The Conman

by Mike Murphey

  “You’re assuming anyone else will want me,” said Conor, who hadn’t been pursued by anyone since he signed his first Angels contract.

  “A.J. and I did a study of lefthanders your age and with similar stats,” Brad said. “Trust us. Teams will want you.”

  So Conor and Kate faced a dilemma. Should they travel the safe road and accept whatever Detroit offered, or put their faith in a guy who lost his front teeth to Conor’s knuckle curve, and another guy who chased him around the diamond with a baseball bat when they were seven years old.

  Muffitt called a few days later.

  “That’s great, Mr. Muffitt,” Conor said. “And I’d like to sign with Detroit. What sort of contract do you have in mind?”

  “We’ll do a two-year minor league deal. We’ll invite you to Major League spring camp.”

  “Where will I stay?” Conor asked.

  Muffitt seemed taken aback. “Well, our minor league hotel is across the street from—”

  “I won’t be at the main Tiger Town complex?” Conor drummed his fingers and heard another moment of silence.

  “Well, no. We only offer housing there for the Major League guys . . .”

  Conor took a deep breath. Now, or never.

  “I want to stay at the Major League complex and go into the season as a member of the starting rotation at Evansville.”

  “Our minor league hotel is very nice . . .”

  “I understand, but I’ve stayed at minor league hotels for seven years.”

  “. . . and we can’t guarantee a spot in the triple-A rotation before Spring Training even begins.”

  Conor closed his eyes and felt sweat bead across his forehead. He took another deep breath. Kate rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “I appreciate your offer, Mr. Muffitt,” he said, hoping he’d kept the quaver from his voice. “Under the circumstances, I’ll declare free agency and see what else is out there.”

  Another moment of silence.

  “Well, Conor, you’re twenty-eight years old. Every club is drafting younger talent—guy’s they can hold onto for six years. You might not find free agency as attractive as you think.” Muffitt had stated the scenario keeping Conor awake the past few nights as he struggled with Brad’s and A.J.’s advice.

  He closed his eyes again. He saw his father seated at this same table, telling Lloyd Christopher he’d tear up the thirty-thousand-dollar Angels contract if Christopher didn’t allow Conor to pitch against the College of San Mateo. His father had every confidence that, if the Angels walked away, Conor would find other suitors.

  “Thanks for the offer,” he told Muffitt. “I owe it to myself and my family to explore the options.”

  Conor appreciated their support. He could have done without the added pressure, though. The day his free agency became official all his brothers crowded into their mother’s kitchen. Basil came home, taking a break from the Alaska winter. Brad and A.J. were present, as well. Kate and Conor’s mom made coffee and snacks. They anticipated a long day of hold-your-breath tension.

  The phone rang at nine a.m.

  “Yes, this is Conor Nash. Yes. Thank you. I look forward to talking, too. Yes, I’ll be sure we go over details before signing with anyone else.”

  He disconnected the call, reclaimed his seat and picked up his coffee cup.

  Nine sets of eyes riveted him. Conor drank, set the cup down, scratched his chin.

  “All right,” brother Sam said, “if you don’t tell us right now, I’m gonna haul you outside and kick your scrawny ass!”

  Conor grinned. “The Yankees.”

  A cheer reverberated through the kitchen, so loud they nearly missed the ringing of the phone for the second time.

  By day’s end, Conor wasn’t answering. A.J. took over, taking notes, making observations, dropping hints about calls they’d already received, making tentative appointments for meetings.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” his Mom said over and over.

  “After all the years, worrying about being released or sent down or . . .” Kate said. “Everybody wants you!”

  They fielded a dozen calls, the only disappointment being that neither the Giants nor the A’s were included. Conor still dreamed of playing near his hometown and offers from either of those teams would make his choice an easy one.

  “So, what are you gonna do?” A.J. asked.

  “I have no idea. I have to think about it.”

  “This is a different sort of contract than you’ve ever dealt with,” A.J. said. “You need an agent.”

