"I don't," Rick answered quickly. "But I'm afraid if
we
don't do something,
they
will. And if he's in trouble, we might be able to help."
Terry nodded. There was another knock at the door. Clayton again. Time for pregame practice to begin. Terry and Rick got up and followed Clayton out of the room.
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Oakland kept winning. Midway through the road trip they swept a doubleheader in Detroit, improving to five games above .500 and moving ahead of Seattle into second place in their division, only three and a half games behind Texas. Plus, in the wild card race (the second place team with the best record in each league qualified for the playoffs at the end of the season), they trailed only New York, by just two games.
Terry continued his fine pitching, recording his fourteenth straight save in the nightcap of the doubleheader. And Rick's magic with the young pitchers, especially Myong Lee Kwan, persisted. In fact, over the last thirty games, the pitching staff's combined earned run average was below 3.00, the best in the majors during that period.
But the big news was Murdoch's torrid hitting. It had become the talk of baseball. Since that first game in Seattle, he'd batted above .450, and his season's average climbed to .320. And near the end of the road trip, his consecutive game hitting streak reached thirty, the longest in the big leagues in more than three years.
Murdoch's name was now being mentioned in connection with Joe DiMaggio's long-standing record hitting streak of fifty-six games in a row.
Chapter Eleven
"I don't think he's after a hooker," Rick said while driving, he and Terry following Murdoch through a rundown Boston neighborhood. "Not when he could get practically any woman he wanted, without costing himself a penny."
"Maybe he doesn't want to risk any publicity," Terry replied.
"All some media guy'd have to do is spot him down here. He'd get plenty publicity."
"Maybe he doesn't care."
"But I care," Rick answered firmly. "Guy chasing DiMaggio's record... Chasing whatever he's chasing down here."
Terry merely shrugged, probably less at Rick's comment than at his own inane responses. Perhaps he could be excused though, because it was late, he was tired and didn't feel especially comfortable in this vicinity.
"Besides," Rick added. "He doesn't care if someone recognizes him, why the disguise?"
Terry couldn't disagree. Ten minutes ago they had come up behind Murdochâlike Rick, driving a rental carâand observed him wearing a brown pullover knit cap above a long dark wig. He looked much more like a strung-out poet or musician than the ballplayer who'd gotten a key ninth inning hit just an hour ago, in their 5-3 victory over Boston.
"He's not looking for drugs either," Rick said, sounding speculative.
"What makes you say that?"
"He'd have stopped and scored by now. Only profession outnumbering hookers around here is the drug dealers."
Terry had to agree. He'd seen them standing on practically every street corner. Police were also well represented. In a span of five minutes, he'd counted almost a dozen patrol cars.
"I'm sure you're the only manager in baseball that would be out here like this," Terry said.
Rick didn't answer right away. Terry noticed, even in the dark, a very serious expression cross his face. When Rick finally spoke, he sounded distant.
"This neighborhood's a little too familiar."
Unsure of his meaning, Terry didn't know how to react, so he remained silent. Besides, his attention was diverted by a large group of men in the middle of a block, huddled around a bonfire, obviously for warmth.
"When I was pitching," Rick continued, "arm troubles weren't my only problem."
"Drugs?" Terry guessed.
"Pain killers for my arm. Whatever I couldn't get from our team doctor."
"They sell pain killers down here?"
"They sell everything down here," Rick declared.
"Were they illegal?"
"No. Only thing illegal was I didn't have a prescription."
Terry shook his head, no doubt again more from his own ignorance than the information Rick had just imparted.
"I remember someone once bragging," Rick chuckled. "A famous movie actor or director, I think⦠That he could score whatever he needed in any U.S. city in forty-five minutes. I could do it in thirty."
Terry shook his head again.
"So," Rick went on, lowering his voice, "if Murdoch's got some problem, I'd like to help."
"Speaking of Murdoch," Terry said after a brief pause, "aren't you following him too close?"
