by Alan Mindell
Murdoch gazed at her questioningly, so she elaborated. She told him how Lauren had helped her during the pregnancy, guiding her through that difficult period. How she, Carly, had run away after the baby was born. How she'd interpreted Lauren's recent reentry into her life as a definite omen. Then, lastly, Carly disclosed Lauren's current crisis.
"If I don't get myself straightened out," she declared, "I've wasted everything she's done for me."
As when she first told him of the baby, Murdoch put his arms around his daughter and held her several minutes. This time it was his eyes, not hers, which started to moisten.
Terry began a new streak. Unfortunately, this one was negative. For the second consecutive time, he suffered a blown save. And this performance was no better than the prior.
It should have been easy. Oakland led 7-3 in the bottom of the ninth in Seattle. At the same stadium where he'd gotten his first save almost three months ago. The same sounds of a train whistle blowing greeted his entry into the game from the bullpen. The same late-night foggy condition existed as he stood on the mound with two on and two out. His first pitch hit the first batter, loading the bases. The next batter hit the next pitch to deep left field. This time Murdoch wasn't able to catch it, not when it landed halfway up the bleachers for a game-tying grand slam.
There was some good news. Franks, whom Rick summoned to replace Terry, got the final out of the ninth, and then pitched a scoreless bottom of the tenth. And Murdoch hit a two-run double in the top of the inning, propelling Oakland to a 9-7 win.
"Make me a promise..." Lauren said to Terry, the two of them sitting with Karen and Tammy in the grandstand at Billy's Little League park.
"Sure..."
"No sympathy."
He nodded.
"I don't want you feeling sorry for me," she emphasized. "Or for the kids."
"I promise. No sympathy."
She didn't reply, but appeared satisfied with his response.
"Truth is," he grinned, attempting to lighten a tense moment, "the way I've pitched lately, I'm the one that might ask for sympathy."
She smiled. His gaze turned to Billy out on the mound. The game was in the first inning and the boy had started well, striking out the first two hitters. It seemed to Terry that the batters were having trouble seeing Billy's deliveries in the early evening twilight, since the sun had disappeared and it wasn't dark enough yet for the park lights to provide much illumination.
Terry had phoned Lauren from Seattle near the end of the series there, and she informed him Billy's team, "The Dodgers," was playing in the league championship game tonight, and Billy was pitching. Since today was an off day for Oakland and the next game wasn't until tomorrow night in Texas, Terry had gotten permission from Rick to fly to San Francisco this morning, then on to Texas later tonight.
"Feeling okay?" he asked Lauren after Billy fired a strike to the next hitter.
"Make me another promise..."
"Sure..."
"No hanging on every sniffle."
"Sure," he replied brusquely, a bit hurt.
"Sorry," she said, touching his hand. "Guess I'm a little worried. I saw the doctor this morning..."
She paused briefly. He wasn't sure whether it was for effect, or because Billy had thrown another strike.
"He told me I shouldn't get my hopes up," she continued. "That there are often cases like mine with very few symptoms, then practically overnight, the patient falls apart.... I don't want to fall apart."
He was aware of the tears in her eyes. But he also saw determination in them. Though several thoughts ran through his mind, he didn't verbalize them. Not that she would have been able to hear him right then, anyway. Billy had fired strike three for the third out, and spectators cheered. Karen and Tammy, both seated on the other side of Lauren from Terry, may have been the loudest, informing everyone within earshot that Billy was their big brother.
There were two outs in the bottom of the sixth, the last scheduled inning of the Little League championship game. The Dodgers led 1-0, on Billy's run-scoring triple. Terry could see tension in the expressions of most of the people sitting nearby. Tension certainly having to do with the score, but probably more a reflection of the fact that Billy, with only one batter left to retire, was pitching a no hitter.
He fired a strike. Spectators applauded. Terry felt tense himself, as if he were the one on the mound, not Billy. It was completely dark now, well past twilight, and the park lights were in full force, which should have enabled batters to see Billy's pitches much better than earlier. Something not indicated, though, by the last five batters, all strike out victims.
Strike two. One more and Billy would have his no hitter and The Dodgers the championship. He wound up and threw the next pitch. The batter swung and lifted a little pop fly beyond the mound. Terry gasped, fearful the ball would drop before any of the infielders could get to it. But Billy, running back and reaching over his head and behind himself, snagged it in the webbing of his glove for the final out.
His teammates mobbed him, right there in the middle of the field, where he'd caught the ball. Terry, Lauren and the girls got up to join him, but sat back down following the introduction of an awards ceremony. In the next few minutes, Billy and all his teammates received individual trophies commemorating their championship. And Billy won a special plaque for being the league's most valuable player. On their way to the field, once the ceremony was over, Terry couldn't help beaming.
"Congratulations," he said to Billy, shaking his hand.
"Thanks, Terry," Billy replied, showing hardly any of his usual shyness. "For all your help."
"I hope just a little of your talent rubs off on me," Terry grinned, still gripping Billy's hand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Murdoch rarely exchanged words with his teammates on the road. Or at home either, for that matter. Clearly he preferred his own company. Therefore, Terry was surprised when, during pregame batting practice in Texas, Murdoch approached him as he stood near the bullpen in left field.
"Thought you might be interested," Murdoch began. "Carly's doing good."
"I was wondering..."
"Your friend's been a solid influence."
"Lauren?"
"Yes, Lauren," Murdoch replied. "Carly told me about her...situation. Sorry to hear."
"Thanks."
"She got Carly to begin a drug program," Murdoch said.
Terry was surprised again, recalling Carly's staunch opposition. Murdoch told him she now resided in a very plain dormitory-style facility at one end of the hospital. And, that although her first few days at the program hadn't been easy, she was determined to finish.
"You able to call her?" Terry asked.
"Any night between seven and ten."
"What about visiting?"
"By appointment only. With the approval of the program administrator."
A fly ball from batting practice landed nearby and Terry retrieved it, tossing it back toward the infield.
"Oh...almost forgot," Murdoch chuckled. "She asked about her Uncle Terry."
"What you say?"
"That he looks kinda lost and could use some help, and might take him out for dinner."
"That an invitation?" Terry asked, surprised once more.
"That's an invitation," Murdoch answered.
*****
Evidently none of Billy's pitching talent rubbed off on Terry. Not later that night in Texas, anyway. No doubt his just being in Texas had plenty to do with it. His unpleasant memories here before the trade. The possibility that, based on recent performance, he could wind up here again—back in the minor leagues. And naturally, just to reinforce all this, it was a very hot August night.
Trudging off the mound after blowing his third consecutive save, he took no consolation from the fact this outing was actually a slight improvement over the two previous. In those, he failed to retire a single batter. All eight men reached base safely. Tonight, of the four batters he faced, one at leas
t did not reach base. The one who hit a 350 foot line out to center field. A sacrifice fly that drove in the winning run.
"Maybe someone else should be closing," Terry told Rick.
"You're the closer."
"I haven't been doing the job."
"You're the closer," Rick repeated.
The two men stood silently a moment, in the visiting manager's office at Chicago Stadium, half an hour before their game. Terry had purposely waited until they left Texas to confer with him, almost certain nothing positive could ever occur there. Also, he hoped Rick's mood would improve with a change in scene, since Oakland had just lost three straight in Texas, dropping them five games behind in their division, three and a half for the wild card.
"Spot anything I'm doing wrong?" Terry asked.
"No, except your concentration."
The two men looked at each other. Terry could tell Rick wasn't happy. Why should he be? His team was in a losing streak. And his closer had lost his concentration.
"Can't expect to be the closer," Terry said grimly, "if I'm not doing the job."
"You've done the job," Rick responded emphatically. "Even you don't get another save the rest of the season."
Terry didn't reply.
"Where would we be without you? You've taken the pressure off the other pitchers. Starters know all they have to do is throw six, seven good innings. And the other relievers—they know they get the game to you, we got a solid chance to win."
"Not lately."
"Okay...so you had a couple bad outings. But that doesn't change things. Everyone still thinks the same way. They get the game to you, you're gonna finish it."
Terry was silent.
"Long as I'm the manager," Rick declared, "you're the closer."
When he walked onto the Chicago Stadium field ten minutes later, Terry felt much better. His manager had confidence in him. Maybe that would make a difference in his next performance.
It didn't. Not that the Chicago batters had anything to do with it. No, for all intents, Oakland could just as easily been playing in Detroit or Cleveland or New York. Simply put, the Chicago batters never had a chance to hit. Before Rick removed him from the game, Terry walked the only three he faced. On twelve straight pitches out of the strike zone.
Franks, his replacement, also failed this time. He inherited a 6-3 lead, albeit with the bases loaded, thanks to Terry. A double and two singles later, Oakland had lost 7-6.
Afterward, Terry remained in the dugout, sitting by himself. For some reason he remembered his appearance on postgame television, when the announcer mentioned the rookie of the year award. What a joke! What a difference a couple of weeks could make! At this rate, he might not last the season, whether Rick believed in him or not.
One thing for certain, no way the award would be given to someone who finished the season back in the minor leagues.
"Do the kids know?" Terry asked Lauren.
"Yes," she answered softly.
Silence followed, except for the mingled sounds of baseball and music coming from the children's rooms. The road trip had finally ended, and they both were sitting in their regular place, on her living room couch. He touched her forearm as he spoke again.
"What do they know?"
"That there are times when I don't feel well. That I might be going to the hospital. That I might not be coming home."
His only response was a shake of his head. How could things have gone so bad so quickly? His pitching career in the tank. And far worse, the news about her.
"I told them," she went on with resignation in her voice, "that sooner or later it happens to everyone."
"They understand?"
"I think so. One consolation, unlike with their father, with me they will at least have had some warning."
"I don't think that's much consolation," he said sadly.
She nodded.
"What about Tammy?" he asked. "She's a little young to make sense of all this."
"I told her that after the hospital maybe I'd go off to some strange faraway land."
It was his turn to nod.
"Of course," she added, smiling faintly, "she wanted to go with me to the faraway land."
