The Conman

by Mike Murphey

  Conor checked his champagne. A third of the bottle remained, and he’d acquired a pleasant buzz.

  See, Rita, the Twins made a mistake. As soon as they got their money from Japan, they removed me from their forty-man roster, and I became a free agent. The Japanese still hadn’t sent me a check. So, technically, I could have walked away from that deal. An hour after Minnesota posted my release, the calls began. A dozen teams wanted to offer me a job.

  Yeah, I promised to accept the Japanese offer. I knew by bitter experience, though, baseball promises were broken every day. I could have signed with someone else. The Twins would have to give the money back.

  I was tempted. But no one else would offer me $250,000 a year, would they?

  I tell you, I pitched great over there. The fans loved me. Most American players kept to themselves. They rejected Japanese conditioning routines. They lived in American compounds. They fled during the off-season. Not Conman-San. I embraced Japanese training methods. I studied so I could speak Japanese for interviews. We lived in a Japanese neighborhood. My kids attended Japanese schools. Although Kate and the kids flew home for the off season, I stayed two full years.

  The business of baseball isn’t any kinder there than here, though. Going into 1986, the Yomiyuri owners became infatuated with a different American player. Conman-San became old news. And since each Japanese team was limited to two foreigners, Conman was no longer wanted.

  They offered the $50,000 buyout. No. I trotted out my copy of Brad’s contract. “That’s for the third year. You owe me $250,000.”

  Of course, a conscientious angel would know all of this, but I guess I’m operating on the assumption that my angel suffers from some sort of angel attention deficit disorder. And from time to time, something shiny came along and you forgot all about me.

  They sent me to the minors. I didn’t know they had minor leagues over there.

  Experience had shown them that Americans took the quickest path home they could find. They believed no American player would suffer the inconvenience and indignity of such a demotion.

  I did. I commuted hours to the minor league park on game days, where I’d sit and watch—until the great Sadaharu Oh intervened. Oh remains the most revered player in Japanese history—Japan’s Babe Ruth, the undisputed star of the Giants. He liked me as a teammate and was pissed off when I got sent down. When he learned I wasn’t getting any mound time there, he talked with team owners. I remained a minor-leaguer, but I pitched regularly from then on.

  When the 1986 season ended, the team exercised its release option for $50,000 and my unused plane tickets. I went home. We finally had money in the bank. The whole winter remained to sort out what I would do next.

  thirty

  Golden Gate Park

  1987

  “Maybe I should wait until next week,” Conor said into the phone, carefully rotating his upper body, exploring the pain in his lower back and legs.

  “A half-dozen teams are sending scouts,” A.J. protested. “The game’s this afternoon. You know you’ll feel better when you get up and around.”

  “What will you do?” Kate asked as they lazed in bed early on the morning of the 1987 Super Bowl. At A.J.’s urging, Conor had agreed to pitch at Golden Gate Park that afternoon, his first game appearance since returning from Japan. A.J. worked the phones all week, recruiting teams to send scouts, who would be grumpy because they’d miss the football game.

  Conor stood and took a few painful shambling steps toward the bathroom.

  “You look terrible,” Kate said. “What happens if you play today and you’re awful?”

  “You make a good point,” Conor said. “Maybe the best point anyone’s made this week. I’ll say I can’t make it today. Maybe next Sunday. The Giants aren’t sending a scout anyway.”

  Hugh Nash had established a holiday football tradition. Without fail, the family played football games on four occasions: Turkey Bowl Thanksgiving Day, Claus Classic Christmas Day, Hangover Bowl New Year’s Day, and Super Saturday. Ostensibly, they played touch football, but Hugh didn’t urge anyone to give any slack. Occasionally, A.J., Basil or even Brad joined the game. They soon learned, though, in the interest of survival, absence might be the better part of valor.

  “Okay, Connie, wear this,” Sam declared before opening kickoff of the 1987 Super Saturday game. He handed Conor a bright red t-shirt.

  “Why do I—”

  “Because you’re pitching tomorrow. Scouts will be there. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Shoulder pads would do me more good than a red T-shirt,” Conor said.

