The Closer

by Alan Mindell

  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.

  Maybe he should just step aside. Retire from the game once and for all, instead of letting things linger. Take action himself rather than wait for them to deliver the final humiliating blow.

  Was there any hope? Even if the new kid couldn't cut it here, or was so good they promoted him to the majors, wouldn't there always be some other new kid to challenge him? Someone younger and more talented than he. Someone they wanted to look at, who had a future.

  No question the younger players were getting better. And, enticed by the burgeoning salaries of the late 1990s, there was a steady stream of them. Plus they were getting better coaching, better conditioning and better weight training than when he broke in in the mid-80s.

  Oklahoma City ended up scoring two runs in the top of the first, when the clean-up hitter doubled in both runners. Harkey tied the game in the bottom half on a two-run homer. But Terry paid little attention, because he was growing more and more disconsolate. He actually had to fight back the impulse to simply trot off the field in the middle of the game, in effect submitting his resignation right then and there.

  "Mister, can I have another autograph?" a voice asked from behind him.

  There was also a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Karen Riley. She was standing next to him, on the other side of the short green wire fence, looking just as appealing as during their initial encounter, on opening day.

  "What happened to the first one?" he questioned her.

  "My brother took it to school," she answered. "And lost it."

  "Well...I guess he'll just have to come over here and get another one himself."

  "Oh no, Mister...I don't think he will."

  "Why not?"

  "He's too s
hy," she said after hesitating briefly.

  "Sorry," Terry shrugged, refusing to comply with her request.

  She stood there a moment, looking confused. She glanced at her family, sitting in the same place as on the other occasion, nearby in the grandstand. Then she turned back to Terry, who merely shrugged again. She emulated his gesture, but he saw a tinge of resentment in her expression. When she walked away, he tried to pay attention to the game. Oklahoma City had gone ahead again, 3-2, on a solo home run.

  Several minutes passed before he felt another tap on the shoulder. She stood next to him again, but this time her brother stood behind her. He was tall and slim for his age, perhaps ten, with blond hair and blue eyes.

  "Hi," Terry greeted him.

  The boy didn't respond and his expression was blank.

  "Your name's Billy?" Terry asked.

  No response, except for switching his weight repetitively from leg to leg.

  "How did you know his name, mister?" Karen interjected.

  "You told me the first time. Your name's Karen and your little sister is Tammy."

  She nodded. As on opening day, he addressed his signature to all three children.

  "Billy's a pitcher, too," she said. "Just like you."

  "I hope he's not a pitcher just like me," Terry muttered, almost to himself, while handing her back the program and pen.

  Neither child responded to his self-deprecation. He hesitated, mulling over what he was about to suggest. Team policy advised against players fraternizing with spectators. But, considering his current status with the team, what difference did it make?

  "Would you like to work out with me?" he asked Billy.

  The boy smiled—a painfully shy smile which Terry interpreted as a positive reply. He asked the boy if he'd like to attend tomorrow night's game. Another shy smile. Terry told them he'd leave four tickets at the main stadium entrance and suggested they meet right here, in the bullpen, just after admission gates opened. One more smile.

  After Billy and Karen left him and returned to their seats, Terry wondered if he'd made a mistake. Not because of team policy. No, what if he was no longer with the team tomorrow night?

  Chapter Four

  As Elston Murdoch headed for the right hand batters' box, the boos drowned out the sound of the Cleveland public address announcer introducing him. The game was on the line. Top of the ninth, Oakland trailing 5-4, tying run at first, one out. A double would likely tie the game; a homer would put them ahead of his former team.

  Before stepping into the box, Murdoch gazed at third base coach Livingston for a prospective sign. He hadn't gotten a hit all night, his best effort being a fly ball to deep center. His batting average had dipped below his weight, 215, but he wasn't concerned. He'd always been a slow starter. And of course, he'd been hampered by the ankle injury.

  Because of it, he was the designated hitter tonight. Therefore not playing left field, which at least saved him having to listen to the relentless hecklers out there. Here in Cleveland he usually attracted more than a thousand of them who monopolized an area just beyond the fence, directly behind him.

  He assumed his regular batting position—slight crouch, straightaway stance—and stared out at the Cleveland closer, Minton, a left hander. Minton fired the first pitch, a curve, low and inside. Ball one, nowhere near the strike zone.

  Murdoch wasn't the only Oakland player in a slump. In fact, the team as a whole had continued its dismal play, dropping fifteen of its first eighteen games. He'd love to win tonight, especially against his old team. Especially here in Cleveland, with everyone booing him. Since Oakland was leaving town tonight, following the game, he'd have the last laugh.

  He checked with Livingston again for a sign. Hit and run? No way, not with him batting. Not when a double would tie, a homer would put them ahead.

  Minton fired again. Another curve, this one outside and in the dirt. Ball two. He'd have to come in soon, or put the lead run on. Maybe a fastball in the hitting zone. Something to send into orbit.

  Minton delayed by stepping off the pitching rubber. Then he made a couple of lethargic throws to first, chasing the runner back. Finally he delivered to the plate. A fastball in the hitting zone, just as Murdoch anticipated. Tailing toward the outside part of the plate.

  Murdoch saw the pitch perfectly. He swung, and promptly felt the sweet sensation of solid contact. That home run sensation. Except this time he'd been slightly ahead of the outside tailing fastball. He did hit it sharply, but the ball stayed low. A hard one hopper right to the shortstop. An easy game-ending double play. With his bad ankle, Murdoch didn't even run to first.

