The Conman
Page 23
He said, “Congratulations.”
“What’s that about?” Conor asked Davis as they waited at the elevator.
Davis answered with a weary shrug.
They entered their room as Conor fumbled for a light switch. The first switch he flipped produced only a soft hum. A second switch lit the room. Neither man spoke. Furnishings consisted primarily of a huge heart-shaped bed mounted to a turntable that spun in a slow circle on a floor covered by plush red carpet. Heavy red drapes covered windows along one wall. Atop the lone bedside table, a magnum of Champagne nestled in a silver bucket of ice.
While Conor watched the bed spin, Davis opened a second door. “We’ve got a hot tub, too.”
Conor picked up the phone from a low-slung credenza along the wall. “Can you connect me with Doc Mattei?” He waited through a series of rings.
“Yeah?”
“Doc? This is Conor Nash. I hate to complain first night out and all . . .”
“Look, you can’t get too picky. There’s a convention, like I said. It’s all they got. So, what’s the problem?”
“Well . . . there’s only one bed.”
“I’ll have them send up a roll-away.”
Conor hung up.
Davis said, “So?”
“I’ll flip you for the bed.”
The Conman spent his first night as a Padre watching himself slowly rotate in the reflection from a ceiling mirror, wishing he was still a Giant.
San Diego Padres
1987
We joined a Padres clubhouse loaded with talent. John Kruk and Joey Cora were the youngsters. Both Alomar brothers waited in the Triple-A wings. Veterans included Tony Gwynn, Gary Templeton, Goose Gossage, Bruce Bochy, Mark Parent, Benito Santiago, Storm Davis, Eric Show, Ed Whitson. And, during his final season of a stellar career, Steve Garvey.
I hated Steve Garvey.
I’d never met the man, but growing up an unrepentant Giants fan, I’d been indoctrinated from birth to hate everything Dodger. We allowed an exception for Sandy Koufax, because, well, he was Sandy Koufax. Garvey, though, his clean-cut image shimmering like heat waves rising from cars in a stadium parking lot, embodied the 1970’s Dodgers who regularly squashed the Giants. Garvey was the first Padre who approached me as I unpacked at my locker.
“Hi, I’m Steve Garvey. Just wanted to say welcome and see if you need anything.”
“Um . . . I’m Conor Nash. I . . . um . . .”
“Right. The Conman. I’ve heard good things about you. Are you moving your family down?”
“Well . . . yeah, that’s the plan.”
“If you need information about schools or neighborhoods, let me know. When your wife gets here, my wife will show her around.”
Mark Davis arrived a few minutes later.
“Shit,” Conor told him. “I just met Steve Garvey. Turns out the cocksucker’s a nice guy. God, I hate that.”
“Yeah, he talked to me, too. He’s super, isn’t he?”
Logan Vega, in his rookie year as a manager, became my main issue with the Padres. The transition from Roger Craig to Vega was like the difference between a rising and falling tide. Craig, ever the calming force who spoke only when he needed to, let his players play. Vega, pacing, growling, intimidating. With bitter experience as my teacher, I knew I should ignore his theatrics, keep my head down, and just pitch.
My teammates blew that strategy away when they elected me their union player representative
Two Months Earlier
“Hey, buddy, you want a thankless job?” Jim Gott put an arm around Conor’s shoulder the day after Conor’s call-up from Phoenix to the Giants.
“What?”
“I got a thankless job, and I need someone to help me.”
“Um . . . you want me to help you move?”
“No. I’m the player rep, and I need an assistant. Somebody to pass out papers, make phone calls every now and again. Every team has to have a player rep and an assistant player rep.”
Then came the trade.
Dave Dravecky had been the Padres player rep, Craig Lefferts his assistant. Both were now Giants. Vega called a team meeting the day Conor and the others arrived. He told them they needed to elect a new player rep.
Tim Flannery said, “I nominate Conor Nash. All in favor of the Conman being our player rep raise your hand.”
Conor’s first confrontation with management occurred soon thereafter.
Joan Kroc, third wife of McDonald’s magnate, Ray Kroc, inherited both the team and the company following his 1983 death. A week after Conor became player rep, she issued an edict banning beer from the Padres clubhouse.
Goose Gossage furiously voiced his disapproval in full hearing of sports writers. They quoted him as saying, “What is this? She can poison the world with her burgers, but we can’t have a beer after the game?”
Mrs. Kroc suspended Gossage for his remarks. Goose appealed his suspension. The league and union appointed an arbitrator to hear the appeal.
Vega, concerned about losing his closer, cornered Conor.
“What do you know about being a player rep?” Vega demanded.
“Hey, get someone else if you think they’d be better.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Just to ease your mind, Logan, when they made me assistant at San Francisco, I studied. I’ll know what I’m doing. I don’t take this job lightly.”
The arbitrator ruled in favor of Gossage.
A few weeks later, Benito Santiago suffered a bad game and assaulted his locker with a bat in view of the writers. A story appeared the next day.
“Hey, Conman,” Santiago said, “how can they write this? They aren’t even supposed to be there. The rules say they give us twenty minutes.”