  “So, take it easy on the Conman,” Sam ordered his brothers.

  The sides were Sam, Mike and Brandan against Conor and Dylan. Which might seem a mismatch. Conor had that left arm, though, and Dylan was the best athlete among them. He ran like a blue dart, starred as a football player at San Carlos High, and scouts from several major league organizations showed up every time he pitched.

  Conor’s red shirt privilege lasted about two plays before the afternoon devolved into the usual scratching and biting Nash riot.

  Since our return from Japan, Rita, I found myself victim of a troubling and persistent ambivalence. I finally had a choice. I didn’t have to climb back onto this particular ride. I said I’d pitch in the majors, and I did. We’d made good money overseas. Our financial backs were no longer against a wall. We wouldn’t live with our parents. I could find a normal job—maybe even work again at the Filoli Estate—come home every day and see my kids.

  I knew A.J. sensed this uncertainty the first time we talked.

  “We’re going to a Giants game,” A.J. said. He’d gotten game tickets during the final home stand of the 1986 season.

  “I haven’t paid to watch a baseball game in twelve years,” Conor said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” A.J said. “I’ll buy the tickets, big shot. I can afford it.”

  Indeed, A.J. could afford it. While he never revealed a specific number, Conor’s boyhood buddy enjoyed a personal worth of millions.

  They sat behind third base, hunched into their jackets against the Candlestick gales. Maybe 17,000 spectators sat scattered about the park at the close of a lackluster season. Conor recalled how intimidated he’d been by the 17,000 fans who’d watched him at the Metrodome. He’d played before 70,000 raucous Japanese fanatics game after game in Tokyo.

  He watched the Giants’ pitchers struggle against hitters he’d routinely retired a few years ago playing Double-A or Triple-A ball. “Why’d you throw him a fastball?” Then, “This guy can’t hit a curve to save his . . . throw him a damn curveball!” Or, “This guy will fall over if you give him a screwball . . . oh, wait. You can’t throw a screwball, can you?”

  A.J. wore a perpetual smile during the drive home.

  A month later, Conor scheduled a dental appointment and haircut the same day. His dentist—not the one who pulled the wrong tooth, but his regular guy—asked, “What about next season?”

  “’Ell,” Conor said, his mouth stretched by clamps, “I ’hink it ’ight ’e ’ime ’o ’ink a’ow ’oing ’othig else.”

  The dentist’s eyes grew wide under the glare of his lamp. He aimed the needle point of the pic in his hand. “You can’t do that. You’re our hometown guy. You can’t quit until we see you play for the home-town team. Your dad wanted you to play for the Giants.”

  A few hours later, his barber, holding a straight razor at Conor’s throat, said essentially the same thing.

  Although his dad never said so, Conor knew Hugh had hoped his son would play for the Giants. And while Conor never offered his father any verbal promise, he did make an emotional vow that he would not surrender until he’d succeeded. Did six innings of relief for the Minnesota Twins constitute success?

  Conor soaked in a hot bath, drank coffee and read the newspaper. He had to admit he felt better. Still . . . he kept remembering the Giants weren’t coming. Two hours before the game, though, he still hadn’t
called to tell his team they needed another pitcher today.

  He could take some aspirin. He knew he’d get an adrenaline jolt erasing most remaining aches the moment he stepped on the mound.

  What if I suck, though?

  Wait a minute.

  What if I do suck? Sucking makes the decision for me, doesn’t it? Maybe the best thing is putting the whole issue onto the shoulders of the damned baseball angel.

  “You look like you’re getting ready to go,” Kate said.

  “Yeah, I told them I’d be there. So, I’d better play.”

  Was the song an omen?

  Conor stared through chain linked wire enclosing his dugout, past the pitcher’s mound, past the parks department guy prepping the infield, past teammates he barely knew who played catch or jogged across outfield grass.

  At first, the song echoed as indistinct background noise. As he tugged his shoelaces tight, though, its lyrics took shape.

  “Hey A.J., you hear the music?”

