to be perfect to keep the game alive. Ball and runner arrived at their destination simultaneously, the runner sliding, but Bailey blocking the plate as he caught the ball. The umpire elevated his right arm. Extra innings.
"Hey, Black Boy...nice goin'. We get to party some more."
When Murdoch reached the dugout, several teammates came over, offering high fives. He motioned them away though. He was scheduled to bat fifth in the top of the tenth, but when the first two Oakland batters struck out, it appeared he'd have to wait until the next inningâif there were a next inning. A subsequent single and walk, however, brought him to the plate.
His arrival there was greeted by the usual loud boos, but not loud enough to drown out his companion along the left field line. Was he using some kind of amplification, or was his voice just naturally shrill?
"Hey, Black Boy...good thing you kept the party alive. Now you can make an out and go 0 for 5."
Murdoch had to smile to himself. Evidently, this guy was now into rhyme. As the two runners edged off their bases, Murdoch took a couple of practice swings. The bat felt great in his hands, like it had all the time lately. During the streak, he'd raised his average about sixty points. Not unusual for him this time of year. As the weather began to warm up in the East and Midwest near the end of May, so did he.
When he got hot like this, he didn't care who was pitching. Often he didn't even know who was pitching. First good pitch, rip away. Exactly as he did now.
It was a curve, outside corner at the knees. He didn't try to pull the pitch; instead, he went right with it. Heading to first, he watched the ball land in right center and roll all the way to the wall. Double, both runners scoring. Oakland led 6-4. Hitting streak now fifteen.
Trotting to left field for the bottom of the tenth, Murdoch actually looked forward to the shrill voice. Who got the last laugh, pal? But he attained no such satisfaction. He even looked over to the guy's seat, something he rarely did. The guy was definitely gone though. Where were these people when he turned the tables, whenever things didn't go their way?
The bottom of the tenth turned out very quiet, in more ways than one. Besides the absence of noise coming from near the left field line, Terry entered the game and quickly retired the three Toronto batters, transforming the Oakland lead into a 6-4 victory.
Â
"They're starting to call you The Magician ," one of several reporters present told Rick Gonzalez.
"I'm no magician," Rick replied from the podium of the small interview room outside the visitors' clubhouse in Kansas City Stadium. "The guys have played hard and we've caught some breaks."
"Your team's nineteen and five since you became manager," another media person stated factually. "Eight and two on this road trip. Best one in ten years."
"Pitching's been good," was Rick's only comment.
But he did feel satisfied. Especially with the road trip, the final game of which had just ended, a 4-2 victory over Kansas City. He was looking forward to heading back to Oakland soon after this interview, to begin a ten game homestand following an off day tomorrow.
"Murdoch's been hitting," another journalist, this one bald, declared.
Rick nodded in agreement.
"That car incident," the bald man continued. "Hear anything more?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" Rick bristled.
"Sounds like the same old Murdoch...out late, and in trouble."
"Look," Rick answered angrily. "What I see is a guy doin' his job. Day in, day out. Healthy or injured. You guys realize he's played in more consecutive games than anyone in the league?"
"Maybe he's hitting," the bald man conjectured, clearly disregarding Rick's comments, "on account he wants to be traded to a contender."
"We're not far from being a contender ourselves," Rick replied, still angry.
He was correct. Today's win elevated Oakland to exactly .500, and into third place, only five games behind
"Hey, Black Boy...nice goin'. We get to party some more."
When Murdoch reached the dugout, several teammates came over, offering high fives. He motioned them away though. He was scheduled to bat fifth in the top of the tenth, but when the first two Oakland batters struck out, it appeared he'd have to wait until the next inningâif there were a next inning. A subsequent single and walk, however, brought him to the plate.
His arrival there was greeted by the usual loud boos, but not loud enough to drown out his companion along the left field line. Was he using some kind of amplification, or was his voice just naturally shrill?
"Hey, Black Boy...good thing you kept the party alive. Now you can make an out and go 0 for 5."
Murdoch had to smile to himself. Evidently, this guy was now into rhyme. As the two runners edged off their bases, Murdoch took a couple of practice swings. The bat felt great in his hands, like it had all the time lately. During the streak, he'd raised his average about sixty points. Not unusual for him this time of year. As the weather began to warm up in the East and Midwest near the end of May, so did he.
When he got hot like this, he didn't care who was pitching. Often he didn't even know who was pitching. First good pitch, rip away. Exactly as he did now.
It was a curve, outside corner at the knees. He didn't try to pull the pitch; instead, he went right with it. Heading to first, he watched the ball land in right center and roll all the way to the wall. Double, both runners scoring. Oakland led 6-4. Hitting streak now fifteen.
Trotting to left field for the bottom of the tenth, Murdoch actually looked forward to the shrill voice. Who got the last laugh, pal? But he attained no such satisfaction. He even looked over to the guy's seat, something he rarely did. The guy was definitely gone though. Where were these people when he turned the tables, whenever things didn't go their way?
The bottom of the tenth turned out very quiet, in more ways than one. Besides the absence of noise coming from near the left field line, Terry entered the game and quickly retired the three Toronto batters, transforming the Oakland lead into a 6-4 victory.
Â
"They're starting to call you The Magician ," one of several reporters present told Rick Gonzalez.
"I'm no magician," Rick replied from the podium of the small interview room outside the visitors' clubhouse in Kansas City Stadium. "The guys have played hard and we've caught some breaks."
"Your team's nineteen and five since you became manager," another media person stated factually. "Eight and two on this road trip. Best one in ten years."
"Pitching's been good," was Rick's only comment.
But he did feel satisfied. Especially with the road trip, the final game of which had just ended, a 4-2 victory over Kansas City. He was looking forward to heading back to Oakland soon after this interview, to begin a ten game homestand following an off day tomorrow.
"Murdoch's been hitting," another journalist, this one bald, declared.
Rick nodded in agreement.
"That car incident," the bald man continued. "Hear anything more?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" Rick bristled.
"Sounds like the same old Murdoch...out late, and in trouble."
"Look," Rick answered angrily. "What I see is a guy doin' his job. Day in, day out. Healthy or injured. You guys realize he's played in more consecutive games than anyone in the league?"
"Maybe he's hitting," the bald man conjectured, clearly disregarding Rick's comments, "on account he wants to be traded to a contender."
"We're not far from being a contender ourselves," Rick replied, still angry.
He was correct. Today's win elevated Oakland to exactly .500, and into third place, only five games behind
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