by Mike Murphey
The demise of Conor’s grand scenario began during the second inning when Twins starter Pete Filson nailed Angels’ catcher Bobby Gritch with a fastball to his ribs. Conor learned later that Filson’s assault resulted from a grievance incurred last season when the Angels and Twins had brawled. Filson chose the first opportunity to settle his vendetta despite runners already occupying first and second.
Conor picked the interval before the start of this inning to stroll to the dugout and get bottles of water for his bullpen mates. He had a clear view while the drama unfolded.
As Gritch sagged to one knee, Conor experienced a stark realization concerning the sheer size of the Angels. Brian Downing was a beast with a hat on. Reggie Jackson best resembled a Coke machine with biceps. Gritch was huge, Don Baylor and Doug DeCencies bigger still.
Like a sprinter leaping from starting blocks, Gritch shot toward the mound where he met Filson with a full tackle. Both benches and bullpens emptied.
Conor learned during the brawl marking his first professional game to carefully time his arrival. As a rookie, his presence was mandatory. He wasn’t, however, required to be quite as engaged as those who had a more personal stake. Etiquette required finding someone near his own size—or better yet, someone he knew—on the outskirts of the battle and engaging in pushing and shoving while asking after the wellbeing of family or catching up on events since they’d last seen each other. At the same time, Conor must be wary of someone preparing to sucker-punch one of his teammates. If that happened, he’d be obligated to intervene.
The skirmish required a full dozen minutes to run out of gas. Conor and his teammates, breathing heavily and sporting a few lumps and bruises, some untucked jerseys or torn pants, returned to their dugout. Threats and epitaphs were still exchanged, although now from a safer distance. Filson, who along with Gritch had been ejected, bled from a scratch across his face and disappeared down the stairs leading to the clubhouse.
As Conor congratulated himself for remaining unmarked, he heard a voice over his shoulder shout, “You!” He turned cautiously. He found Billy Groves, two buttons missing from his jersey and his hat still askew, pointing an accusing index finger. “You!” Groves repeated. “You’re pitching!”
The next few moments dissolved into a blur. First problem, he’d left his glove at the bullpen bench, so he sprinted to get it. Next, Umpire Rich Garcia, who had apparently taken a couple of glancing blows as he separated combatants, screamed for a pitcher. Conor sprinted to the mound.
An adrenaline overload left him shaking with each warmup pitch as the ball flew blindly from his hand. Every few seconds, Garcia yelled, “Two more! We’ve gotta get this thing going.” Teammates Kent Hrbek and Gary Gaetti intervened on Conor’s behalf. “No, no, Richie, you’ve gotta let him get ready. It’s not his fault there was a fight!”
Conor closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found Sam, Mike and Kate. She stood, hands together as if in prayer. Sam and Mike jumped and cheered, pointing at their brother for all to see and hear.
Given the umpire’s warning of an impending balk, Conor slowed himself. He looked first to the depths of center field. He scanned the infield, realizing only now that the bases were full. He toed the rubber, staring at his feet. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . He cautiously raised his eyes. Nope. That’s Reggie Jackson, all right.
He found some inner reserve quieting his trembling legs, saw catcher Dave Engle extend an index finger and set at the outside corner. Right. Gotta pitch Jackson away. His fastball screamed shoulder high, tailing inside, then further inside. Jackson ducked, then confronted Conor with a glare. Shouts of protest erupted from the Angels’ dugout.
Shit. Fuck. You can’t hit Reggie Jackson. Especially right after we hit Gritch. The guy will come out here and tear your arm off!
Engle called for another fastball, this time emphasizing the outside corner with a stab of his mitt.
Conor took another deep breath. Okay . . . you can do this . . .
Again, the fastball tailed. Just enough to put it cock high, dead center of the plate. Conor grimaced in anticipation of the impending disaster. Jackson, his black-rimmed glasses gleaming, his afro poofing from under his flapless batting helmet, took one of those swings. The one where he uncoils with a force taking him to one knee after the ball has been struck, his bat extended majestically in his right hand behind him.
Jackson hit the ball so hard, Conor swore he saw a contrail along its path toward the right-centerfield bleachers. Wait! Second baseman Tim Teufel made a leap—a full-body extension—of which no human should be capable. The ball’s velocity nearly took his glove off. He rolled on the artificial turf, righted himself in one athletic flow of motion, and flipped the ball to shortstop Ron Washington at second base.
Double Play! Double Fucking Play!
Conor suppressed the urge to give a little punch of victory as he bounded off the mound, skipped over the foul line, and trotted into the dugout. He buried his face in a towel to hide his smile.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Grove’s growl held a malevolence Conor hadn’t thought possible. He peeked from behind the towel, past Grove’s glare, past snickering teammates, past disdain on the face of Richie Garcia, to the mound, occupied now by Hrbek and Gaetti, the latter flipping a baseball in and out of his glove while shaking his head.
“That’s only two outs, numb nuts,” Groves said.
“Oh . . . um . . . I . . .” Conor fleetingly considered making an excuse. Something about his glove, or his shoe or . . . Even facing humiliation, he had the presence of mind to realize what a mistake that would be.
He retrieved his glove and retraced his steps, enduring sarcastic cheers and jeers of the home fans. He glanced quickly toward Kate and his brothers. Sam sat with his Twins cap pulled low over his eyes. Mike shielded his face behind both hands. Kate offered a shrug.
Gaetti handed him the ball. “Two cases of Molson for the clubhouse.”
“What?”
“Two cases of Molson. That’s the Kangaroo Court fine.”
Conor induced DeCencies to pop up the next pitch. Groves told him he was done. Conor presented Gaetti two cases of Molson beer the next morning.
twenty-seven
Almost a decade removed from those events, Conor understood his Minnesota failure.
He rose stiffly from the sandstone bench. His leg muscles had begun to tighten. The last thing he wanted was to suffer the paroxysm of a hamstring cramp. He took a few careful, shuffling steps.
Here’s how it was, Rita. To make the 1984 Twins roster Len Blanco only needed to be a little bit good. He was Grove’s guy. A 5.00 ERA, and he owns that last roster spot. Not with a 10.00.
Groves used me as Blanco’s wake-up call.
Happens all the time—some rookie’s career dangled as bait for an underperforming veteran. Bottom line, though? I didn’t take advantage of it. I made four appearances, three of them against Detroit, which opened the 1984 season thirty-five and five on their way to the World Series. I delivered a mediocre performance.
I failed my first major league attempt because, once again, I wasn’t ready. I let myself be intimidated by the legends. Jackson, Cal Ripkin, Alan Trammel, Kirk Gibson. I didn’t pitch to the catcher’s glove. I pitched to the back of baseball cards.
I came prepared to play in Toledo. Ken Schrom and Dave Engle bought me two sports jackets when we flew to Baltimore. Their generosity helped me meet the big league dress code. No one, though, could buy me a Major League frame of mind.
Conor stood in the baggage claim area at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, waiting for a carrousel to disgorge his luggage the first week of May. He worried about Kate. Before the Twins left for the road trip, the wives arranged an Easter get-together for players and their families. Except Kate hadn’t been invited. Len Blanco had been among the most popular teammates. When Conor replaced him, the wives reacted by shunning Kate. Minor league wives had always embraced each other, formed a mutua
l support group to lift each other during times of disappointment and celebrated any success they could find. Kate didn’t give the Twins’ wives the satisfaction of displaying her hurt, but Conor knew she felt frightened and alone.
Conor saw Billy Groves weaving toward him, tipsy as a result of his encounters with the drinks cart during a somber flight from Seattle.
The manager regarded him for a moment, one eye displaying a half-squint.
“Um . . . you need help finding your bag, Skip?”
Groves ignored the question. Instead, he said, “Here’s how it is, Jeff. We’ve got some guys finally getting healthy, so we’re sending you down.”