  Walking slowly back to the dugout, he heard the raucous Cleveland fans celebrating their victory. Then he heard the boos again—boos that quickly became jeers and taunts as he finally reached the dugout.

  "This boy's got talent," Terry said to himself after catching Billy Riley's first actual pitch, once the two of them had warmed up playing catch.

  The youngster had terrific natural movement on a fastball with surprising velocity for a ten year old. Plus he was left handed. Something Terry immediately envied, left-handed pitchers being prized commodities in the majors.

  The sounds of El Paso taking batting practice in the background alternated with the sounds of Terry continuing to catch Billy's pitches, far down the right field line in El Paso Stadium. Harkey and Bottoms came over to watch. Before leaving, they both expressed accord with Terry's appraisal of Billy's ability.

  "Where's your little sister?" Terry asked Karen Riley, standing nearby, on the other side of the little wire fence.

  "Tammy?" she replied. "She's with Mama. They dropped us off and went home to pack."

  "Going away for the weekend?"

  "Not just for the weekend," she answered.

  But their dialogue was interrupted when one of Billy's pitches caromed off Terry's glove and rolled away. By the time he retrieved the ball, in the process enduring Harkey and Bottoms ribbing him for not being able to catch a ten-year-old’s pitch, he'd forgotten about Karen's comment. Minutes later, with his left hand getting sore from catching Billy's pitches, he decided to end the workout. As he and Billy walked over to Karen, he noticed the boy looked sad.

  "We can do this again if you'd like," Terry told him.

  Billy didn't answer. In fact he hadn't said a single word since he and his sister arrived. It was Karen who now replied.

  "No. We can't."

  "Oh?" Terry said.

  "We're moving to San Francisco."

  "Oh?" Terry repeated.

  "Our uncle," she said. "He lives there. He's a doctor."

  Terry then duplicated Billy's reticence, and he was sure, his own sad expression matched the boy's.

  Elston Murdoch had an awful night again. From Cleveland, Oakland had flown to Baltimore, where he'd gone 0 for 5, dropping his average below .200. The team lost 14-3, giving them by far the worst record in the majors. In fact, they were on pace to compile one of the worst records in baseball history.

  His postgame activities were also unsuccessful. His disguise for a drive through some of Baltimore's most rundown neighborhoods consisted of raincoat and rain hat. Not terribly original, but ultimately useful when, like in Chicago about two weeks ago, rain began pelting down.

  He returned to the hotel much earlier than usual.

  Chapter Five

  "I got your tape," Rick Gonzalez told Terry over the phone very late one night. "Didn't see anything we couldn't correct."

  Terry didn't reply. Partly because he was startled to hear from Rick at 3:00 a.m. And partly because he was groggy from sleep.

  "Thought we'd work on it in person."

  "Oh?" Terry managed. "You coming down here?"

  "No. You're coming up here."

  Again, Terry didn't answer. The late hour certainly had something to do with it. But of greater consequence, he hadn't a clue what Rick was talking about. A player didn't just up and travel during the season to work with a forme
r pitching coach now with another organization...Unless...

  "You've been traded," Rick said, providing the missing link that was just entering Terry's mind. "You fly out later this morning."

  "To your Triple A?" Terry mumbled.

  "No. Here. To Oakland."

  "To Oakland?"

  "Right. Your flight's already booked."

  "You mean I'm in the show?" Terry said, still groggy and not convinced the entire conversation was no more than a dream.

  "Congratulations."

  "I don't believe it," Terry exclaimed.

  "Believe it," Rick replied. "But I've got to warn you. We've got a bad team here. And an awful bullpen."

  "Sounds like I'd fit right in," Terry managed, chuckling.

  "That'll change," Rick answered seriously. "I've got a theory. Prevailing winds here favor the knuckleball. Especially your kind."

  In his elation, Terry barely accomplished writing down the flight information Rick then gave him. After hanging up, afraid he'd wake in the morning and find this actually was no more than a dream and that he wasn't really in the major leagues after all, he purposely stayed awake the rest of the night.

  Rick Gonzalez stayed awake too. But his reason was much different than Terry's. Very simply, he was too keyed up to sleep. What he hadn't told Terry was that he, Rick, had been promoted to Oakland manager yesterday. After nearly thirty years in professional baseball, he had finally gotten a real break. Last season, stuck in the Philadelphia minor league system as pitching coach in El Paso, wondering if he'd had his last big league employment twenty years ago when his playing days ended. Then, this January, returning to "the show," as Oakland's pitching coach. Followed only four months later by yesterday's news that he had become a major league manager.

  Not that, lying in his bed near dawn, he had any illusions about the job. Without question, he was the beneficiary of simple economics. With the team playing so miserably, club administration was motivated to, in effect, abandon all hope for a successful season by aggressively cutting costs. Something they began with him. His salary would be nowhere near that of Lance Staley, the veteran manager he replaced. And they had already informed him they wouldn't be hiring a new pitching coach, that he would continue performing that function as well. In addition, they had fired the bench coach and bullpen coach. So, where other teams had a manager plus five or six or seven coaches, Oakland now had only Rick and two others, Clayton, a hitting coach, and Livingston, a fielding specialist.