  “Who, you? A.J., you don’t know anything about being a sports agent. I can handle this.”

  “At the very least,” Brad said, “sign nothing until I look at the contract.”

  A.J. nodded.

  Basil concurred, and said, “Okay, let’s go out for a drink.”

  A.J., Brad and Conor’s brothers shouted their agreement.

  Kate rolled her eyes. She cornered Basil the lover and Sam the brawler.

  “Sam, he’s your brother. Don’t start anything tonight. And you, Basil, stay away from the scotch. The last thing we need is Touchy Teddy making an appearance. I want Conor returned in the same condition as when he left.”

  Conor and A.J. were both surprised when George Brophy, farm director for the Minnesota Twins, called a third time. They thought the ball remained in their court.

  “Have you decided?” Brophy asked

  As a matter of fact, Conor had.

  He planned to accept the Twins’ offer of $3,500 a month, an invitation to Major League camp for Spring Training, and a Triple-A contract. Other interested teams made the same offer, for a thousand dollars less each month of the season.

  “Well, I think so . . .”

  “Before you say anything else,” Brophy said, “let me update our offer.”

  “Um . . . okay.”

  “Instead of $3,500 a month, we’ll make it a split contract. And offer you a two-year deal.”

  Conor looked across the kitchen table where Brad and A.J. had set up camp. He covered the receiver, and he whispered, “What’s a split contract?”

  They both shrugged.

  Okay, so much for playing the cool negotiators.

  “I’m sorry . . . what’s a split contract?”

  Brophy explained that, rather than being paid $3,500 for each month of the season and Spring Training, roughly $21,000, Conor would earn a salary of $25,000 for the year. If he should be called to the majors, he’d go onto the forty-man roster. He’d make major league minimum salary of $40,000, pro-rated to the amount of time he spent at the major league level.

  “Well, your offer sounds good, Mr. Brophy,” Conor said. “If you’ll give me a few minutes to talk with my . . . advisors, I’ll get right back to you.”

  He replaced the phone in its cradle and grinned. “I’m rich, and I’m a helluva’ negotiator.”

  “They upped their own offer?” A.J. asked. “Just think how much you could’ve made if you’d let me do the talking.”

  “So,” Brad said, “a split contract. What else did he say?”

  “Oh, yeah, it gets even better. They offered a two-year deal.”

  “No,” Brad said.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  Brad tapped his index finger for emphasis. “You never again sign a minor league contract for anything longer than one year.”

  Conor didn’t understand. “Why wouldn’t I want—”

  “Is the contract guaranteed?” Brad asked.

  “Well, no. I have to make the team.”

  “What if you hate it there and they want to keep you? What if someone like Wilbur Spalding wants to bury you? On the other hand, what if you like it and you’re good? Won’t they give you another contract?”

  “Well, I suppose.”

  “You’re a free agent. As long as you’re signing minor league contracts, you can be a free agent every year. And if you’re good, you’ll get other teams bidding for you.�
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  A.J. slapped the table. “See, this is why you need an agent.”

  “So, you’re still going to Venezuela?” Kate asked.

  “Yeah,” Conor said. “I signed a contract. And don’t forget, they’re paying me three-thousand a month.”

  When Birmingham’s season ended, a representative of the Caracas Tiburones had approached Conor to play winter ball for two months. Conor jumped at the chance. Besides the money, the deal offered an opportunity to prove himself against major league players who wintered in the Caribbean and Central America.

  “What about the Twins?” Kate asked.

  “I told them I’d made this commitment. They didn’t say anything one way or the other.”

  Venezuela also meant he wouldn’t have to do house-cleaning this winter. Conor had decided he disliked scrubbing other people’s toilets. Despite Venezuela’s deteriorating economy and political chaos, he looked forward to playing ball in a Latin country again.

  Roughly halfway between Miami and Caracas the phone built into the seatback in front of him trilled. Conor had never heard one of these phones ring. The phone chirped again. Conor cautiously answered.

