by Mike Murphey
As I continued my journey, somewhere on the wall of some minor league clubhouse along the way, I found a framed quotation that spoke directly to my heart.
When others don’t believe in you, you just have to believe in yourself that much more.
—Jackie Robinson.
nineteen
Almost two more seasons passed before I realized with no small amount of amazement that I no longer questioned my ability to throw a strike when I needed to.
As the Golden Gate Park League continued the winter of 1979 and 1980, I progressed from throwing only an occasional strike to being effectively wild. I was back where I started. Being effectively wild made me a successful pitcher in the second grade. I threw hard enough to scare the pants off other second graders. Strike or not, they were happy taking three cuts and returning to the safety of their dugout. A survival imperative far outweighed any need to get a hit.
Same thing. Yips be damned, I still threw the shit out of the ball.
I’d uncork a couple of ninety-plus fastballs that might be a foot high or right at someone’s ribcage. The hitter would duck and dodge and count himself lucky to reach first base with all his limbs attached. Other times, though, the jigsaw pieces fell into place, and he’d be caught in mid-duck by a fastball painting the inside corner, or a curve ball nipping the black at his knees.
Professional scouts were not strangers to Golden Gate Park. Someone from one team or another was almost always there on a Sunday, because the league’s talent level was so high. My sheer velocity, combined with the fact of my left-handedness and my not-too-distant standing as a prospect, should have piqued someone’s interest.
“We can teach people to pitch,” Carlos Estrada had told me. “But we can’t teach ninety miles an hour.”
Still, our phone remained silent.
“I don’t know,” he finally told Kate. “I’m guessing word got around about the fight. I’m afraid I’ve been blackballed. Nobody will offer a contract to the guy who fought Wilbur Spalding.”
“No,” Kate said. “You’re too good. You’ll get back. It’s just one more thing to overcome.”
Conor smiled, amazed at the confidence his wife and brothers and friends still displayed.
“Well, okay. If this is over, though, you know what’s going to piss me off the most?”
“What?”
“I didn’t have enough fun. No matter what else it is, baseball’s supposed to be fun.”
“Well,” Kate said, “you stole a bus.”
Conor grinned. “Yeah. That was fun.”
“I can get you a job on the pipeline,” Basil said. “You’d love Alaska. And the money’s good.”
The money, in fact, was incredible. A.J. planned to be a millionaire by twenty-five, but he’d just gotten his sandwich shop off the ground. Conor believed his wish in a tunnel destined him for a rich major league contract. Basil graduated high school and ran off to Alaska to become a welder.
As Basil turned twenty-five, he made sixty thousand dollars a year. He owned a house and land. He had a pickup, Harley and snowmobile. Vacationing, he showed up unannounced at Conor’s door.
“No, I like it here,” Conor said. “I like working at the Filoli estate, and I can play baseball Sundays. I’m considering going back to school. Maybe study grass and horticulture, things like that.”
“Naahh,” Basil said. “You’re not a gardener or a student. You’re a pitcher. The call’s gonna come.”
“Spring training starts in three days,” Conor said. “If they haven’t called by now—”
The phone rang.
“Conor Nash? My name is Norm Kasulke. I’m Farm Director for the Athletics . . .”
Oakland, under the waning ownership of Charles Finley, held the distinction of being the cheapest operation in professional baseball. The organization needed lefthanders—cheap ones—for their minor league system, Kasulke explained.
“I heard from a couple of guys at Golden Gate Park. They said I should sign you. Are you talking to anyone else?”
“Um . . . a couple of teams have expressed some interest,” Conor lied.
“Okay, if you don’t have anything else going, we’ll offer a minor league contract at a thousand dollars a month if you can get to Phoenix by Monday.”
Conor stood and indulged himself with an elaborate stretch that dissolved into laughter.
The Oakland Athletics. Charlie Finley, Norm Kasulke, Fred Tuttle . . . God, what a trip.
I drove east the next day. First thing I did when I got there was ask for Mr. Kasulke. I wanted to thank him one more time for offering the opportunity.
“You’re looking for Norm?” the clubbie said. “Well, that’s a problem.”
“Oh?”
“He got fired yesterday.”
Baseball people are fired all the time, and I didn’t think much more about it. The following October, I took Kate to dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf. We rode a bus into the city to avoid the hassle of parking. We stood holding hands at the bus stop for our return trip. The bus arrived, its brakes hissing. The door slid open.
I stepped in behind Kate and was shocked.
“Mr.Kasulke?”
The driver studied Conor for a moment.
“Mr. Kasulke, I’m Conor Nash. You’re . . . you’re . . .”
“Oh, yeah, I remember you.”
“Why are you driving a bus?”
