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especially for someone who had just been so prominent in his team's victory.
    "Thanks," Terry greeted, extending his right hand.
    Using a simple gesture of his own right hand, however, Murdoch waved him away. Then he turned toward his locker, grabbed a shirt and hastily began putting it on. Nothing for Terry to do except return to his own locker. Once there, he did glance at Murdoch a couple of times, noticing that he continued to dress rapidly, straight from his uniform to street clothes without a shower, as if eager to be somewhere quickly.
    "At least it's not just us he won't talk to."
    Terry turned to see a fortyish man gazing at him, wearing a worn business suit. Terry looked at him mutely several seconds before realizing he was probably a member of the media.
    "Mind if I ask you about your first save?" the man continued. "As a major league pitcher."
    "Rather you ask Rick Gonzalez," Terry replied uncomfortably. "About his first win as a major league manager."
    Â 
    Throughout the Seattle series, Terry watched Rick closely. He found him no different as Oakland manager than pitching coach in Texas—so unlike other managers and coaches he had played for, who were critical, gruff, distant, and aloof—always a barrier between them and the players, which no one dared cross.
    No question the players liked Rick. Everyone, that is, except Elston Murdoch, who evidently liked no one, which didn't seem to bother Rick. He simply wrote Murdoch's name in the third spot of the lineup card every day, and left him alone. Terry never saw them converse or communicate in any other way.
    The players played hard for Rick. Apparently no one minded getting their uniform dirty. Diving for a ball in the outfield. Digging for the extra base. Sliding hard to break up a double play.
    All the above occurred during the next two games in Seattle, both wins, giving them a series sweep before they returned home to Oakland.

Chapter Seven
    "Mister...can my brother play with you again?"
    By the sound of her voice, Terry knew who it was right away. Yet, lying on the grass near the left field bullpen, doing stretching exercises, he still did a double take. Yes, definitely, it was Karen Riley, wearing the same cute little blue dress she wore at their very first meeting, back in El Paso.
    "What're you doing here?" he managed, still on the ground.
    "We came to see you play," she replied, as if her answer were apparent.
    He got up and moved closer to where she stood, just above him in the grandstand, in an aisle next to the first row of seats. As he looked up at her, the late-afternoon sun was shining directly in his face and he had to take off his cap and use it to shield his eyes.
    Since that evening's game was still nearly two hours away, very few spectators were present. In fact the crowd was so thin he easily spotted Billy Riley about ten rows above, wearing his glove.
    "How'd you know I was here?" he asked her.
    "My brother...he found out. He listens to all the games on the radio."
    "He knows my name?"
    "I think he knows all the players' names."
    Terry, except for a smile, didn't respond. He was still startled over the fact she and her brother were actually here.
    "Well, Mister," she said a little impatiently, "you going to let him play with you like last time?"
    "Is your mother here?" he asked after slight hesitation.
    "Yes. With my sister."
    She pointed about halfway up the grandstand, perhaps twenty rows, to the same woman Terry had seen at the game in El Paso. Little Tammy sat directly in front of her.
    "I need to speak to her," he said
    After giving him a less than cordial look, Karen climbed the stairs to her mother, providing him a minute or so to think. This wasn't the minor leagues, where teams might not be so rigid about spectators entering the field. Where he really wasn't so concerned if they were rigid. No, this was the majors, where things were going well, and he didn't want to risk breaking any rules.
    As he waited, several youngsters