Rick apparently hadn't noticed that he'd driven within a few yards of the back of Murdoch's car. He slowed down, letting another vehicle enter their lane, between their car and Murdoch's. Then he allowed Murdoch to gradually pull well ahead of them.
"Heard you're sponsoring a kid for Little League," Rick remarked a few minutes later.
"I helped get him on a team," Terry answered. "Saw him play the other day."
"Heard he's pretty good."
"Tossed a shutout."
"Bring him out to the stadium before one of our games," Rick suggested. "Like to see him pitch."
"You sure it's all right? Not against league rules?"
"I won't tell if you won't tell," Rick grinned. "Anyway...with brass so concerned about PR..."
They both laughed.
"Seriously," Rick continued. "Your involvement can make a big difference for a kid."
"Not just for the kid," Terry replied.
"Reminds me when I was young," Rick said a little sadly. "My dad used to play catch with me. When he came home every night, that's the first thing we did. I'd wait by the door..."
Terry didn't answer because he was thinking of his own father. And the impact his father had had on him.
"Forty years ago," Rick added, shaking his head, "and I still remember."
They were both silent several minutes while Murdoch continued leading them up and down streets of deteriorated Boston neighborhoods, with no apparent direction or destination. When again they came upon the same group of men surrounding the bonfire, it became evident he was even doubling back into areas he'd already covered. Eventually, he returned to their hotel parking lot.
"Better give him a few minutes," Terry suggested after Rick parked the car. "Before we go inside."
"Sure," Rick replied, removing the key from the ignition.
They waited ten minutes. As they walked from the parking lot to the hotel lobby, Terry couldn't avoid the irony of the last hour or so. They had set out to discover what Murdoch was doing late at night. The only discoveries Terry made, however, pertained to Rick.
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"You guys out cruisin' tonight?" Murdoch asked Terry and Rick the instant they entered the lobby.
There was no one else present, except a lone desk clerk stationed on the other side of the huge room. Terry could see by his scowl that Murdoch, no longer wearing his disguise, wasn't happy. Neither he nor Rick replied to Murdoch's question. He hoped the expression on his own face didn't look as foolish as the one on Rick's.
"Or were you guys tailin' me?" Murdoch accused. "I doubled back on purpose...you were still there."
Again no reply, but Terry promptly remembered passing the bonfire twice.
"Can't claim you were there by accident. Neither you guys look the type to be chasin' what guys chase in that neighborhood..."
"Just seein' we could help," Rick mumbled, his foolish expression still present.
"Oh...I get it," Murdoch answered sarcastically. "Case I'm in some kind of trouble."
"Yeah," Rick muttered. "Case you're in some kind of trouble."
"Did it look like I was in trouble?"
"Just wanted to help," Terry managed, his meager contribution to the exchange no more convincing than Rick's.
"You
can
help," Murdoch declared. "By minding your own business."
Murdoch turned and, without glancing back at them, walked directly to a hotel elevator and stepped inside. As the door closed, Terry could see the scowl still on his face.
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Terry was surprised when Rick called on the Oakland Stadium bullpen phone, asked that he warm up, and soon summoned him into the game. True, it was the ninth inning and the score was closeâusual prerequisites to Terry entering a game. But tonight Oakland was behind,
not
ahead, trailing visitor Minnesota 2-1. Yes, the bases were loaded with none out, and obviously Rick wanted to avoid falling further behind. However, this wasn't a "save" situation. Terry was in a different role tonight.
When Terry got to the mound, Rick, catcher Bailey, and the entire infield were already there. Bailey left for home plate, to catch Terry's eight allotted warm-ups. Rick soon left for the dugout, though not before delivering a cogent message.
"Top of our order's up in the bottom half. Get 'em out and give us a chance."
All four infielders remained at the mound. As Terry tossed his first warm-up, he thought he heard a few snickers behind him. Clearly, they hadn't forgotten their little late-night escapade, with him as the target. Neither had he.
