The Conman

by Mike Murphey

  “Okay, okay, let’s go.”

  Conor’s catcher had to lunge for the first fastball.

  “Throw the ball over the plate,” Spalding said, shaking his head as a show of disgust.

  Conor’s next pitch came a foot outside.

  “I said, throw the ball over the plate,” Spalding demanded.

  Conor buried his next offering by five feet.

  “Are you shitting me?”

  Despite the warmth of the Arizona sun, Conor felt a chill. Fleeting images of Jimmy Dial darkened his memory.

  The yips.

  “Get the fuck off my mound,” Spalding said. “Come back when you’re gonna take this seriously.”

  Things deteriorated from there.

  Conor came to Spring Training determined to forge a better relationship with Spalding and, at least, try to execute the instructions he received. Each encounter, though, nagged at his confidence. That touch of arrogance, so critical to competing against hitters who preyed on uncertainty like a wounded animal, leaked away.

  When he received his double A El Paso assignment, he felt uneasy because he knew, for the first time since he’d worn a baseball uniform, he hadn’t earned his place on the team.

  “You were my best pitcher last year,” Stubing told him. “I’m gonna bring you to El Paso, and we’ll get this thing whipped.”

  Though unspectacular, his first two starts resulted in wins. Then Spalding returned. The hall-of-famer looked on as Conor warmed for his third start. Spalding offered his confidence-crushing critique, and Conor did his best to suppress the anger boiling inside him.

  His catcher signaled a first-pitch fastball. Conor missed home plate by eight feet. An immediate roar of derisive laughter issued from the opposite dugout. Conor barely heard it, though, over Spalding’s apoplectic screaming from his own dugout.

  “What are you doing out there? Goddammit, throw strikes!”

  His next pitch skipped off home plate. The umpire gifted Conor with a strike a couple of inches off the outside corner. His catcher, though, had set up inside. He threw a second strike with a curveball. The catcher leaped for a fastball, and the hitter walked on the next pitch.

  Spalding sauntered to the mound at the pace of a three-toed sloth. He waved for the infielders to join him. Arms folded across his chest, he said, “Throw. Strikes.”

  Conor tamped down his anger and said nothing. He’d allowed nine runs when Stubing pulled him with one gone in the second. As Conor slammed his glove onto the dugout bench, Spalding called from the water cooler, “Boy, Conman, they sure gave you the right name. I don’t see how you’ve convinced anyone that you can pitch.”

  Spalding left and Conor found himself on a downward spiral he could not control.

  Stubing tried letting him work as a reliever. They tried extra bullpens. They tried extended rest. Conor became so erratic none of his teammates would catch him. Except Mark, whose break-out season would make him 1979’s Texas League Player of the Year.

  “Come on, Connie. Let’s go to the bullpen.”

  “No, Mark. You just finished nine innings.”

  “No man. We need to figure this out.”

  Their bullpen workouts extended until the grounds crew shut off the lights.

  Conor’s patience collapsed the next time Spalding visited El Paso.

  During an off-day pitchers’ meeting, Monte Mossburn—a kiss-ass lefty—asked Spalding why didn’t he write a book.

  “If I wrote a book,” Spalding said, “everybody would know my secrets. And no one would have to pay me to teach you mutts about pitching.”

  “Okay,” Conor said. “Okay, Spaldy. What are your secrets? How do you win three hundred and sixty-three games, and get two-thousand and five hundred strikeouts? I think that’s something we’d all love to know.”

  Spalding offered a condescending smirk. “Two thousand five hundred and thirty-eight. And if I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore, would they?”

  At that moment, I realized Spalding knew nothing about the mechanics of pitching. I saw that the ability to perform a complex task and the ability to dissect that task and teach it are unrelated. People of extraordinary talent simply do it, absent analysis or thought. Sometimes, they are also blessed with a capacity to break down the nuances of their success, and—just as important—with patience to convey that understanding to lesser mortals.

  This particular hall-of-famer, though, didn’t have a clue.

  Conor feared each day would be his last. Survival to the Fourth of July All-Star break became his goal. He’d go home for a few days. Settle his mind. Search for the pitcher he’d once been.