  “Conor, this is George Brophy. We don’t want you to go to Venezuela.”

  “Well, I’m on the airplane, and we land about an hour from now. I don’t think I can not go to Venezuela at this point.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. We don’t want you to stay there.”

  Conor looked at the Caribbean Sea below. “Okay, is there a particular reason?”

  “The Twins and the Sharks, um, I guess they’re the Tiburones, had a working agreement a couple of years ago. We had some serious disagreements. We don’t like them, and they don’t like us.”

  “Well, nobody said anything—”

  “We really don’t like them, and they really don’t like us. We’re concerned you might be in some jeopardy.”

  “What, like somebody might shoot me or something?”

  Brophy laughed without further comment.

  Conor lifted his cup, hoping the stewardess patrolling the aisle might take a hint and bring him another drink. “Well, here’s the other thing, Mr. Brophy. My wife and I are counting on this money to get us through the winter.”

  “We’ll compensate you,” Brophy said. “We can’t pay for the full amount of time you were supposed to be there, but we’ll will send you a check for three thousand. Even though the Tiburones people aren’t very happy about it, they’ll compensate you for your time thus far.”

  The plane landed at Simon Bolivar International Airport.

  Walking toward baggage claim, Conor waved above the crowd to a man wearing a black suit, narrow tie, white shirt, and black fedora. He held a sign reading Senor Nash. The man met his wave with a frown. He gave a nod to a pair of bearded men clad in military uniforms holding automatic weapons. They stepped away from the wall.

  “You are the one they call the Conman?” the man asked.

  “Um . . . yes, I—”

  “The cancellation of this contract is an unfortunate matter,” the man said darkly.

  “Well, yes. Obviously, there’s been a misunderstanding—”

  “I’ve been told to give you this check for six hundred and twenty-two U.S. Dollars.”

  The soldiers stepped a little closer.

  “Um . . . you folks don’t need to—”

  “We insist. Our president is an honorable man. He believes we should keep our agreements. Your return flight departs ten minutes from now. They are holding the plane. These gentlemen will escort you.”

  Flanked by soldiers, Conor turned to go when the man added, “Our president is a great fan of baseball, particularly Tiburones baseball. You are well advised not to return to Venezuela.”

  Safely beyond Venezuelan air space, Conor used the seatback phone to call Kate. “Guess what?” he said. “I’ll be home tomorrow. They paid me to go away again.”

  The 1983 Twins had been mediocre. Entering 1984, though, their Major League roster included a host of young unknowns who, three years later, would win a World Series. Even before they started negotiating against themselves, Conor had decided on the Twins. First, because they were bad, and jobs might be more available. Second, because he knew several players within the Twins organization, including Kenny Schrom. Kenny had appeared briefly in the majors for Toronto in 1980 and 1983. He would become a starter in the Twins rotation for 1984.

  “I signed with you guys, because I wanted to check on the champagne,” Conor told Kenny when they met at Tinker Field, the Twins’ ancient spring training facility at Orlando. “I understand Brouhard gave you custody. You haven’t lost it or broken it or anything?”

  “No, Conman. It’s sitting in a wine rack at home, waiting for the last survivor.”

  Twins manager Billy Groves wanted Len Blanco, who’d had a solid season the previous year, as his bullpen lefty. Blanco, though, struggled through the spring. I came to camp to prepare for a spot in a Toledo Mudhens’ rotation, but I found myself mopping up the major league spring training games because of Blanco’s ineffectiveness.

  I appeared late in games, facing triple-A and double-A guys who took over after the major leaguers had their two or three at-bats and were taking their showers. Major league coaches saw what I could do. Pitching Coach Johnny Podres seemed friendly enough. Groves, the manager, appeared unapproachable and indifferent. He didn’t speak to me. Every day, though, pitchers departed for their minor league assignments while I stayed until finally, only Blanco and I remained. With a few games left before opening day, I still hadn’t allowed a run. I’d pitched a dozen innings, giving up only four hits with thirteen strikeouts.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up,” I told Kate, “but I’ve got a shot at making this club.”

  twenty-six

  Minnesota Twins

  1984

  Two rookies left Spring Training on the Minnesota Twins 1984 opening day roster. Conor Nash and Jeff Rasher, who was promoted because catcher Tim Laudner suffered an injury during camp’s final week.