Conor called a meeting. “Union rules say the press has to wait twenty minutes following a game before they come in. We haven’t been enforcing it. What do we want to do?” The vote called for strict enforcement. Conor passed the news to reporters. One ignored the mandate. Conor saw him walk through the door immediately after the next day’s game.
“You gotta wait,” Conor said.
“I’m not here talking to players. I’m here to see Logan.”
Conor blocked his path. “The rule is, you gotta wait.”
The man threatened that Vega would not be happy.
“Why are you keeping the press away?” Vega demanded later that evening.
“It’s not me. The players voted. They want the twenty-minute rule strictly enforced. Come on, Logan, you were a player rep. You know how it is.”
“I was player rep after being in the bigs for fifteen years. You haven’t even played a full season up here. That guy you kicked out is writing my book. We use this time right after a game to talk.”
“Hey,” Conor said, “if you meet him at the door and usher him in yourself, then I guess you can. But the players voted . . .”
Vega walked away.
Conor didn’t pitch for ten days.
Conor knocked at Vega’s office door.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Skip, if this player rep thing is the reason I’m not pitching, then I’ll resign as player rep.”
“Being a player rep doesn’t keep a pitcher from pitching,” Vega said. “Bad pitching keeps a pitcher from pitching.”
Conor’s sparkling run had continued. He hadn’t suffered a poor outing since joining the Padres.
“Okaaay . . . but I have to say I don’t think I’m throwing bad. When I’m throwing.”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m saying bad pitching is what keeps a pitcher from pitching.”
“Well, I was throwing pretty well—”
“I know you were, but bad pitching is what keeps a pitcher from pitching.”
Okay. Uncle.
“What did he say?” Mark Davis asked Conor.
“He said bad pitching keeps a pitcher from pitching.”
“You’re throwing great.”
“Yeah, he said that, too. An
d he added that bad pitching keeps pitchers from pitching.”
“God,” said Davis, “I’ve been throwing like shit, and I’m pitching every other day. I wonder what that means?”
Conor and Vega never spoke again.
thirty-three
Off-Season
1987-88
“I’m not gonna clean houses this winter.”
“Okay, what will you do?” Kate asked.
“I may coach girls’ basketball at the junior high school again. I like coaching. But I’m a Major League baseball player . . .”
“You won’t always be a Major League baseball player. Someday, you’ll retire. I’m investing our Japanese money. It won’t last if we don’t work during the off season.”
“Well, I’m not cleaning houses.”
“Take the coaching job. I’ll ask at the junior high if they have anything else for you to pick up a few more hours.”
Conor entered the school office to get some printing done for basketball practice.
“Oh, Mr. Nash, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Assistant Principal Mildred Baker-Finch. “They need you at the cafeteria right after lunch.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Poor Mrs. Emmiger. We didn’t know what we’d do until your wife called—”
“Why is Mrs. Emmiger poor?”
“She hurt her back.”
“Who is Mrs. Emmiger?”
“She’s the dishwasher.”
Kate greeted him at the door with a kiss. “So, how was practice?”
“They made me wash dishes.”
“Oh, good. You got the job.”
“Look, I know I’ve told you my baseball experience over the last thirteen years has pretty much stripped me of my pride. I found out today, though, I’ve still got at least some of it left.”
Kate kissed him again.
“Just think,” she said, “how happy you’ll be when you can buy Jessi and David cars as their graduation presents.”
“Jessi is nine,” Conor said. “David is seven. How do you know they’ll even want cars?”
Las Vegas Stars
Triple A Baseball
1988
Despite an outstanding spring, I remained buried in Vega’s doghouse. Still a member of the Padres forty-man Major League roster, I wasn’t eligible for minor league free agency. I opened the season at Triple-A Las Vegas, where manager Steve Smith was glad to have me. Smith installed me as his closer, and I slammed the door every time out.
“Man, I don’t know what you’re still doing here,” Smith told me.
“Yeah. I wish they’d take me off the forty-man and give me my release.”
“They won’t do that. You’re throwing too well. You’re too valuable if something goes wrong up there.”
As the Padres struggled in the National League West—Vega was fired in May—we were crushing Pacific Coast League competition. We had Joey Cora, Mike Brumley, Jerald Clark, Bip Roberts, Sandy Alomar, Roberto Alomar. The Las Vegas Stars won the PCL championship going away. Despite seventeen saves and an ERA of 3.14, I didn’t get a September call-up. To make room for those who did, though, the Padres dropped me from the forty-man roster, restoring my free-agency. I obtained my release at season’s end.
Off-Season
1988-89
“I’m not washing dishes this winter. I’ll coach basketball again. I won’t wash dishes.”
“Okay,” Kate said. “I understand. What about driving around and making some deliveries?”
“What kind of deliveries?”
“Flowers. I met the nicest lady who runs a florist shop downtown. She needs someone to make morning flower deliveries.”
Mrs. Bently, the flower lady, welcomed Conor into her office. Conor liked how the shop smelled. Mrs. Bently, though, seemed . . . wary.