  When Spalding’s tour returned him to El Paso the first of July, Conor determined he would simply ignore the man. He wouldn’t rise to insults—be seen and not heard.

  “Somebody needs to show you fellows how to take a real batting practice,” Spalding said two days later as the Diablos began their pre-game hitting routine.

  Afternoon heat sent waves shimmering off the infield dirt. Occasionally rising columns of air formed vortexes called dust devils that swept across the baseball field. These miniature tornadoes captured napkins, hotdog wrappers and loose sand, sending the mixture spiraling high above the grandstand. Players closed their eyes and tucked their chins to their chests when these whirlwinds crossed their paths.

  A batting turtle surrounded the plate on three sides. An L-screed sat halfway between the plate and mound. Behind the screen, Stubing’s mechanical throws—medium speed offerings down the middle, inside corner, outside corner—allowed hitters to focus on the nuances of their swings. This exercise is designed to groove a batting stroke, build confidence and allow subtle adjustments.

  As groups of four or five took their cuts, pitchers shagged fly balls. Infielders engaged in a ballet old as baseball itself. Stubing delivered a ball. As soon as the hitter made contact, players holding fungo bats behind the first and third baselines slapped grounders to infielders. As Stubing reached for another baseball, infielders tossed balls along a graceful arc back to the fungo hitters, hitting a precise spot along the dirt base path, allowing a true one-bounce hop the fungo man caught without bending or reaching.

  This fluid chiclé, a mindless sequence repeated over and over, lent itself to happy chatter, gentle jibes, and the luxury of nonchalance.

  Normally, Conor would be with the pitchers, each trying to convince the others of their athletic prowess tracking fly balls. Today, though, fate handed him a fungo bat.

  “Hey, Conman, could you pick me up? I’ve gotta . . .”

  “Sure, no sweat.”

  So Conor stood just outside the third baseline, within easy hearing distance, as Spalding started needling the hitters.

  What kind of swing is that? . . . Sure, you can hit it out of the park when Moose grooves it . . . I can still get every one of you by cutting the ball on your hands . . .

  “Okay, next group,” Stubing called.

  “I’ll take these guys, Moose,” Spalding said. “They need somebody who’s not just throwing cookies at ’em.”

  Big John Harrold, a power-hitting outfielder, stepped into the turtle. He flailed at Spalding’s dips and darts during his initial round. Conor heard Harrold complain to Stubing. “You want to tell me what the fuck I’m getting out of this? He’s just trying to make us look bad.”

  “Hey, Spaldy, can you at least tell ’em what’s coming—?”

  “They won’t know what’s coming in a game!”

  Stubing turned to Harrold and the other four members of the hitting group. “Do your best. Let him have his fun. Okay?”

  Brouhard stepped in next and offered a good-natured smile.

  “Okay, Spaldy, don’t worry about me. I know you can get me out. I’d like fastballs down and away. Help me get my eye—”

  “Oh, no, man,” Spalding said with a cackle. “I’m breakin’ your bat today, stud. Don’t use your gamer.”

  Conor squeezed the fungo and stewed. Minor league
players bought their own bats and Louisville Sluggers didn’t come cheap.

  Brouhard offered a token laugh. “Don’t do that, Spaldy. I don’t have any BP bats. All I’ve got are two gamers.”

  Just leave it alone. Conor bit the inside of his cheek.

  Spalding served Brouhard a fastball, and it left the park like a rocket. Conor smiled to himself. Brouhard waited, expressionless.

  “All right,” Spalding said. “I’ve got something for you.”

  He threw again. This ball became a desert companion to the first.

  The sound of a baseball resonating off the sweet spot—the heart of the barrel where wood is like granite and launches a ball as if fueled by afterburners—rang through the empty stadium time and again. Conor heard the hiss of air over the seams as Brouhard drove one within inches of the L-screen. Instinctively, Spalding ducked.

  Mark stepped from the turtle and offered Conor a surreptitious wink.

  Conor could almost see the steam coming from Spalding’s ears. He served the rest of the group a series of diving and cutting throws, leaving them shaking their heads in disgust. Brouhard began his second round, and Spalding’s first offering was a fastball aimed at his head. Mark escaped by falling straight backwards into the turtle’s mesh netting. Conor looked first to Brouhard, then Stubing. Neither offered a protest.

