by Mike Murphey
Ten opponents struck out that day, and when my dad introduced the man as a professional scout, I nearly peed my pants. Baze hit a ball twelve miles during the fifth inning, accounting for a 3-0 San Carlos victory. Maybe the scout would take Baze, too?
He said, “Nice job, Conor. I’ll stop by and see how you’re doing this summer.”
Unfortunately, I didn’t throw a single pitch that summer. I suffered a severe lapse of common sense, during which I certainly could have used the intervention of a guardian angel.
“Are you sure about this?” A.J. asked. “If Sam catches us, he’ll kick our butts.”
They huddled at the far end of the elementary school, looking at a trellis providing access to the one-story building’s long, flat roof. Two weeks remained in the school year, and most seniors at San Carlos High, including Sam and his girlfriend, took much of that time off.
Sam and Carol Gibson had left Conor’s house earlier, telling Hugh and Nadine they were going to a movie. Conor knew where they’d really be—the elementary school roof, a notorious make-out spot.
“He’s been kicking my butt all my life,” Conor said. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“Maybe not for you,” Basil said, “but I like my teeth.”
“He’s never going t . . . to catch us,” Conor said, shifting a bag of water balloons to his right hand, testing the trellis with his left. “His pants will probably be around his knees, and we’ll be guh . . . gone before he can chase us.”
They climbed the trellis, crouching low as they summited the roof. A half-moon diluted the darkness. Several couples occupied blankets spread along the building’s length.
“Which ones are they?” A.J. whispered.
Conor suppressed a laugh. “Fourth blanket down. The one with the bare ass.”
Into the spirit of things now, A.J. grinned.
They both looked at Basil.
“Okay, give me some balloons.”
Thus armed, they tiptoed their approach.
Although occupants of some blankets glanced up as they crept by, Sam’s dedication to his task rendered him oblivious. Conor nodded his chin once, twice, and on three, they gave a scream, sending Sam rolling sideways off Carol, who sat up with a scream of her own, pendulous breasts swaying in the moonlight.
The three attackers unloaded their munitions.
If Sam’s pants had been around his knees, they might have escaped without incident. He was not, however, wearing pants. Thus unencumbered, he gave chase.
The assailants knew splitting up offered their best chance of survival. Basil headed for shadows cast by a tree growing alongside the structure. A.J. made for the trellis. Conor sprinted toward building’s far end.
Sam chose Conor.
Laughing as he ran, Conor considered his alternatives. He could leap off the roof or surrender to his half-naked sibling.
One story. How far can it be? There’s grass. I think.
Legs and arms flailing, he chose to jump. The grass didn’t make much difference, though, as he felt fire bloom in his right ankle.
“These two I can understand,” Hugh said when A.J. and Basil hauled Conor home. “But you, Basil, you have more sense than to go running around on roofs.”
Basil bowed his head and studied his feet.
“What were you doing up there, anyway?” Nadine asked them.
Conor started to mumble. He’d never been able to lie to his mother, though, so A.J. stepped in.
“Stupid thing, I know,” he said. “We wanted to see it. Like Mount Everest. Because it’s there.”
“And how did you fall off?”
Again, A.J. handled the narrative.
“He tripped.”
Hugh gave A.J. a half-disgusted, half-knowing look and rolled his eyes.
Nadine took Conor to a doctor the next morning.
“It’s not a break. Be better if it was. It’s a tendon. The good news is it will heal without surgery. The bad news,” the doctor looked at Conor, “is it will always be weak, something you have to protect. You won’t be able to pitch anymore.”
Conor frowned and was about respond with an answer sure to land him in even more trouble.
His mother saved him. “Don’t tell him that,” she said. “You don’t know my son.”
I faced a summer without baseball. The Texas scout lost interest. I could only work to strengthen my arm with a five-pound fishing weight and concentrate on growing. I laid on my bedroom floor each evening and bench-pressed my bed. When lifting the rear legs up and down—banging the headboard against the wall—became too easy, I convinced my youngest brother and our cat to lie on the bed while I worked out.