  Conor called everyone he knew. Kate cheered and cried. His mother cheered and cried.

  Brad’s voice wavered as he said, “I always knew you’d get there.” Basil, who was not a crier, admitted to tears running down his cheeks. A.J. bawled, and through his sobs, reminded Conor he needed an agent.

  Sam said, “Just remember who made you a pitcher in the first place, you little snotweasel.” Then, he added, “Can you imagine how proud Dad would be today?”

  Conor walked into the Florida evening and remembered his father’s voice as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

  Conor, you’ve only got one basket. For the other boys, that would be a weakness. Not you. That’s your strength.

  Conor stepped onto the Metrodome field and found Kate and his brothers Sam and Mike a dozen rows above the home team dugout. His brothers traveled to Minnesota for a Twins-Angels series. So far, Conor hadn’t pitched.

  Usually, Conor imposed a rule. He’d impressed upon Kate not to attempt to attract his attention while he was on the field. He wouldn’t acknowledge her or others while he was working. He granted an exception, though, in deference to his brothers’ patience. He offered a discrete wave, validating the story they were telling everyone within hearing distance.

  Every time he’d stepped from the dugout the past two games, his brothers stood and announced, Hey! Hey, there’s our brother! Conor Nash. There’s the Conman!

  Here they were, playing the Angels—the first organization to say Conor Nash wasn’t good enough. So, what if they were playing at a stadium with a plastic bag for a roof? Conor was about to do what he’d promised since he was seven years old.

  Conor imagined his Major League debut about a thousand times. He pictured a holy moment steeped in ceremony. His original vision, of course, painted himself as a starter for the Giants. Knowing his debut would come as a reliever, he made the appropriate adjustments.

  First, the call. A s
hrill ring of urgency. The bullpen coach answers, his grave visage reflecting the true extent of this emergency. He names the Conman. Conor rises, nods his assent and begins a precise ritual of quick shoulder stretches, short, easy tosses, backing up with each throw until he feels the bullpen mound rise against his heels. A determined climb to the rubber. Then a studied acceleration of fastballs on each successive pitch until the pop of the catcher’s glove rings through the stadium.

  Beyond, the rest of the world stops as his manager breaks the news to Conor’s predecessor. Conor waits, unmoving, towel draped over his shoulder as a symbol of availability. Like a king anointing a champion, the manager lifts his left arm high, a gesture twixt summons and plea. Conor enters, his pace determined and deliberate, his arrival greeted with thankfulness. And in the manager’s outstretched hand, a baseball. Please, Conman, smite thee down thine enemies.

  A man rendered faceless and nameless by Conor’s power of concentration steps into the batters’ box. The umpire invites Conor to proceed and the message is delivered as a blazing strike clipping the plate’s outside corner.

  The Conman has arrived.

  Yeah, right.

  This guy definitely had a face. And a name. Reggie Fucking Jackson stood there, waving his bat like a toothpick, offering not even an iota of concern.

  Bases loaded.

  Conor had taken so many deep calming breaths, he feared he’d hyperventilate. He received his catcher’s sign, then glanced once, twice, three times to the runner at second.

  “Time!” The call came from a base umpire who stood between the mound and second.

  This was nowhere in the script.

  The umpire extended his hands, a symbolic request for the ball.

  Conor obliged with a gentle, underhanded toss.

  The umpire massaged the baseball and nodded for Conor to meet him behind the mound.

  “Son,” he said, “I understand this is a big moment—major league debut and all—but if you can’t control the way your knees are shaking, I’m gonna have to call a balk.”