  Sitting beside Conor on a worn metal bench, A.J. smiled.

  “Yeah, man. That’s the Dead.”

  “Somebody’s got a boom box?”

  “Well, maybe. Maybe not. Look where we are.”

  The baseball field lay in shadows of the Golden Gate Bridge. A cloudless sky behind the looming towers anchoring the bridge on the San Francisco side of the bay a crisp blue, although January’s sun didn’t cut an early afternoon chill.

  “What, you think it’s really them?”

  A.J shrugged. “Who knows? Jerry Garcia lives somewhere around here.”

  Conor shook his head.

  “Gotta be a boom box.”

  One more bit of irony. The Grateful Dead.

  If, indeed, Conor’s career was dead, six innings in the Major Leagues certainly wasn’t enough to make him grateful. At the very least, Jerry Garcia and Bobby Weir were offering a neat summation of the Conman’s career.

  . . . Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me,

  other times I can barely see,

  and lately it occurs to me what a long strange trip it’s been . . .

  The music faded. Conor tied his shoelace. A.J. gasped.

  “My, God. I think that’s Al Rosen.”

  Conor followed his gaze toward a paved path coursing through the park behind them.

  “Where?” Conor asked.

  “The tandem bicycle.”

  Conor saw a yellow two-seater being peddled at a leisurely pace by a fairly non-descript middle age couple—a man steering, a woman on the rear seat. They were dressed more for the cool January sunshine than for serious exercise.

  “You sure it’s Rosen?”

  “Well, if it’s not, I’m gonna make a fool of myself.”

  “No, A.J. Al Rosen won’t . . .”

  A.J. sprinted across the grass. “Mr. Rosen!” he called. “Mr. Rosen! Stop! Stop!”

  The bike wobbled and from the rear seat the woman’s legs splayed like a wishbone.

  Tomorrow’s San Francisco Chronicle headline flashed through Conor’s mind. Giants General Manager Maimed in Bicycle Accident. The man managed to get both feet grounded, though, and sort of run the bicycle to a halt despite the dead weight of his spouse shifting unexpectedly behind him.

  Rosen turned halfway to calm his wife, then considered his pursuer.

  Slowing to a trot, A.J. waved. At least the gesture made him look less like a mugger, although Conor saw Mrs. Rosen reach into a hip pocket and produce something that might have been a can of mace.

  A.J. raised both arms high as a demonstration of supplication.

  What now? Rosen thought.

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to . . . um . . . startle you,” said the man approaching them. “I just . . . well, there’s a guy over here you need to see pitch . . .”

  From the seat behind him, Rosen’s wife said, “Oh, my good Lord.”

  “No, really. He’s been in Japan the last two seasons and . . .”

  Rosen’s expression conveyed neither understanding nor sympathy.

  “. . . and he pitched for the Twins. He’ll be throwing here this afternoon . . .”

  Rosen shook his head, making preparations to get underway. Before he and Mrs. Rosen coordinated their efforts effectively enough to gain any momentum, though, A.J. added, “He’s left-handed.”

  Rosen stopped again.

  “Oh, why did you tell him that?” Rosen’s wife glared at A.J. and reached again for the mace.

  As they peddled on, Mrs. Rosen spoke to the back of her husband’s head. “You said we’d have a nice, quiet ride by the bridge. It’s Sunday. I should’ve sprayed him.”

  “Yeah,” Rosen answered over his shoulder, “but the guy’s a lefty.”

  Conor watched the bicycle continue on its way. Even though he didn’t expect A.J.’s gambit to succeed, if indeed the guy pedaling away was San Francisco Giants general manager Al Rosen, his hopes fell just a little.

  Then he heard a snippet of conversation behind him. “. . . so that’s him, huh? Fuckin’ Major Leaguer thinks he’s some kind’a hot shit . . .”

  Conor remembered another team was here today. He finished tying his shoe, then looked to the opposite dugout. He saw fifteen hungry kids stealing glances his way, most of them wearing their game-face scowls. They’d shown up today knowing they would face the guy from Japan, the guy who’d been to the summit. They, too, knew scouts would be on hand this Sunday afternoon. They were gambling, just like him. Betting they could make their bones by kicking his ass.

