stadium through the players' gate. On the way down the long corridor to the visitors' locker room, he stopped briefly at an open door, which looked out at the vacant field. So many memories here. He led the league in homers one season. Runs batted in champ during another. And in his ten years here, he'd captured two batting titles. But that was all in the past.

His path took him by the home clubhouse. Even after three years since the trade in 1996, it felt strange not to go inside. He still knew some of the players on the Cleveland team, whereas he rarely talked to anyone on Oakland, his current club.

He entered the visitors' locker room. He was early, over an hour before the other players were due, and he was the first to arrive. He hardly ever got to the park before the assigned time, but today he had to get treatment on his ankle, which he'd reinjured chasing a fly ball in the left field corner last night.

The boo birds had been out again. Like they always were when he came to Cleveland. Loud as ever. In fact, while he lay on the ground in left field as Edwards, the Oakland trainer, examined his ankle, they'd actually taunted him and thrown things in his direction. It would be very easy to get even with them tonight. All he had to do was sit out the game because of his injury. They couldn't very well boo him if they couldn't see him, could they?

Since Cleveland was still paying almost all his salary, they thought they had the right to boo him. At least that's what many of the caustic comments hurled his way implied. But then, being booed was nothing new. He was booed every game, everywhere, home and away. Maybe it bothered him a little that the booing was worse in Cleveland. Lots worse. Like a dark cloud hanging over what he'd accomplished here.

The only way Oakland would make the trade, in which they sent Cleveland several young players, would be if Cleveland continued paying most of his salary. Of course, as a veteran of ten years, all here, he could have voided the deal. But with his marriage disintegrating at the time, he welcomed a change. Even with Cleveland a perennial pennant contender, and Oakland a constant doormat.

Didn't he get a bum rap here? They gave him a huge long term contract, at ten million per year, then assumed he'd singlehandedly bring them a World Series title. As if the mere act of spending big money would guarantee a certain number of wins. Disregarding the notion that each game's outcome occurred on the field.

The media had relentlessly dug into his personal life, all the way back to the ghetto days of his youth, when he kept less than model company. And of course they scrutinized his marriage, making him the culprit for everything that happened.

After changing into a light sweatsuit, he entered the training area of the locker room. Edwards was already there, prepared to give him his treatment. The thought crossed his mind that he hadn't sat out a game in more than two years. He also knew that Edwards was skilled at his profession.

Edwards would get him ready to play tonight.

 

"Got lit up a few days ago," Terry told Rick Gonzalez from his bungalow phone the day after the road trip ended in Albuquerque.

"I noticed."

"How?"

"Believe it or not...your old coach is gettin' to be a computer whiz. Keep up on things that way."

"Wow."

"See where you haven't been doing so good all season," Rick said.

"Putting it mildly."

"Hang in there."

"I was wondering..." Terry spoke hesitantly. "Could I send you a tape? Maybe you can spot something."

Terry realized his request might be unreasonable. After all, Rick was now with another organization. He had every right to decline.

"Sure," Rick said. "We're in Detroit tomorrow night. Send it to the hotel."

Terry knew that once Rick studied the tape, he'd be able to help. He always had. After getting the name of the hotel, thanking him and ending the conversation, Terry felt better.

But not much.

Chapter Three

"You're not the closer tonight," Collum informed Terry in the bullpen right before the game with Oklahoma City was to begin.

"Oh," Terry replied, much more disappointed than surprised. "Alberts?"

"No. New kid. Tearing up A ball. They want us to give him a look."

Terry didn't respond. Instead he just sat on the bench and looked straight ahead. A ball from outfielders warming up rolled next to him, but he didn't even bother to pick it up.

"You're long relief tonight," Collum instructed and headed for the dugout.

“Long relief,” words that stuck in Terry's mind—the lowliest job on a pitching staff—not good enough to start a game, nor to be trusted with a late inning lead—mostly mop-up assignments, or when the starter gets knocked out early.

The game began. The first two Oklahoma City hitters reached base, on a walk and a single. Not that any of it registered with Terry, he was so deep in thought.

Wasn't it clear where things were headed? With the new closer arriving, they'd have to make a roster change. Send someone to a lower minor league classification or simply release them. Most likely that someone would be him. Long relief tonight, gone tomorrow.

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