practice. Tomorrow night's game would be the opener of a brief road stretch. Two days had passed since Terry's and Rick's ignominious debuts. They had lost again to Texas yesterday, but much more respectably, 5-2.
As he'd spoken, Rick demonstrated proper arm angle plus a stiff wrist, and, while holding a ball, showed Terry how it should move. This wasn't the first time Rick had presented these concepts to him and it wasn't difficult for Terry to understand.
During past sessions they'd had last year and the year before, Rick had offered other theories on the knuckleball, some of which were more difficult to understand. Things like digging fingernails into the ball at specific places, establishing a complete lack of spin or rotation on the ball, the role of a baseball's stitches in creating turbulence in the airflow, and even a brief lesson in aerodynamics.
"Normally, I take pitchers out of games myself," Rick said in an apologetic tone. "But I felt guilty the other night about you."
Terry looked at him questioningly.
"Throwing you to the wolves like that," Rick continued. "Right off the plane, before we had a chance to go over your delivery. But, I had a good reason."
Terry maintained his questioning gaze.
"I wanted to get a firsthand look myself," Rick explained, "at exactly what your problems were."
A slight smile crossed Terry's face. Here he was, in the big leagues. But more importantly, he was back with Rick.
Chapter Six
Terry sat by himself on the bench in the right field bullpen. The same area of Seattle Stadium where yesterday Rick had given him instruction. He wasn't alone by choice. No, every other relief pitcher, plus one starter, had warmed up and entered the game already. And he'd become aware that the two catchers assigned to the bullpen, sitting in folding chairs almost 100 feet from him, preferred only each other's company.
It was the bottom of the sixteenth inning of what had been a very tense game. Oakland had gone ahead of Seattle 7-6 in the top of the sixteenth on a home run by Elston Murdoch, now almost fully recovered from his ankle injury. Carlton Denny, the Oakland closer, had just entered the game. Three more outs, Terry thought, and Rick would have his initial managerial victory.
Denny, a big right hander, fired his first pitch. The Seattle batter lifted a long fly to right, into the cold late-night air. Todd Slater, the right fielder, ran back to the wall. He leaped, but the ball hit the wall just above him, then caromed off his glove and rolled toward the foul line. By the time he retrieved it and threw it into the infield, the batter stood on third.
The infielders moved in for a play at the plate as the next batter, a pinch hitter for Seattle's weak-hitting second baseman, entered the batters' box. Denny, pitching carefully, walked him. The next hitter, the lead off man, also worked him for a walk. Bases loaded, tying run at third, winning run on second, with no outs. Terry grimaced. Rick might have to wait for his maiden win.
Denny began flexing his right arm and shoulder. Rick and Edwards, the trainer, trotted from the dugout to the mound. They talked with Denny before Rick turned to the plate umpire, who also came to the mound. Denny threw a practice pitch. Even from his vantage point some 200 feet away, Terry could tell from Denny's body language that it hurt him. He continued to flex his arm and shoulder, then, accompanied by Edwards, headed to the dugout.
Rick pointed to the bullpen. Which, by simple elimination, Terry knew could mean only one thing. He was in the game.
"Go get 'em, Rook," one of the catchers shouted, confirming Terry's conclusion.
He took off the jacket he was wearing and trotted toward the mound. He immediately felt cold, could feel himself begin to shiver. The memory of those hot Texas nights, instead of this penetrating Seattle chill, suddenly didn't seem so bad.
"Sorry," Rick greeted, handing him the ball. "Looks like I'm throwing you to the wolves
As he'd spoken, Rick demonstrated proper arm angle plus a stiff wrist, and, while holding a ball, showed Terry how it should move. This wasn't the first time Rick had presented these concepts to him and it wasn't difficult for Terry to understand.
During past sessions they'd had last year and the year before, Rick had offered other theories on the knuckleball, some of which were more difficult to understand. Things like digging fingernails into the ball at specific places, establishing a complete lack of spin or rotation on the ball, the role of a baseball's stitches in creating turbulence in the airflow, and even a brief lesson in aerodynamics.
"Normally, I take pitchers out of games myself," Rick said in an apologetic tone. "But I felt guilty the other night about you."
Terry looked at him questioningly.
"Throwing you to the wolves like that," Rick continued. "Right off the plane, before we had a chance to go over your delivery. But, I had a good reason."
Terry maintained his questioning gaze.
"I wanted to get a firsthand look myself," Rick explained, "at exactly what your problems were."
A slight smile crossed Terry's face. Here he was, in the big leagues. But more importantly, he was back with Rick.
Chapter Six
Terry sat by himself on the bench in the right field bullpen. The same area of Seattle Stadium where yesterday Rick had given him instruction. He wasn't alone by choice. No, every other relief pitcher, plus one starter, had warmed up and entered the game already. And he'd become aware that the two catchers assigned to the bullpen, sitting in folding chairs almost 100 feet from him, preferred only each other's company.
It was the bottom of the sixteenth inning of what had been a very tense game. Oakland had gone ahead of Seattle 7-6 in the top of the sixteenth on a home run by Elston Murdoch, now almost fully recovered from his ankle injury. Carlton Denny, the Oakland closer, had just entered the game. Three more outs, Terry thought, and Rick would have his initial managerial victory.
Denny, a big right hander, fired his first pitch. The Seattle batter lifted a long fly to right, into the cold late-night air. Todd Slater, the right fielder, ran back to the wall. He leaped, but the ball hit the wall just above him, then caromed off his glove and rolled toward the foul line. By the time he retrieved it and threw it into the infield, the batter stood on third.
The infielders moved in for a play at the plate as the next batter, a pinch hitter for Seattle's weak-hitting second baseman, entered the batters' box. Denny, pitching carefully, walked him. The next hitter, the lead off man, also worked him for a walk. Bases loaded, tying run at third, winning run on second, with no outs. Terry grimaced. Rick might have to wait for his maiden win.
Denny began flexing his right arm and shoulder. Rick and Edwards, the trainer, trotted from the dugout to the mound. They talked with Denny before Rick turned to the plate umpire, who also came to the mound. Denny threw a practice pitch. Even from his vantage point some 200 feet away, Terry could tell from Denny's body language that it hurt him. He continued to flex his arm and shoulder, then, accompanied by Edwards, headed to the dugout.
Rick pointed to the bullpen. Which, by simple elimination, Terry knew could mean only one thing. He was in the game.
"Go get 'em, Rook," one of the catchers shouted, confirming Terry's conclusion.
He took off the jacket he was wearing and trotted toward the mound. He immediately felt cold, could feel himself begin to shiver. The memory of those hot Texas nights, instead of this penetrating Seattle chill, suddenly didn't seem so bad.
"Sorry," Rick greeted, handing him the ball. "Looks like I'm throwing you to the wolves
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