  Adrenaline coursed through Conor’s blood. Ambivalence fled. He stood and met every eye that dared challenge him. He felt the weight of an unblemished baseball nestled in his glove.

  Time to pitch.

  With two outs in the third inning, Conor saw the yellow tandem bike leaning against the backstop. He shook away his catcher’s request for a fastball and snapped off a screwball the batter flailed at for strike three. The hitter cursed himself, then glared at Conor as he trudged to the dugout.

  The bike remained as Conor dispatched the game’s final batter.

  “I missed the first two innings,” Rosen said. He stood behind the dugout as Conor changed his shoes. “How many hits you give up today?”

  Conor banged his cleats together, dislodging clumps of red mound clay.

  “None.”

  “That’s what I thought. You got an agent?”

  “Well. Sort of. I guess. You met him before the game.”

  “Come by my office tomorrow,” Rosen said.

  Conor smiled.

  Indeed, what a long strange trip it’s been.

  thirty-one

  The natural sandstone bench offered enough length for Conor to lay on his back if he pulled his boot heels close. He stared at emerging stars. He found Polaris, the North Star. From there he followed a curving line of lesser stars and held the bottle at just the right height and angle, as if he might pour champagne into the Big Dipper.

  So, at the start of Spring Training, 1987, my career remained alive, and Kenny finally surrendered. That’s when I took custody of this bottle.

  Conor heard a sharp whistle from behind him. A man standing at the dugout rail, waving a hand high overhead.

  “Kenny?” Conor called and trotted over.

  Ken Schrom embraced Conor, then offered the bottle. Its label had peeled a little at the edges. Foil covering the cork showed tearing here and there. The wire bale, though, still held everything together.

  “What’s this?” Conor asked.

  “I’m done,” Schrom said. “Shredded my shoulder. They tried to put it back together, but . . . I’m done.”

  Conor took the bottle, cradling it between his chest and forearm.

  “Can you believe,” he asked Kenny, “how young we were?”

  “Well, take care, and when the time comes, when you finally quit, enjoy your champagne,” Kenny said. “Not for a long time, though. And get your ass out of here. You should be pitching in the bigs.”


  Conor drank.

  The Giants never made it easy.

  All six teams with scouts at Golden Gate Park offered me contracts. The Giants did, too. Their offer wasn’t the best. I guess I felt an obligation, though, to my dad, my family, my hometown and—in a lapse of judgement—my frickin’ angel. And like magic, everything clicked. Pitching in relief, I didn’t allow a single run until my last outing. I didn’t let any inherited runner score. I don’t know what the spring training record is for saves, but I had six of them.

  Roger Craig said he’d keep one lefthander for the pen. By the last week, only I remained. And it’s not like he went out of his way to give me a break. As my last test, Roger put me into a game in Yuma against the Padres—bottom of the ninth, bases loaded. One-run lead. I smoked ’em. Three up. Three down.

  When spring training began, I was a two-paragraph back-page story for the home-town papers: Local Boy Long Shot at Giants Training Camp. With each passing week, though, the story became more dramatic. Rosen talked about a gem he’d discovered at Golden Gate Park. Craig said he liked the guy from Japan as well as any lefty he had. Now, the San Francisco papers were writing about a thirty-one-year-old rookie, released seven times, once traded for a box of baseballs. Nobody got it exactly right. I realized, though, the myth sports writers were building helped my cause. You want me to be the inept guy who’s been released seven times? Okay, I’ll be that guy.

  Finally, after all the years, Conor Nash actually became The Conman.

  Being an angel and all, I don’t know if you’ll appreciate this, but I also reached legendary status with my manager and coaches.

  That was mostly Basil’s doing, though.

  “I met a couple of girls who may show up tonight,” Basil told Conor as they visited during batting practice at the Angels Spring Training park in Palm Springs.

  “What, already?” Conor asked. “We just got here.”