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more, the crowd, seemingly louder than ever, booed.
    Casey stepped to the plate. Terry heard another train whistle and gazed toward the outfield again, at the fog which seemed a little thicker. Was all this really happening?
    He turned back toward Bailey, who flashed the sign. Knuckleball. Terry fired. Ball one, low and outside. Another sign. Another knuckler, this one catching the inside corner at the knees, for a strike. Casey lifted the next pitch foul, into the stands behind first. Then Terry threw one too far inside.
    Before the 2-2 delivery, the runner at third danced off base, attempting to distract Terry. But Terry's concentration was good and he fired toward the plate. A perfect pitch, diving into the strike zone on the outside corner at the knees. The umpire flinched, as though about to raise his right arm, the "strike" sign. He hesitated, however, then signaled ball three. Bailey kept his glove positioned exactly where he'd caught the ball, right above the outside corner of the plate. Terry could only shake his head. But then, as a rookie, he knew better than to expect a called third strike in this situation, against the league's leading hitter.
    He looked out at the fog once more, then up into the crowd behind home plate, most of whom were standing and yelling frantically. Here he was, in a spot he had always dreamed of as a kid—bases loaded, two outs, 3-2 count, and the game on the line—facing the league's leading batter. Was this really a dream? Or, more accurately, a nightmare?
    He knew he had to come in to Casey, he couldn't walk him, walk in the tying run. He threw another “diver”, a nice one, which Casey popped foul, off third. The third baseman, Jack O'Rourke, drifted to the grandstand railing and tried to reach beyond to catch the ball. But a spectator hit his glove and the ball bounced off, landing in the lap of a youngster sitting in the second row.
    When Casey fouled away the next two pitches, Terry wondered how long this agony would continue. Did he have the nerve to keep throwing strikes to this dangerous hitter? Could he keep throwing strikes?
    His next pitch was in the strike zone. Right in the middle of it. Casey swung and Terry knew by the loud crack of the bat it was trouble. The ball headed for deep left. He could see its flight briefly, and then lost it in the fog. Had Casey hit a home run? A grand slam home run, resulting in one more failure for Terry?
    He was able to see Elston Murdoch, the left fielder, racing back to the wall. At the wall, Murdoch leaped, his glove high in the air, above the wall. For an agonizing moment Terry couldn't tell whether the ball landed in Murdoch's glove or on the other side of the wall. Then he saw the second base umpire, who had run into the outfield, thrust his right arm into the air, signaling "out."
    The game was over. Oakland had won.
    Â 
    Frequent joyful shouts pierced the Oakland locker room, players proclaiming their victory. Several came over to Terry and offered congratulatory handshakes and backslaps. All the attention of course felt great. So did the locker room's warmth, welcome relief from the late-night Seattle chill.
    Terry's first priority, even before showering, was to approach Elston Murdoch and thank him for the terrific catch. Several media persons surrounded Murdoch though, despite his repeatedly shaking his head, obviously refusing to talk. When they dispersed, Terry went over.
    Once he got close, he was astounded by how large and powerful Murdoch looked. He must have been at least 6 feet 3 inches, 220 pounds. Black body naked except for the trousers of his uniform, he had the hugest chest, shoulders and forearms Terry had ever seen on a baseball player. In fact, Murdoch resembled more the football prototype—a fullback or a linebacker—than a skillful outfielder.
    His head seemed too small, no doubt because of his massive physique. His face was handsome, in a rugged way. But he had an unhappy expression,