“The A’s fired me. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to sign you. You gotta have exact change.”
So, I guess I had been blackballed. Mr. Kasulke’s mistake, though, is one more of those miraculous threads spun by . . . a baseball angel?
Conor couldn’t quite bring himself to toast his angel so he drank to the threads, absent any of which the whole cloth would have come undone. He followed with memories of Singin’ Fred Tuttle, Darryl Clay, and one of the most woebegone teams in minor league baseball history.
West Haven, Connecticut
Double A Baseball
1980
The West Haven Whitecaps served as Oakland’s 1980 Eastern League affiliate. By August the White Caps were closing on a hundred losses, and I’d taken all I could stand.
Since learning that first day of spring training the Oakland organization really didn’t want me, I’d been overlooked and underused every step of the way. I never pitched in a game that wasn’t already a lost cause. I was the guy who came out of the bullpen the last two innings with the Whitecaps behind eleven to two. In fairness to you, though, Rita, lack of expectation became the greatest favor I might have wished for. The A’s anticipated nothing from me. I never faced the pressure of blowing a lead. If I threw a fastball and missed by a foot, nobody came unglued because nobody paid much attention. And while they weren’t watching, I worked my ass off.
During spring training in Scottsdale, Conor saw Camelback Mountain looming above the Phoenix landscape on the near horizon.
Camelback rises from the desert as a geologic structure of Precambrian granite and red sedimentary sandstone. Its name is derived from its shape, which resembles the hump and head of a kneeling camel. The route from desert floor to top of the hump gains 1,300 feet in a little more than a mile.
Camelback is popular among hikers. Local search and rescue squads do a thriving year-round business retrieving those who have collapsed, fallen, heat-stroked, heart-attacked or otherwise tuckered out somewhere along the way. Two main trails are carved into the mountain, one on each side. Railings or rope handholds help hikers negotiate some of the steeper ascents.
When Conor saw the mountain, he thought of Cañada and Mt. Vial.
“Hey,” Conor said to a couple other minor leaguers, “let’s go run Camelback.”
That afternoon, Conor and two other brave souls stood at the foot of the Cholla Trail, a progression of gradual climbing switchbacks cutting their way upward.
They set off at a jog. Where he could, Conor abandoned the trail for a more direct route, straight toward the top, meeting the trail
again where it doubled back on itself. When direct ascent was too steep or blocked by desert vegetation, he returned to the path, keeping a steady pace until an opportunity to climb more quickly presented itself. The others struggled after him.
Pain the ordeal inflicted—burning thighs, aching lungs, a throbbing rush of blood pounding his head, leaden arms pumping for balance—he dammed behind a firewall of single-minded focus: I cannot fail, because I will not quit.
When he reached the summit, he allowed himself a moment of respite as he bounced lightly on his toes, shaking feeling into his arms, hands and fingers as he did a slow, 360-degree turn, capturing all of Phoenix and the surrounding desert displayed below him.
He made the run four more times that spring, accompanied by different companions each time. No one else suffered the torment more than once.
Despite his hard work, as spring wound down, Conor fully expected his release. Which was okay. He was a pitcher again. He’d reclaim his job at the Filoli Estate. He’d throw balls against his wall. He’d play at Golden Gate Park. Someone would find him.
Tuttle, though, told him he’d be going to West Haven.
“Charlie Finley is a cheap bastard,” Tuttle explained with a shrug. “We need another lefthander.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement.
Tuttle added, “I’ll give you a chance.”
He got a start the season’s first week. His warmup felt fine, but his first game pitch flew a foot above the strike zone.
Focus, dammit!
He felt panic rising with each subsequent delivery of a four-pitch walk. He stepped off the mound, rubbing furiously at the baseball, staring into center field. You are a pitcher. You can beat anyone here. Relax and do what you’ve done all your life. Although he didn’t win the game, he found positives in his progress. Rather than berating himself for his failures, Conor became his own biggest fan. He embraced and cheered every step as he rebuilt his confidence.
Although he didn’t see much game action, every bullpen session he threw provided a step forward, until finally, he took the mound during a blowout that July, realizing the yips had become an afterthought. Now, he needed to prove the truth of Conor Nash.
He’d driven to the ballpark early and taken the long walk from the clubhouse to Tuttle’s Airstream trailer parked by the right field foul pole where he confronted Tuttle concerning his lack of playing time.
“Fred, you told me you’d give me a chance to pitch. But you’ve had me buried for—”
“Yeah,” his manager said, “because you suck.”
Conor came to this meeting determined to rationally plead his case. Tuttle’s curt judgement blew the doors off that plan. “Fuck you, I don’t suck. Any more than anyone on this team sucks. We’ve lost ninety games, and I’ve pitched in damn few of ’em! Everybody sucks!”