Groves turned and walked away.
Conor suffered a moment of stunned paralysis, disrupted as Jeff Rasher approached and cleared his throat.
“Um, Conman,” Jeff said. “I might have bad news for you. I . . . I think you’re getting sent down.”
Conor was still trying to understand being demoted under the wrong name in baggage claim. And now . . . what?
“Who told you?”
“Well, a couple of minutes ago, Billy called me Conor, and said we’re going to make a move.”
Conor slung an arm around Jeff’s shoulder. “Well, then I’ve got bad news for you, too, Dude . . .”
Toledo Mudhens
Triple A Baseball
1984
Jeff and I reported to the Mudhens the next afternoon. Kate packed our stuff in Minneapolis. She and the kids would arrive in Toledo a few days later. I’d already informed my mom and brothers, along with A.J., Basil and Brad. Everyone offered encouragement. Everyone said I’d certainly reach the pinnacle again. I would not, they assured me, be one of those thousands teased by a brief taste of nirvana, never to find my way back.
By now, I’d been hardened to the shuffle of players, like pieces on a game board, by executives who regarded so many of us living at the cusp of the majors as tokens easily sacrificed. Any illusions I might have held about justice or simple fairness had long since been ground into the dirt of a thousand pitching mounds.
Success at any level requires a player to cling with every molecule of his being to his passion for the game. This game is too difficult, the everyday grind too demanding, to approach with any degree of indifference. The irony, though, is that executives who manage players’ fates remind them at every opportunity that “it’s a business.” And business has little regard for passion.
The trick, I found, is to build a fortress where your passion is safe from cynicism and disappointment. In that small place I could live in awe of a Reggie Jackson or a Wilbur Spalding. I could tingle at the thrill of putting on a baseball uniform. But only there. I must construct a separate room for my professionalism. Failure and success co-exist in that room. Neither can overwhelm the other. Emotion is checked at the door. Bad calls, bad breaks, bad bounces must become as insignificant as hotdog wrappers twisting through a windy stadium. I needed to resist forever more the temptation of blame. I could hold only one person accountable—myself.
My angel blessed me with a major league fastball. Hard work and tenacity produced a devastating screwball. These other things, these mental disciplines, were what I had to master during my time at Toledo, so at the next opportunity—if my friends and family were correct and I earned another chance—I would finally be ready.
“Son, you gonna start for me. I looked at your stats, and you ain’t no bull-penner. You’re a starter. Get yourself settled. Throw a bullpen. Then, three days, you gonna start the Pawww-tuckett series.”
Cal Ermer’s words wafted over me like poetry.
Somewhere in his seventies, Cal labored for dozens of years as a minor league player, coach or manager. He’s one of a handful of men who, like W.P. Kinsella’s Moonlight Graham, earned their way into the Baseball Encyclopedia by virtue of a single major league appearance. He started at second base and went zero for three for the Washington Senators on a day in 1947. He played second base and had seven defensive chances. He made four putouts and contributed three assists. By the time I met him as manager of the Toledo Mudhens, I saw a spare, white-haired man with a perpetual tobacco stain tracking from his mouth to his chin. Throughout a ballgame, Cal’s distinctive chatter rang. “Hey, segasegachigachigasegasega . . . Shu!”
I never understood what any of that meant, but I loved playing for Cal.
Apart from the disappointment of his demotion, Conor thrilled at being a Toledo Mudhen. Who could escape the image of Corporal Klinger holding a cigar, wearing a dress and a Mudhens’ cap, behind him the grim theater of the Korean War? Several times that season, Klinger himself—actor Jamie Farr—appeared at the ballpark. He and Conor traded autographs.
The Mudhens’ park, though, was a nightmare. At Lucas County Stadium, hitters stared into the setting sun and every pitcher became Nolan Ryan for four innings. When the sun set, though, the wind picked up and blew straight out to center field.
All that would come later, after Pawtucket, the Red Sox’s Triple-A entry in the International League, where, in his first appearance, Conor faced a young pheenom named Roger Clemens.
“So?” Kate began their post-game phone call.
“We won,” Conor said.
“Wow. Clemens is supposed to be pretty good. How’d you throw?”
“I blew their doors off. Cal took me out after five. I struck out ten.”
The relative significance of his performance fell into perspective the very next day.
“Phone call for you,” the clubhouse guy told Conor.
“Can you take a message?” Conor asked. “I need to—”
“I don’t think so. It’s the owner.”
“Of the Mudhens?”
“No. Owner of the Twins.”
As Conor hustled for the phone, his mind raced. They heard about last night’s game and they’re calling already? Maybe somebody got hurt.
Calvin Griffith, a patriarch among Major League executives, served as both Twins owner and general manager. His father, Clark Griffith, the club’s original owner when they’d been the Washington Senators, willed the team to his son Calvin and daughter Thelma when he passed away in 1955. Calvin’s tight-fisted ways made him notorious among Major League owners.
Conor took a deep breath.
“This is Conor Nash,” he said brightly.
“Nash! When you went to Toledo last week you left without paying your clubhouse dues. I’m taking it out of your paycheck.”
Click.
At Toledo, I won twelve and lost six as a starter, including six complete games. My earned run average totaled 2.79. I struck out a hundred and sixty-four, while walking only fifty-six. I remained on the forty-man Major League roster, so wasn’t eligible for minor league free agency. I’d made the adjustments, though. My Triple-A performance could not be ignored. Both mentally and physically, I felt ready.
What could possibly go wrong?
“The Twins want me to play winter ball in Puerto Rico.”
“Oh, good,” Kate said.
Conor studied her face with a hint of suspicion. “You said you were glad I was staying home this winter.”
“I am.”
“I’ll be in Puerto Rico.”
“So you say.”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
Kate smiled. “I believe you think you’re going to Puerto Rico.”
When she kissed him goodbye at the airport, she said, “Have fun. Call me when you’re on your way home.”
Halfway across the Atlantic, the seatback phone rang. Conor’s chin dropped onto his chest. No. This is not possible . . .
“Conor? George Brophy. I’m sorry to bother you . . .”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m on an airplane. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.”
“Yes, well, here’s the thing. We’ve had contacts from some Japanese teams, who’ve expressed interest in a number of players from our system. Your name came up . . .”
“Japan?”
&n
bsp; “Don’t worry about it. The possibility of us doing a deal is unlikely. Still, with you being part of the discussions, we don’t believe Puerto Rico is a good idea for you.”
“I’ll be in Puerto Rico two hours from now. I can’t just jump out of the window.”
“It’s not only the Japanese thing,” Brophy said. “You threw about a hundred and sixty innings last year. The more we considered it, the more we believe pitching in Puerto Rico would not be in your best interest.”
“What about the Puerto Ricans? What do they think? I might want to take a vacation there someday.”
“Oh, they’re fine with releasing you from your contract,” Brophy assured him. “We’re sending them someone else.”
“Okay. Once again, we’ve got an issue of money. My wife and I were counting—”
“We’ll pay you a thousand dollars for the inconvenience. Some people there will give you a check.”
“Will they have guns?”
twenty-eight
Conor, Kate and their two children were staying at his mother’s house for the off-season when Rocky Horano called.
“Conor, for you.” Kate passed the phone across the kitchen table.
“Mr. Nash?” The voice had a distinct Japanese accent. “I am Rocky Horano. I am American liaison with the Yomiuri Giants, and we are interested in talking with you.”
Conor had told A.J., Brad and Basil about Brophy’s statements concerning the Japanese. He put his hand over the receiver and told Kate. “It’s A.J. He’s screwing with me.”
Kate rolled her eyes.
“Okay,” Conor said, sarcasm dripping from each word, “what can I do for ya’ Mr. Herrr-ah-nooo?”
A brief silence ensued, followed by, “We have studied your record, and would like to discuss your playing baseball in Japan.”
