The Conman
Page 30
“Where is it?”
“In my pants.”
“Where are your pants?”
“Back there.”
One officer held Conor in the glare of his flashlight while his partner inspected the truck.
“Yeah, here they are.”
Holding them with a two-fingered grip by a belt loop, the officer gave Conor his pants. “Please remove your drivers’ license from your wallet and hand it to me.”
Conor took the pants. “Ow, shit, ow . . . ow . . . here!”
“Do you want to put on your pants?” the second officer asked.
“No.” He pointed at the mountain. “I fell on a cactus and my clothes are all prickly.”
“Well, have you got anything else to wear? Given your condition, we’re going to—”
“Um . . . wait a minute, Jerry,” the officer holding Conor’s drivers’ license said. He raised the license next to Conor’s face.
“You’re Conor Nash, the baseball player?”
“Well . . . yeah. I mean, I used to be . . .”
“The one who pitched for the Mariners?” the second officer asked. “I saw you at Spring Training.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” the cop holding Conor’s driver’s license said, “he’s a lot more than just a guy who pitched for the Mariners. I used to live in Las Vegas. You’re looking at Starman!”
Kate brought Conor a pair of pants and t-shirt. They drove home along nearly deserted freeways. She didn’t want to push him, so she waited. As they pulled into their driveway, Conor took her hand.
“I had to go up there and remember who I am,” he said. “Not who I was. Who I am. Who my dad shaped me to be.”
Kate leaned across the seat and kissed him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
“I think everything will be okay.”
“I know that, too.”
“And my baseball angel’s name is Val.”
“What?”
Conor woke the next day with a headache and a mouth so foul and dry, he wondered if he’d fallen on his tongue the night before. He didn’t know the time. Kate and the kids were gone, though, so he guessed mid-morning.
He rose to a sitting position, the movement accompanied by a chorus of protests from various parts of his body. He hunted for motivation to take a shower. Sooner or later, he knew, he’d have to pee, and then he’d have no choice but to actually stand up. Why rush it?
He glimpsed the telephone on the nightstand.
So, just a dream?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The phone sat right there, though, taunting him.
I dare you . . .
He dialed.
“My name is Conor Nash. I wonder if Al Rosen might be available . . .”
He held for a few minutes.
“Conman!” said Rosen. “What an amazing coincidence. We need a pitching coach in Everett, and we thought of you. Would you be interested?”
epilogue
Surprise, Arizona
Texas Rangers Spring Training Complex
February 2007
Conor accepted the Giants’ job, initiating a minor league coaching odyssey not unlike the journey he’d taken as a younger man. Other teams and other jobs waited. He’d just joined the Texas Rangers, ensconced in their brand-new Spring Training digs at a far-west suburb of Phoenix.
He arrived early for his first day and sat at the rear of the auditorium as other members of the Rangers coaching and scouting staffs entered in groups of threes and fours, taking their seats around him.
Director of Player Development Scott Servais called the meeting as part of preparations for Spring Training. They discussed both major and minor league personnel, who might be assigned where, who needed what specific attention, who might be salvaged, who might be released.
Finally, Servais said, “I want to be sure everyone agrees before we finalize Darren Whitehead’s release. I’ll remind you how good he was at A ball a couple of years ago—not to mention we’ve got three million dollars invested in this kid.”
A wave of murmurs swept the room, one voice rising above the swell. “Kid can’t throw a strike.” And then another. “He’s got the yips. You get the yips, you’re done.”
Servais listened to the chorus for a few moments before calling for silence. “Is there anyone who believes the kid is worth one more try?”
Shit. First day on the job. Conor’s father, though, hadn’t raised a coward. He lifted his hand. “I’d like to work with him.”
June 2010
The shrill ring of their bedside phone sent a wave of dread through Conor as he struggled awake. The clock said twelve twenty-five. A spectre of disaster hovered over midnight calls. The kids were old enough to worry about. Parents were elderly. Accidents happened.
“Conor?” Kate’s voice quivered.
“I don’t know,” Conor said as he lifted the phone.
“Conman. It’s Scotty. Sorry to call so late. I’m in Chicago with the team. We’ve got a rain delay. Anyway, I probably should have waited until tomorrow. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“Um . . . know what?”
“Darren Whitehead.”
“Darren? What happened?”
“He made his major league debut tonight. Threw in relief and retired both hitters he faced. Good job, Connie.”
“What is it?” Kate asked.
“Scott Servais. A report on one of the kids I worked with.”
“You’re smiling. Good news?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re still smiling.”
“Yeah. I’m thankful I got past my moment.”
“Well,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm, “I’m sure there are other moments waiting out there. We’ll just keep working at it.”
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, I must first thank Nancy for allowing me to wander away from a perfectly good career and begin the adventure that took us on our path through baseball and now, writing. Thanks to Keith and Kathleen Comstock, Alan Schneider and Pat Doan for trusting me with their story. As always, I owe much to editors Laura Taylor, Shanna McNair and Scott Wolven. Randy Adamack of the Seattle Mariners and Ken Pries of the Oakland Athletics opened the door for Dave Henderson Baseball Adventures to host twenty years of Seattle Mariners and Oakland Athletics Fantasy Camps, where Keith and I met. Thanks to Nancy Henderson for her help and dedication to honoring Hendu’s legacy. Thanks to our partners in DHBA, Brian Holman, Terry Lockhart and Jon Westmoreland. Thanks to Tom Giffen for opening broader baseball horizons. And finally, most heartfelt appreciation to Fielding Snow the man who shared this journey like a brother. It’s been twenty- two years since we played that first game of catch in the Kingdome parking lot, buddy. What a long strange trip it’s been.
About the Author
Mike Murphey is a native of eastern New Mexico and spent almost thirty years as an award-winning newspaper journalist in the Southwest and Pacific Northwest. Following his retirement from the newspaper business, he and his wife Nancy entered in a seventeen-year partnership with the late Dave Henderson, all-star centerfielder for the Oakland Athletics, Boston Red Sox and Seattle Mariners. Their company produced the A’s and Mariners adult baseball Fantasy Camps. They also have a partnership with the Roy Hobbs adult baseball organization in Fort Myers, Florida. Mike loves fiction, cats, baseball and sailing. He splits his time between Spokane, Washington, and Phoenix, Arizona, where he enjoys life as a writer and old-man baseball player.
The Conman is based on the Life of Keith Comstock. Keith pitched professionally for sixteen years, including Major League time with The Seattle Mariners, the San Diego Padres, the San Francisco Giants and the Minnesota Twins. Following his retirement in 1992, Keith has held minor league coaching and managing positions with several organizations. For the past decade he has served as the rehabilitation instructor for the Texas Rangers.
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