“Including you!” Tuttle yelled back.
“Twice I’ve gone twenty-one days without pitching. What kind of performance do you expect under those circumstances?”
The argument deteriorated from there.
Finally, Tuttle said, “All right, fucker, I’ll give you the ball. And you’d better damn well be ready to take it!”
Tuttle proved true to his word. The next night, he summoned Conor with no outs and bases loaded in the ninth inning, at which time the White Caps held a rare 3-2 lead.
Gee, thanks, Fred.
Conor threw three fastballs past his first hitter. The next batter hit a towering pop up. Conor’s catcher handled it at the backstop.
Two gone. Just throw the shit out of the ball. The third batter flailed at a fastball. Adrenalin coursing, Conor humped up to bleed a couple more miles per hour from his arm and watched with horror as the little comet cut to the heart of the plate. The sound of bat on ball told him everything. The runner at third came skipping and clapping home, the player who would score the winning run dashing close behind.
With sinking stomach, Conor turned to watch his centerfielder begin a futile chase. Headed straight toward the fence . . . The batter had hit it so hard, though, the ball’s topspin caused it to sink . . . at least it will stay in the park . . . The outfielder made a final, desperate leap at the warning track, his body fully extended, head craned back over his shoulder and . . . Oh, my Good Lord, he caught the fucking ball!
The 1980 West Haven White Caps were the armpit of Oakland’s farm system. The A’s themselves were no prize, having finished the 1979 season sporting a 54-108 record, worst in the Majors. The White Caps 1980 season record was a miserable 47 and 92. Our opponents outscored us by two hundred and nineteen runs.
Suffering through his last throes of ownership, Charlie Finley tried everything possible to move or sell the Oakland franchise and save every dime as he did so. The White Caps actually wore blue hats that clashed spectacularly with the garish hand-me-down green and gold uniforms Finley sent us.
At first, Kate was excited about going there. She knew about Yale University, and she envisioned a serene campus setting. We didn’t realize while spring semester was still in session, every decent apartment would be taken. A place in a slum is all we could find. She cried when we moved in. It didn’t help that she had to stay there alone the first week while the team left for a road trip.
We played home games at Quigley Stadium, built in 1947. The bleachers were some kind of war surplus and by 1980, were so badly rotted that big blocks of seating were closed. The outfield light standards stood inside the field of play, just waiting to coldcock any outfielder who might forget they were there.
Our manager was known as Singin’ Fred Tuttle, because he liked karaoke. He called a team meeting about a month into the season, and we figured he’d ream us for being so bad. Instead, he told us he was singing that night at the fish place across the street, and he expected us there. Most everybody showed up, and Fred, who had an extraordinary voice, performed three Sinatra songs, then went back to his Airstream.
Finley’s cost-cutting caught up to us that August when an outfielder wrecked his knee. We waited a week for the organization to send a replacement who never appeared. Our roster dwindled as injuries sidelined a couple more guys and, finally, the White Caps ran out of position players.
“They gotta send us someone, don’t they?” infielder Marco Slagel asked Conor.
“Well, yeah. I mean, we have to finish the season.”
“Besides pitchers, we’ve only got seven guys to play defense tonight,” an outfielder said. “Somebody’s gotta do something.”
Catcher Darryl Clay volunteered. “I can do a rain dance.”
“What qualifies you to do a rain dance?” Conor asked.
“I have Native-American lineage.”
“And you can make it rain?”
“Well . . . what’s the worst that could happen?”
Darryl said he needed two things—a tomahawk and a full headdress.
“What kind of headdress?”
“You know, like Indian chiefs in movies.”
“What about a feather and a headband? Tonto just wears a feather and a headband.”
Darryl remained adamant about the headdress.
They found a tomahawk easily enough. Conor and Marco located a hardware store, bought a cheap hatchet, and dressed it up with some ribbon and a couple of feathers from a pigeon nest near the right field fence. Finding a headdress proved more problematic.
An hour before game time, Conor finally located a costume shop across town and snuck away during infield practice. He returned as Darryl walked toward the plate to handle our starter’s warm-up pitches.
“Hey, Darryl!” Conor shouted as he raised the headdress.
Darryl grinned and dropped his mask at home plate. “Give me a minute,” he said to the umpire.
He put on the headdress and trotted back to the plate. There, he raised the hatchet high in one hand and his catchers’ mitt in the other. He began bouncing from foot to foot while twirling slowly and emitting a sing-song chant.
The crowd of fou
r hundred initially offered curious applause. The faster Darryl whirled and chanted, though, and the more viciously he waved his hatchet, the more they got into it. