by Alan Mindell
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.
Tonight's game probably shouldn't have been played. And probably wouldn't were it not their final scheduled appearance in New York for the year. A heavy downpour delayed the start more than an hour. And a steady drizzle fell during the rest of the evening.
Ironically, the night after his streak ended, Murdoch drove in all five Oakland runs with five consecutive hits. But, he also contributed significantly to the loss, losing a fly ball in the lights with the bases loaded in the eighth inning. The three baserunners scored, turning a 5-3 Oakland lead into a 6-5 deficit they couldn't overcome.
Besides feeling pretty good about his team, Rick felt very relieved they were leaving New York without Murdoch being harmed. Rick had checked with Police Captain Strader about four o'clock and learned there were no more death threats. The two Strader took seriously both mentioned the hitting streak. And now that it had ended and they were returning to California, Strader speculated that the danger had diminished.
Sitting there in the airplane, Rick suddenly found himself shaking his head, still unable to reconcile New York's methods in aborting Murdoch's streak the previous night. Save DiMaggio's record, even if it cost them the game. And it had, the deliberate walk with the bases loaded forcing in what ultimately became the winning run.
What had baseball come to? Where was the integrity? In a game with potential wild card implications, one team had, in essence, let the other team win. Did New York take them that lightly? That they could afford to give them a game and not have it matter in the final standings.
The standings—that's where his thoughts turned next. Oakland had fallen to three and a half behind Texas in the division and three behind New York for the wild card. Maybe the elderly man he had encountered on the flight to San Diego was right. That they soon would drop out of contention. That a small market team really couldn't compete.
But Rick liked his team. The solid pitching, good defense...and Murdoch. Of course it would be nice to add a player or two, especially a power hitter who could follow Murdoch in the lineup. Someone who might protect him a little, keep opponents from simply pitching around him so often. With the July 31 trade deadline only about a week away, Rick made a mental note to discuss some possibilities with front office.
This was often the time when teams in the pennant race offered future prospects to teams no longer in contention, in exchange for established players, thereby strengthening themselves for the final two months of the season. Non-contenders benefited by cutting current payroll, while hopefully enhancing their future.
Unfortunately, Rick sensed what front office's reaction would be. The budget. Make do with the players they had. Unless he wanted to acquire more prospects for an established player. Murdoch, to be specific. Which, of course, he didn't.
He could debate that their main competition would improve themselves—Texas, for example, its pitching; New York, infield and bench. But his argument probably would have no impact. Not if it increased costs.
He must have fallen asleep, because his next conscious awareness was of the plane taxiing toward the arrival gate. Perhaps expressing relief that New York was no more than a distant memory, he took a deep breath. Then he glanced at his watch. 5:00 a.m. Really 2:00 a.m. Oakland time.
The team had an off day tomorrow. Actually today. Good thing...he could use one.
Chapter Eighteen
"No one else I can call."
This time Terry was quickly able to identify the voice coming through the telephone in his bungalow. Who except Murdoch had called very late at night recently? This time, unlike the prior, when Murdoch summoned his help in Los Angeles to locate his daughter, Terry wasn't asleep. In fact, he wasn't even in bed, since he'd just arrived from the airport, where it had taken longer than usual to rent a car.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Carly..." Murdoch replied, his voice sounding strange. "Meet me...hospital."
"Which hospital?" Terry inquired, now alarmed.
"Near..."
Terry assumed he meant the one less than a mile away, which he remembered from one of his walks.
"I'll be there in five minutes," he said. "Where do we meet?"
"`Mergency room," Murdoch mumbled, and then hung up.
Approaching Murdoch, who was standing in a corner of the emergency room, Terry saw he wasn't wearing one of his disguises. Though it almost seemed as if he was. Clothes mussed, badly needing a shave, face dirty, hair unkempt. Looking very much like Terry felt, this late at night.
"Where is she?" Terry asked.`
"Already...took her," Murdoch muttered.
"What is it?"
"Expectin' somethin'. Not this."