“And you do have a valid driver’s license?” she asked.
“Well . . . of course.”
“It’s not suspended, or anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“And you realize you must be prompt.”
Each morning, Mrs. Bently welcomed him with a handshake, followed by a quick glance at his arms and a stern gaze into his eyes. Even though he appeared each time he was summoned, she always checked the clock and seemed surprised.
Finally, about a month into the job, she said, “I must say, Mr. Nash, I believe you may have turned the corner.”
“What corner?”
“Your drug problem. You hang in there. You can whip this thing.”
“My drug problem?”
“I gave you this job because your poor wife seemed so anxious for you to have it. I felt sorry—”
“I don’t have a drug problem. Why do you think I have a drug problem?”
“Well . . . um . . . well, you were a Major League baseball player. Why else would you need a job at a florist shop?”
Scottsdale, Arizona
1989
The Giants called soon after the 1988 season ended.
“We see you’re available, and we like your numbers,” Rosen told him.
Conor pitched through the winter at Golden Gate Park, coached basketball, delivered flowers, and entered Spring Training of 1989 throwing as effectively as he ever had. One-by-one, other lefthanders were demoted. With four days remaining to opening day, Conor knew he’d pitched well enough to make the team. He also knew his performance didn’t necessarily count for anything.
Roger Craig walked across the outfield grass where Conor shagged fly balls.
“Conman, we really like how you pitch, but . . . we’ve got no room for you. We’ve got all these young lefties coming up. I can’t send you to Triple-A, because we don’t have room there, either.”
Conor knew the truth of Craig’s statement. He’d been watching them. Mike Remlinger, Terry Mulholland, Dennis Cook.
“I can’t create a logjam,” Craig continued, “so we’re letting you go.”
This time, Conor felt neither surprise nor heartbreak. His mind simply raced ahead to the logistical difficulties caused by getting cut only a few days before the season opened. All the late spring releases would flood the market. Too many guys. Too few jobs.
“I understand,” he said. “I appreciate the—”
“Here’s what I will do,” Craig added. “We play Seattle this afternoon. I’ve heard that Jerry Latham is looking for lefthanders. I’ll tell him we just let a quality lefty go, and he’ll give you a call. You should hear from him today.”
The Seattle manager didn’t call that evening. The Padres did. They told him they’d suffered a couple of injuries, and they needed someone to fill a short-term role in Las Vegas.
“I’m expecting a call from Seattle,” Conor said. “Can you at least wait until the end of the day?”
Jackson hadn’t called by midnight. Conor accepted the Las Vegas offer. Seattle called the next day.
“I told you,” Fat Brad said, his index finger jamming down with enough force to rattle the silverware, “never sign a contract until I look at it.”
“Well,” Conor said sheepishly, “they needed an answer last night. And it’s only a one-month deal. What can go wrong?”
“A one-month deal?” asked A.J.
They were dining at one of their old San Carlos hangouts.
“Yeah. They had an injury. They need a guy until they can get some people off the disabled list. They offered me six thousand dollars to play for a month. By then all the Major League teams will have an idea where they need help, and I’ll be available.”
Las Vegas Stars
1989
Of all the times you could have gotten involved but didn’t, Rita, I understand 1989 the least. Once again, Smith made me his closer. I threw even better than the previous year. At the end of April, the Padres asked me to stay for another month. A.J. contacted team after team. No better offers had surfaced. So, reluctantly, I agreed to play until the end of May—when I got a call from Todd Rubenski, the Padres director of pl
ayer development.
“Congratulations,” Rubenski said, “We’re keeping you the whole season.”
I told him no, that wasn’t our agreement. I signed a one-month contract, which I’d agreed to extend for a second month. Now, I had other opportunities.
Rubenski laughed at me.
“The month-to-month thing is only a verbal agreement on our part. You signed a standard contract. And frankly, you’re pitching too well for us to release you.”
“Is it bad that they want you?” Kate asked.
“They screwed me with the verbal agreement thing. Mostly, I want to pitch at the big-league level. I know I can. I know I can be good.”
“Okay. In the meantime, though, be patient. At least you’re getting paid. Give A.J. time to find something else.”
“Hey, Conman, this is Bob Didier. What’s going on?”
“Bob. Nice to hear from you. I’m stuck here in Las Vegas.”
“I know. I’ve been following your stats. You’re rockin’. Get out of there.”
Didier, Conor’s manager at West Haven, had graduated to the Seattle Mariners’ major league staff.
Conor labored through June with the Las Vegas Stars, racking up save after save and trying to calculate his escape.
“Ask for your release,” Didier urged.
“I’ve asked. They’ve refused. I’ll be a free agent at the end of the season—”
“Ask again. I can guarantee you a spot with the Mariners if you can get out of that contract. We’ve got no lefties. We’re dying here.”
“Well . . . okay. Um . . . isn’t this collusion? Isn’t this against the rules?”
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
Conor drove to the ballpark that afternoon—July third, final day of the triple-A season’s first half—more determined than ever.