  Just leave it alone.

  Mark found his bat and resumed his stance.

  Spalding followed with two deliveries boring onto Brouhard’s hands, the kind that sting and buzz.

  Keep your mouth shut!

  Throughout the round, Spalding chirped. Told you so . . . Oh, that looked like it hurt . . . What’s the matter, can’t you hit it?

  Brouhard stepped into the turtle for his third set of swings. Spalding threw a cutter and Conor heard a crack, like a dry branch in a campfire. Brouhard offered a look of disgust as he examined a split running from the bat handle toward its barrel.

  Spalding did a little dance. “Got ’im! Oh, yeah. Got ’im, Moose. Told ya’ll I’d get ’im!”

  And like the bat, Conor snapped.

  “What did you get?” he shouted at Spalding. “Just what exactly did you prove? You’re pitching thirty feet away, and you’re proud of breaking someone’s game bat?”

  “Connie, don’t,” Brouhard said.

  “Yeah, when was the last time you broke someone’s bat?” Spalding yelled.

  “Oh, right. I know. But this isn’t about my problems. What are you accomplishing? These guys need to get ready for a game and all you—”

  “Conor,” Brouhard said more forcefully, “don’t do this.”

  “Hey, if you’d pop off less and pay more attention, you might actually learn something!” Now Spalding stood behind the L-screen, arms folded across his chest.

  “The only thing any of us have learned from you,” Conor said, “is that you won three hundred and sixty-three games and had twenty-five hundred strikeouts . . .”

  “Twenty-five hundred and thirty-eight!” said Spalding.

  “. . . you’ve screwed up more people on this pitching staff than you’ve helped, and now you’re messing with our best hitter!”

  Spalding threw his glove and balled his fists. Conor flipped the fungo aside. Spalding stepped around the L-screen.

  “Conor! No!”

  Spalding sneered. “You ain’t got the nerve . . .”

  Oh, yes, I do.

  Conor charged the bigger man. Spalding’s swing was awkward and wild. Conor side-stepped. Spalding’s big round melon was wide open. One punch would put him away. Even in the heat of anger, Conor knew better. Instead, he clamped Spalding in a headlock and flipped him over his hip to the ground.

  “Goddmf mffuerre, spfittle itll pssant . . .” Spalding sputtered through the headlock. He bounced and struggled, flailing at Conor with weak, powerless shots, but Conor kept him pinned.

  Conor began to consider an exit strategy when he felt himself flying. Stubing, who stood six-six and weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, plucked Conor like a daisy and tossed him aside.

  “What were you thinking?” Brouhard demanded. They remained on the dugout bench following the game. All afternoon and evening, players and coaches from both teams viewed Conor with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

  Conor shrugged at Brouhard’s question.

  “You beat up Wilbur Spalding,” Brouhard said with exasperation.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I beat him up. We just rolled around a little bit . . .”

  “No, you had him in a headlock and were giving him, like, atomic nooggies or something. Wilbur Spalding is, like, beloved.”

  “Not by me.”

  Brouhard stood, placed a hand on Conor’s shoulder, started to say something more, then shook his head and walked toward the clubhouse.

  Through the long afternoon and into the evening game, in which he did not participate, Conor brooded over the inevitability of his release. He felt an odd sort of relief. He dreaded going home, facing friends and brothers under an indictment of failure. He could, though, find some dignity in being released because he refused to be bullied by a Hall-of-Famer.

  Stubing spilled the wind from that sail the following day.

  “I’m sorry, Conman. I tried. I argued and argued we should send you to Salinas, or even Idaho, and let you work out of it. Mitchell Preston refused. He said he wants to cut ties.”

  “How much of this is because of the thing yesterday?”

  “Nothing,” Stubing said. “I didn’t even report it.”

  Stubing rubbed a meaty hand across his eyes. “You can pitch. You can help a lot of clubs. Sometimes, though, Conman, you are your own worst enemy. You got on Preston’s bad side right off the bat, and I don’t think he’s the type who ever forgets stuff like that.”