"What is it?" Terry repeated, more emphatically.
Murdoch, appearing practically in shock, didn't answer.
"What's wrong with her?" Terry said, now very alarmed.
Again Murdoch didn't answer, this time merely shrugging. Terry noticed his upper lip begin to quiver. And his left hand shaking. In fact, he seemed far more nervous, even out of control, than at any time during the long streak.
"O.D.?" Terry guessed.
Murdoch nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"Can we see her?"
"They want us...register her," Murdoch said, barely above a whisper. "Told them...wait for you."
Terry didn't answer.
"Media find out...she my daughter..." Murdoch continued, rambling almost incoherently. "Crucify me. Her too. Swarm 'round here...like flies"
"I'll register her," Terry said, surprised at his own words.
"Don't think they let you..."
"Let me try," Terry replied, beginning to edge toward what he assumed was the admissions office.
"How is she?" Terry, still alarmed, asked the doctor, a thin man in his mid forties, who had just entered Carly's hospital room and was now taking her pulse.
"Seen worse."
Standing near Murdoch, beside Carly's bed, Terry didn't know how the doctor could say that. Not unless he was comparing her to patients already deceased. Which, when first coming into the room, Terry had feared was precisely her status. Then he'd observed the barely perceptible movement of her upper body as she breathed. She looked terribly pale, gaunt. As if, rather than an ordinary hospital room, she belonged in the intensive care unit. Where, he later learned, she'd been initially taken.
"She be okay?" Murdoch tensely asked the doctor.
"She's not out of the woods yet."
"Anything we can do?" Terry inquired.
"Yeah, keep her away from that stuff. Next time she might not make it this far."
After writing some notations on a clipboard he was holding, the doctor departed, leaving Terry and Murdoch by themselves to stand vigil. Apparently, Murdoch had visited a restroom, because he looked much better than earlier. While he still needed a shave, his face was clean and his clothing straighter.
"That damn streak..." he said solemnly. "Glad it's over. Don't think she could handle it...all that publicity."
Terry nodded. But his thoughts were elsewhere. Back to the admissions office, where less than an hour ago he'd managed to get Carly officially admitted without implicating Murdoch—by telling several lies. Her last name became his, Landers. Her address was his bungalow. Due to the recent marriage between her father and his step sister, he'd just become her uncle. No, h
e knew nothing of any drug use. He'd discovered her comatose after returning from a business trip (he didn't even want to acknowledge being a ballplayer, because of the possible connection with Murdoch).
He nearly smiled now at his own creativity. If admissions personnel believed any of what he'd said, he had no idea why. Unless, of course, at that time of night, no one really cared. Or the graveyard shift didn't attract the most competent people.
"I ever need a witness to vouch for me," Murdoch remarked much later, after he'd had a chance to regain his composure and Terry told him some of his story, "you get the nod."
Terry grinned at Murdoch's comment. Then he noticed the initial light of dawn filtering into the room. Fortunately, their next game wasn't until tomorrow night.
"What's the name of that old movie?" Terry asked Lauren as they sat in their regular place, on her living room couch. "Around the World in Eighty Days?"
"I think so," she answered.
"Feels like I've been around it twice in the last four days."
"New York can do that to you," she smiled.
"So can spending half the night in a hospital."
No doubt he'd used the film analogy because a movie had been the evening's principal activity. An animated movie based on a Greek myth, thoroughly enjoyed by the children. They'd all had dinner in a Chinese restaurant before, and after, tackled a picture puzzle of several famous women that Lauren had bought for the girls. By the time they finished, it was nearly eleven and she sent the children to bed.
No question he'd just mentioned the hospital because it was very much on his mind. He then told her about the drug overdose. How Murdoch had summoned his help. How he'd tried to nap several times today, without much success, before this evening's activities.
"Sounds like some of my nights in Texas," she said. "I worked with a lot of runaways there...never knew what they were going to do."
"Murdoch's daughter was a runaway."
"Oh?" she replied, looking surprised.
"We found her on the streets of Hollywood."