As my ankle recovered enough that I could tolerate the pain, I headed back to the elementary school and threw an endless procession of baseballs against the brick wall.
The doctor was wrong. Everything accelerated during my senior year. I grew taller, even managed to gain another five pounds. The knuckle curve became deadly, and my fastball got less and less sneaky every day.
“You’re throwing harder,” Brad told me.
“Think so?”
“Absolutely. If I can find a state cop somewhere, I’ll see if I can borrow a radar gun.”
From his pre-law classes at Stanford, Brad drove home on game days. He continued keeping careful records of every aspect of my pitching and explaining his statistical theories. As a result, where most high school pitchers just took the mound and threw, I learned to create game plans and strategies.
Strikeouts mounted. Old guys with pork-pie hats, cigar stubs, stopwatches and notebooks became more and more common at the San Carlos High baseball diamond.
1974
A person plays thousands of baseball games over the course of his life, and they all sort of run together. You remember snippets here and there, but only a few retain their individuality. The day I faced A.J. with a high school record on the line is one I do remember.
“Hey, Connie, great game,” Brad said as he and Hugh met Conor by the backstop. “I don’t know if you realize it. You’re only seven K’s away from the San Carlos High School career strikeout record.”
Conor accepted his father’s handshake and offered Brad a quizzical look.
“Who even keeps t . . . track of stuff like that?”
“I did some research. A hundred and fifty-seven strikeouts is the record held by Dennis Dunlevy, and it took him three full seasons. You didn’t pitch much your sophomore year. So, you’ve almost caught him in two seasons, with two games to go.”
Conor smiled. “Next week we play A.J. Wouldn’t it be something if . . . ?”
A.J. hit fifth for Mt. Zion, and his first time at bat, he caught a sneaky fastball that didn’t sneak enough and drove it into the left-centerfield gap for a two-out double and RBI. Conor did his best to ignore A.J. standing atop second base, grinning, arms folded across his chest.
San Carlos led 2-1 as A.J. batted in the fourth, again with two down. Mt. Zion’s leadoff hitter occupied second. He’d reached on a bunt Conor’s third baseman threw into right field.
Foo Betts, the San Carlos catcher, hurried to the mound. “Ya gotta throw ’im the knuckle curve, Connie,” Foo said. “He ain’t seen nothin’ like your knuckle curve.”
“He’s seen it about a million times in my backyard, Foo. He’s looking for it. If we keep fastballs on his hands, he’ll pop up.”
Foo’s shoulders slumped. He trotted to the plate, squatted, and extended one finger, though clearly, not an enthusiastic choice.
A.J. got under it just a bit. Conor held his breath until the center fielder settled below the towering fly a couple of feet shy of the fence. Conor had struck out six and allowed no more runs when A.J. hit again in the ninth. Basil had homered the previous inning, and San Carlos held a comfortable 5-1 lead.
A.J. pounded home plate with his bat and sneered his disdain. Conor scowled his derision. Foo put down two fingers.
Shit. I already told you. He shook his head.
>
Foo relented and asked for a fastball.
A.J. clobbered it, a few feet foul.
Foo put down two fingers. Conor shook his head. He nibbled—a pair of fastballs too far inside to tempt A.J.
Foo asked for a fastball and set his glove two inches off the outside corner.
Conor hit Foo’s mitt and the umpire rewarded his effort by calling a strike. A.J. gasped, turned, snapped something to the ump, then looked again at Conor, redoubling his glare.
Now, Conor thought, using telepathy shared between pitcher and catcher.
Foo asked for the curve.
Conor dug his fingertips into the seam along the big part of the horseshoe, kicked, and pushed, imparting a wicked spin. Seams grabbed at molecules of air, then bit hard. The ball, which left his hand on a line about a foot outside to right-handed A.J., took a quick dive and pounded down onto the plate’s inside corner. Foo sank to his knees, blocking the ball off his chest protector.
Any other high school hitter facing a 2-2 count would commit to that ball before it dove out of sight. A.J.’s hands didn’t move. Not even a twitch.
“Ball,” the umpire said, almost as an aside.
A.J. adopted a half-grin, half-snarl, caught Conor’s eye, and spit at his feet.
Foo put down two fingers. Conor shook his head. Foo put down two fingers, this time jabbing them for emphasis. He placed his glove a few inches from A.J.’s back leg, right below his knee.
Conor sighed. He’d never hear the end of it if he walked A.J.
He pushed the knuckle curve as he had that day when Brad’s front teeth bit the dust. Foo didn’t have to move his glove even a little.
“Strike Three!”
A.J. froze, offered the umpire a look of total disbelief, then turned again to Conor, his expression still protesting this injustice. For a moment, Conor remembered second grade. He steeled himself for A.J.’s charge. Instead, A.J. voiced one more criticism of the umpire’s judgement and turned.
As they watched A.J. walk away following the game Brad pulled his dental plate from his mouth and grinned through the gap.
“Thit, man, that wath a good one.”
Conor laughed. “Yep, that wath a really good one.”
seven
During the summer season following my high school graduation, your angel powers worked overtime. The knuckle curve became irrelevant because a real fastball showed up. Nothing sneaky about it. Just a blazing comet with a sharp little tail no one believed could be generated by a five-ten kid so skinny he might blow away in a strong wind.
Brad didn’t borrow a radar detector from a state cop, because scouts brought their own. Lloyd Christopher represented the Angels. (Some irony there, don’t you think, Rita, that the Angels were who wanted me?) Jack Night, baseball coach for the College of San Mateo, Northern California’s most prestigious junior college baseball program, became another regular attendee.
We’d always played summer ball with our local San Carlos group. This year, though, A.J. convinced Baze and me to play for Walnut Tree, and Walnut Tree was loaded. We went 27-0 that summer and attracted attention all over the state. Now, we all faced a decision. Where would we go to school to take the next step along our baseball path?
“I guess I’m going to College of San Mateo,” Conor told Basil and A.J. halfway through summer.
“Why?” A.J. asked.
“I thought you’d sign with CSM,” Conor said.
“I know the girls going to CSM,” A.J. said, “and believe me, Cañada will be more fun.”
Cañada College, a JC a few miles south of San Carlos at Redwood City, had a long history of baseball mediocrity.
“The Cañada baseball program sucks. CSM is the best. I want to play with the best.”
“Look around,” A.J. said. “You’re pretty much playing with the best right now.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“How much fun would it be for this group of guys to turn Cañada’s program around? Steal a little of CSM’s thunder?”
“Okay,” Conor challenged, “who else is going to Cañada?”
“Trust me,” A.J. said, “I’m working on it.”
Conor shook his head. He didn’t tell A.J. he’d already given CSM a verbal commitment.
“C’mon, Connie,” A.J. said a couple of weeks before the semester started, “you’ve gotta come with us!”
Over the course of his life, Conor learned that A.J. Cohen hustled a deal like no one else. And, indeed, A.J. had been working on it. By his latest count, he’d sold a dozen Walnut Tree stalwarts on the golden quest of turning Cañada into a baseball machine.
“I can’t,” Conor said. “I told CSM I’d go there.”
“That doesn’t matter. Tell ’em you changed your mind. Tell ’em all your friends are at Cañada, and you can’t let your friends down. What can they do?”
Conor didn’t answer. A.J. pressed ahead.
“How can you go over there when Baze and me will be at Cañada?”
Basil flushed, lowered his eyes to his shoes, and said, “Um . . . actually, A.J., I’m not.”
“You said . . .”
“I know.”
“Okay, A.J.,” Conor said, “now you’re the one who has to change. You can’t go to Cañada when Baze and I are at CSM.”
“Connie, I’m not going to CSM, either.”
Conor regarded Basil with narrowed eyes. “So where—?”
“Alaska.”
“Where’s that?” A.J. asked.
Basil offered a puzzled look. “Alaska. It’s way north, by Russia.”
“Alaska, the state? I thought you were talking about a community college.”