He smiled also. He decided to discontinue his probing, especially since the evening, at least until now, had gone so well.
The circus was in town. Much earlier, they had taken the children. Surprisingly, Karen enjoyed it the most. For some reason, she'd felt instant affinity with the trapeze artists. Following the performance, with Terry's help, she'd even gotten autographs from them.
After the circus, they had stopped for hamburgers. Then for ice cream at a little parlor. Back at the house, Terry had willingly provided equal time between Billy's room and the girls', listening first to baseball, then to music.
"I didn't realize Karen was drawn to danger," he told Lauren, recalling her attraction to the trapeze artists.
"I don't think she is. She just likes people who are."
"I guess we have that in common."
But his last words diminished in volume. For his interest in conversation was declining in proportion to his increase in interest in her, sitting beside him. Yes, she looked sad from their conversation and tired from their earlier activities, yet she still looked very pretty to him. As he gazed at her, he noticed her nose and her neck, and how feminine they appeared.
He touched her neck and gently drew her toward him. He hugged her. Then he kissed her. She responded, at least at first. As louder sounds came from the children's rooms, however, she pulled away.
"The kids..." she said. "I'm afraid this isn't the right time."
"Time, Lauren," he reacted strongly. "Who knows how much we have left?"
What happened next possibly could only be explained by all his recent frustrations. Her illness. Carly's problems. His own awful pitching. It certainly was far from his style to force himself on anyone.
But that's exactly what he did. He tried to kiss her again. And again. She kept pushing him away.
Finally she angrily got up off the couch. He angrily got up too, and headed for the door. She made no attempt to walk him there, nor did either of them speak a single word. He didn't even say good bye to the kids.
As he closed the door behind himself, once more he heard the mingled sounds of baseball and music coming from their rooms.
Terry spent most of the next day brooding about his behavior at Lauren's. Fortunately, there was a game that night, so he could get his mind off things for a while. Fortunately, he didn't have to pitch, so he couldn't add to his streak of ineffectiveness. Unfortunately, Oakland lost again, a 9-2 thrashing at the hands of Toronto.
After the game, he drove home with Collie Quinn, who mentioned that he'd lined up a couple of women. One was for him, Collie, and the other was for Jack O'Rourke. O'Rourke, though, had to stay and get treatment on a temperamental hamstring. Would he, Terry, like to substitute? In his dismal mental state, Terry reluctantly accepted.
"You won't be sorry," Collie said. "She's a knockout."
"Why don't you take her then?"
"Wish I could. But I'd lose my source."
"Your source your girl?" Terry asked.
"You got it."
Collie turned out right, Terry's woman was a knockout. She was in her mid-twenties, blonde, busty and had long alluring legs. The last item was evident while she and her partner, a brunette who was not nearly as attractive, did a sort of striptease in the middle of Collie's bedroom floor.
Loud music was playing. Terry and Collie each sat on a bed on opposite sides of the room. Terry watched Collie as he definitely watched his girl much more than he watched his own. The women were tossing clothing everywhere. With each article, Terry was growing more depressed as he kept flashing back to last night with Lauren.
"You're absolutely in the big leagues now, Terry," Collie shouted gleefully across the room. His unkempt long red hair flowed as he bent down to snatch a couple of female clothing items.
The w
omen finished their dance. Nearly in a state of undress, they scurried into a bathroom. Terry motioned for Collie to turn down the music. He obliged.
"Wish we could trade, man," Collie said, his tongue practically hanging out. "Love that blonde."
"I've got a better idea."
"What?"
"You can have them both," Terry spoke firmly while getting up off the bed and heading for the door.
"Hey man, where you goin'?"
"To my place."
"Want me to send the blonde over?"
"No," Terry sounded even more definite.
"Hey man, what do I do with two women?"
"Same thing you'd do with one, except have twice the fun."
Terry opened the door and shut it firmly behind himself.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Back off!" Murdoch exclaimed. "No way! I'd go full speed ahead. On both counts."
"But I'm not getting anywhere with her, and I hurt the team every time I pitch."
The two of them were sitting across a corner table from each other in an expensive Italian restaurant with red and white cotton tablecloths and photographs of various locales in Italy on the walls. Terry had already informed Murdoch of the episode with Lauren, and his discussion with Rick about remaining the closer. Plus that, in both areas, he was inclined to retreat. Revelations that caused Murdoch's strong reaction.
"Let's start with baseball," Murdoch advised, aggressively digging his fork into a large plate of spaghetti.
"Okay," Terry replied, showing much less appetite for a ravioli dish.
"That first slump is key to staying in the big leagues. Guys who can't hang in there and fight their way through end up back in the minors."
Terry didn't reply. Instead he gazed between his ravioli and Murdoch.
"Same with Lauren," Murdoch continued. "You got to be patient and fight your way through."
"She acts like she doesn't want me," Terry replied sadly.
"She say that?"
"Not in so many words."
"I read her right," Murdoch said, about to ingest a huge forkful of spaghetti, "she's damn proud. Hates the idea of sympathy."
