“I don’t need a babysitter,” Carly told Murdoch as they sat on the couch in the living room of her new apartment, just down the hall from his.
“For sure,” he responded.
“I won’t be a prisoner, either.”
“For sure,” he repeated.
“You standing over me like I’m a little child.”
“I’m not standing over you. Why you think I got you your own place?”
When she didn’t answer right away, Murdoch glanced around the room. He was satisfied with the job management of the apartment complex had done. Furnishing it in soft pinks and yellows, rather than the dark colors dominating his place. They had even provided her a replica of the large yellowish-orange stuffed toy tiger that had been her constant companion when she was very young.
They’d accomplished this all on short notice. He had called them from Los Angeles yesterday morning and Carly moved in last night. All he had to do was sign the rental agreement and, of course, hand over his check, both of which he’d done earlier this evening.
“I think we need to face facts,” she said sharply.
“What facts?”
“I got a little problem.”
“What?”
“I think you know what.”
“Drugs?”
Though she didn’t reply, her expression confirmed his supposition. Not that he hadn’t suspected while they were still in Los Angeles, because when he returned to their hotel suite after baseball, she’d either been asleep or acted very strange. Of course none of this made him happy. Nor did the way she looked—much thinner than when he last saw her before the other night, a little over a year ago. Plus, she had large dark circles under her eyes.
“No big surprise,” he said. “Not with your mother’s history.”
“Don’t think for a minute I’m going to detox,” she responded, looking angry.
“No one’s asking you to…. Unless you want to.”
“I don’t want to.”
He didn’t answer.
“I need my stuff,” she declared.
“I don’t want you on the streets, Carly.”
“How you think it’s going to get to me,” she retorted, raising her voice. “Carrier pigeon?”
“You don’t get what you need,” he replied, raising his voice also, “you’ll just run away again…right?”
“Right!”
“Then I don’t have much choice,” he said resignedly, in a lower tone. “I’ll get it for you.”
“You mean you’re going to hit the streets!”
“No. I know some guys…they deliver. Anyway, the streets would be nothing new. Where you think I been all this time looking for you?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her expression changed, becoming less severe. And when she did speak, her voice was much softer.
“Very expensive, Dad. All this.”
He shrugged.
“New apartment. My shit…”
He shrugged again.
“I think you’re asking for trouble,” she said, her tone softer yet. “Having me around…”
“For me to decide,” he answered firmly.
“You going to let Mama know?”
“Don’t think so. Not right away.”
This time it was Carly who shrugged.
“Unless you want me to,” he added.
“I don’t want you to…she’ll just make more trouble for you.”
“You haven’t talked with her lately, have you…?”
“No,” she said, practically whispering. “She has her own problems. Can’t help me with mine.”
“Where were you all this time?”
“Where you found me…the streets.”
“Hollywood…? L.A…?”
“All over California, but mostly Texas.”
“Texas?” he said grimacing. “What were you doing there?”
“Nothing you’d want to know,” she replied, almost under her breath.
Heading down the hall to his own apartment later that night, Murdoch knew he’d done the right thing declining to play in the All Star Classic. With homestands coming up on both sides of the Classic, his next road trip wouldn’t be for two weeks. Giving him time he needed right here.
During recent seasons, Murdoch received about a dozen letters a month, most of which could be categorized “hate mail.” Many of these attacked his racial origin. Some accused him of abusing women, the specific evidence being—as reported by the media—his treatment of his ex-wife. Others, a very few now, came from Cleveland fans blaming him for their team’s failure to achieve a World Series title.
The week before the All Star Classic, though, Murdoch’s mail drastically increased, and not solely because of his refusal to play in the game. Or the perception that he was arrogant. Or overpaid. No, in the last game before the Classic, his ninth inning game-winning single raised his hitting streak to fifty, just six games short of DiMaggio’s record.
Joe DiMaggio was an American hero, his death earlier that year getting front page headlines. Murdoch was his antithesis. If DiMaggio portrayed class, dignity, and pride, Murdoch was perceived as selfish, immature, and disrespectful.
The notion of Murdoch’s name in the record books seemed universally distasteful. All the more if he replaced the great Joe DiMaggio.
“No way you guys stay in the pennant race.”
This declaration, uttered by the elderly man sitting beside him on the airplane, caused Rick to laugh. He was in a good mood as they descended into San Diego. Taking advantage of the All Star break, he would be spending the next three days at the family home, visiting his two daughters who had time off themselves, from graduate school.
Like Rick, the elderly man possessed dark Hispanic features. Also like Rick, Rick later ascertained, the man had been involved with baseball many years—as a fan. Consequently, once he recognized Rick, as the Oakland manager, conversation was inevitable.
“You guys’ll fade soon,” the man continued.
“Thanks for the confidence.” Rick grinned. “Maybe we should just cancel the rest of our season.”
“Might as well, all the chance you got. Small market team…”
Rick didn’t answer.
“Baseball’s no longer a sport,” the man went on. “It’s a business. With only two sides, the haves, who can afford the best players, and the have nots, who can’t.”
Again, Rick didn’t answer—though he did at least partly concur. Without doubt, economics were important. Teams with abundant finances could attract and keep player talent. And, no question, talented players were vital to success.
But the man’s appraisal was far too simple. From Rick’s perspective, it ignored a key ingredient. Possibility. Games were ultimately won or lost on the field. As long as that was true, nothing was predetermined. Possibility still existed.
Hadn’t baseball always been a game of dreams? So much a part of the American psyche. Intertwined with the original American dream—with hard work, anything was possible. If possibility were removed, didn’t the game lose much of its meaning?
“You’ve had a nice run,” the man said, “for as long as it lasts.”
At least Rick could agree on the first part of his statement—they had had a nice run. Murdoch’s game-winning single yesterday lifted them to within two games of Texas in the division race, and one and a half of New York for the wild card. The good pitching had continued, while Murdoch’s hot bat sparked the offense.
“How long you followed baseball?” Rick asked, deliberately edging the conversation into slightly different terrain.
“All my life. Long before they ever dreamed bringing the big leagues out West.”
“Guess you remember the old Coast League?”
“Sure…like it was yesterday,” the man responded enthusiastically. “Those days, the game had heart and soul. Purity…magic…players played for love, not big money. And owners didn’t rip off fans and cities.”
“What about my team?” Rick asked, trying to establish something positive. “We’ve got heart and soul.”
“Yeah,” the man retorted, “but other than Murdoch, you got very little talent.”
Rick didn’t reply.
“Used to go to those Coast League games all the time,” the man volunteered in a softer tone, perhaps aware of being a little harsh.
“Where?”
“Right here in San Diego,” he answered, pointing toward the city, now in view from the airplane window.
“You don’t recall the old ball park downtown? Near the bay?”
“Sure,” the man said. “Went there all the time. You must’ve been a kid back then.”
Indeed he was. Along with their nightly game of catch, Rick’s father introduced him to professional baseball at the old ball park. In fact they attended doubleheaders there almost every Sunday the San Diego team was in town. And, like the man just did, his father often used words like “purity” and “magic” to describe the game.
“I’ll be watching to see how you guys do,” the man said as the plane was about to land.
“So we shouldn’t just cancel the rest of our season?” Rick answered, managing a little chuckle.
“I think you got too much respect for the game to do that,” the man stated.
Rick nodded. Finally, something on which they completely agreed.