The Closer by Alan Mindell Page B

disrespectful.
    The notion of Murdoch’s name in the record books seemed universally distasteful. All the more if he replaced the great Joe DiMaggio.
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    â€œNo 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.
    â€œYou guys’ll fade soon,” the man continued.
    â€œThanks for the confidence.” Rick grinned. “Maybe we should just cancel the rest of our season.”
    â€œMight as well, all the chance you got. Small market team…”
    Rick didn’t answer.
    â€œBaseball’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?
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œHow long you followed baseball?” Rick asked, deliberately edging the conversation into slightly different terrain.
    â€œAll my life. Long before they ever dreamed bringing the big leagues out West.”
    â€œGuess you remember the old Coast League?”
    â€œSure…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.”
    â€œWhat about my team?” Rick asked, trying to establish something positive. “We’ve got heart and soul.”
    â€œYeah,” the man retorted, “but other than Murdoch, you got very little talent.”
    Rick didn’t reply.
    â€œUsed to go to those Coast League games all the time,” the man volunteered in a softer tone, perhaps aware of being a little harsh.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œRight here in San Diego,” he answered, pointing toward the city, now in view from the airplane window.
    â€œYou don’t recall the old ball park downtown? Near the bay?”
    â€œSure,” 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