"You heard the skipper," first baseman Phil Steiner smirked. "Get 'em out and we'll win."
"Yeah," shortstop Felix Oates seconded. "I lead off, then Collie, and Murdoch, and Steiner, and O'Rourke. We'll scratch out coupla runs."
Terry couldn't help thinking, as Oates rattled off the names, that Oates had a future as a baseball broadcaster.
"We win," third baseman Jack O'Rourke contributed as Terry tossed his final warm-up, "got a party afterward. This time you're invited."
"No thanks," Terry muttered.
"Now, don't be a bad sport," Steiner mocked in a squeaky voice that sounded like a child's.
The four infielders laughed. Terry, of course, didn't. They returned to their positions. Bailey came out to the mound to quickly review signals, and then returned to behind the plate. The Minnesota batter, a righty who had already collected three hits, stepped into the box.
Terry fired his first pitch, a knuckler that dived low and outside for ball one. His next pitch, another knuckler, never reached the plate. Bailey blocked it with his chest protector. Ball two.
Terry took a deep breath and glanced at the runners leading off each base. He knew he had to come in or risk walking in a run. Bailey called for a fastball. Terry obliged. The batter was ready for it. He swung and smashed a low liner screaming toward left field. Oates took one step to his right at shortstop and dove headlong. The ball stuck in the webbing of his glove and didn't topple out when he hit the turf. One out.
The next batter, another righty, entered the box. Rick, in the dugout, signaled with his right arm for Terry to keep his wrist stiff. Terry concentrated on that for his first pitch, another knuckler. Except the prevailing wind in Oakland Stadium wasn't blowing, and the "diver" didn't dive. The batter swung and blistered a grounder between short and third. This time it was O'Rourke who dove, headlong to his left.
His timing was perfect. He snagged the ball on its second hop. From his knees, he threw to Quinn at second base. The throw was in the dirt though, and Collie had to scoop it to record the force. As he pivoted to make the relay to first, the runner from first bore down on him. He slid into Collie, disrupting his throw. The ball hit the dirt about six feet in front of the stretching first baseman Steiner. He caught it in mid-hop while keeping his left foot on the bag. Double play, inning over, Minnesota hadn't scored. Rick led the dugout in offering high-fives to all the infielders.
Oates began the bottom of the ninth with a looping single to right center. Quinn sacrifice bunted him to second. Murdoch, who already had a single and double for the evening, was intentionally walked, even though it meant putting the potential winning run on base.
Steiner laced a single to right, the runners moving up a base. That left things up to O'Rourke, with the bases loaded, one out and Oakland still trailing by a run. For some reason he couldn't identify, Terry felt tenser than if he were pitching right now. He watched the Minnesota pitching coach go to the mound, and, following a brief exchange, return to his dugout without removing the pitcher.
O'Rourke took the first pitch, which was inside. He fouled the next pitch over the backstop behind home plate. He dribbled the ensuing pitch foul outside the third base line.
Finally, he got a pitch he could handle, a breaking ball that hung up in the zone. He drilled it, the ball kissing turf in left center. It rolled all the way to the wall. Oates and Murdoch easily scored the tying and winning runs, to cement a 3-2 Oakland victory.
Terry, elated, was the first to reach and hug O'Rourke, near second base. He didn't realize it at the time, but instead of a save, he'd just recorded his very first win as a major leaguer. What he did realize right then was how
instrumental O'Rourke and his infield mates had been in the victory. Both defensively, in not allowing Minnesota to score off him, and offensively, with a slight assist from Murdoch, producing the winning rally.
"I'll go to the party," Terry had to shout to O'Rourke because by that time they were all surrounded by yelling, backslapping teammates.
Even with all the excitement, Terry was able to spot O'Rourke's wink in his direction.
Chapter Twelve
“I think if you change your grip, Billy,” Rick told the boy.