Conor couldn’t believe Basil was serious. “Why Alaska? What’s in Alaska?”
“Amanda. Her family’s moving there.”
During our sophomore year Baze had developed a relationship with Amanda Scollard, a tall, happy red-haired girl on the brink of becoming attractive. Like Baze, she suffered adolescent woes of braces and acne. They were ugly ducklings, leaning on each other and keeping faith that a metamorphosis was somewhere on their horizons. Amanda had metamorphosed more quickly than Baze.
“A girl?” A.J. said. “You’re moving to Alaska for a girl?”
“Yeah. I’m kind of . . . in love. I think. And Alaska sounds like a pretty cool place.”
“It’s a fucking cold place!” A.J. said. “What about us?”
“What about baseball?” Conor added.
“Hey, I’ll miss you guys. I’ll come back and visit, though. And you can come see me. We’ve lived here our whole lives. Don’t you want to see someplace else?”
“We’ll see lots of places playing baseball,” Conor said. “The scouts are after us.”
“Scouts are after you, Connie,” said Basil. “And I can play ball there. They’ve got those summer leagues where college guys go.”
Conor and A.J. watched Basil head toward the cages for batting practice.
“Don’t worry,” A.J. told Conor. “He’s not going to Alaska. I’ll talk him out of it.”
A week later, though, Basil left.
And a week after that, Conor entered the field house at College of San Mateo. He found his name above a locker in an expansive modern clubhouse featuring all the amenities. He greeted what few players he knew. Most of the guys were aware of Conor. Few of them went out of their way to be friendly, though, as they studied this rail thin kid with the reputation. Conor read their minds as skeptical glances found him. What’s so hot shit about you?
Right now, fifteen of Conor’s summer teammates were putting on Cañada uniforms at an antiquated, crowded, dank locker room reeking of mildew and frustration.
Conor wished desperately to be there.
He sat for a long time, staring at his name above the locker, hearing the clang of metal doors, a screech of spikes scraping concrete, sarcastic jibes and profanity characteristic of this game he so loved. He knew he couldn’t stay.
Conor took a deep bre
ath. “Dad, I know I told them I’d go to CSM, but I can’t. All the guys I know are at Cañada. At the CSM clubhouse this afternoon, everything felt wrong.”
Conor sat at the kitchen table, his father standing over him. He waited with trepidation. He knew how the sermon would go. He’d made a commitment. Changing his mind now wasn’t right. He should have thought about his friends from the start.
Hugh sat. “So, what will you do?”
Conor looked at his father with surprise. What happened to the lecture?
“Well,” he said, “I guess . . . I guess I’m gonna call and tell them I changed my mind.”
“No,” Hugh said. “Remember when you were thirteen, made the majors and then decided you’d rather play in the minors?”
Conor nodded.
“You had your mom call the coach and ask him to release you.”
“Um . . . yeah.”
“Believe me, if I’d known about it, it wouldn’t have happened that way. This time, you’ll do the right thing.”
Conor’s spirits sagged even further.
“Tomorrow,” Hugh continued, “go to CSM, and be man enough to tell those coaches face-to-face you’ve changed your mind. No phone calls. No intermediaries.”
“Yes, sir.” Conor felt as if a weight had been lifted from his soul. He almost grinned, but somehow sensed the solemnity of the occasion.
As Hugh pushed back his chair and stood, Conor stammered, “I thought . . . I thought . . .”
“You thought what?”
“I thought you’d tell me to keep my word. I made a commitment so . . .”
Hugh settled in his chair and brought his hands together on the tabletop.
“Conor, commitments are important. But I watched those guys from CSM recruiting you all summer. I heard what they said. Those guys are pros. They’re good at getting into the head of an eighteen-year-old kid and convincing him of all kinds of things. You’ve wanted to be a pro ballplayer your whole life, and I watched you work your ass off and make yourself successful despite your limitations. Then, something happened over the past summer and now, you really do have a shot at a pro contract. This game will become your job. And believe me, if you don’t do your job, you’ll get fired. Loyalty and promises won’t save you. That’s the real world.”