  Conor turned, then looked back. “Thanks for giving me a chance, Moose.” He reached across the desk and offered his hand. “You’ve always been fair.”

  “Find a way to get this thing ironed out,” Stubing said.

  Conor nodded and went to pack his stuff.

  Several teammates met him with tears. Because of his control issues, they weren’t surprised at the release. They did not, however, want to contemplate the loss of his clubhouse presence. Through all his struggles, Conor never lost his sense of humor. He made the other guys laugh. How many teammates would steal a bus if they needed him to? After emotional goodbyes, after best wishes and reassurances, Conor sat alone at his locker while the others left for work. He lay among the dead. For the others, life continued.

  He wanted to believe Stubing, but he’d seen many teammates released over the past three years. As far as he knew, they remained buried. He lacked faith to believe in even the possibility of resurrection.

  Here’s the thing, Rita. Heroes fall hard when they tumble off their pedestals.

  I genuinely wanted to like Wilbur Spalding. I made the mistake, though, of requiring him to be more than a great pitcher. I wanted him to be the man we hope our heroes will be.

  Koufax stood as the left-handed idol of my generation. Every kid who knew anything about baseball, though, knew of the legendary Spalding. I respected his accomplishments. I wanted to please the master. I became confused when I realized I didn’t like the master, and then royally pissed off when the fallible man couldn’t command my respect.

  And even though, up until that last day, I didn’t say the words out loud, I understand now I communicated my lack of respect in a dozen subtle ways.

  Our paths crossed one more time—1981. I was a starter for Oakland’s Double-A West Haven affiliate, and Spalding remained the Angel’s roving pitching instructor. We played the Holyoak Angels. I still wasn’t the pitcher I’d been before the yips. I’d made progress, though, and seeing Spalding in their dugout . . . well, the effect was like gas finding a flame. In that moment I rediscovered my competitive arrogance and ego his hostile indifference had all but extinguished.

  I stuck it up their ass, and he had to stand t
here and watch.

  So, while he didn’t teach me much about pitching, Spalding did teach me a lot about myself. He made me a better pitcher—a better man—in the process

  I dressed quickly after the game and hurried to the Holyoak clubhouse. A clubby told me Spalding had already left. “He didn’t wait around tonight. Probably a good thing. He was pretty pissed off.”

  I asked, “What about?”

  “You. He was all over our hitters. Said you were the biggest cocksucker he’d ever come across.”

  I laughed. “Well, there’s probably a lot of truth to that.”

  I never saw Spaldy again.

  Conor raised his champagne bottle to the emerging stars.

  Spaldy, I’m sorry. I should have handled it better. I salute your three hundred and sixty-three wins. I salute two thousand five hundred and thirty-eight strikeouts, your twelve All Star appearances. You were a helluva pitcher.

  I just wish you’d waited around long enough that night, so I could’ve apologized in person.

  After a sleepless night, Conor swallowed his pride and called Mitch Preston to offer an apology, and—although it grated on every sensibility he had—appeal for another chance. He owed it to Kate, A.J., Brad and Basil, all the people who believed in him. Although Moose told him he hadn’t reported the fight, Conor couldn’t imagine the front office didn’t know.

  “Mr. Preston, this is Conor Nash. I wanted—”

  “Wanted to what?” Preston demanded. “Beg for your job back? Not so cocksure of yourself now, are you?”

  “Look, I just felt like I owed it—”

  “Save it, Con-Man.” He dragged out the name, emphasizing his sarcasm. “I knew the first time I saw you that you didn’t have the mental makeup to handle the pressure. I knew you’d never pitch in the Major Leagues. And after those stunts you’ve pulled, that’s exactly what I’ll tell anyone who asks.”

  Conor heard the flat buzz of a disconnection.

  He and Kate mournfully packed their car and began the long drive home. Their route followed Interstate 10 from El Paso through Arizona, where they would hang a right when they got to California. Reading the map, Conor saw that their path included Tucson. He knew the manager of Tucson’s Triple A team, Jake Burroughs, who’d managed in the Angels’ system before the purge. They stopped at a pay phone and Conor told Burroughs about his release. Burroughs invited him to stop by the ballpark so he could see Conor throw.