"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 shy," 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?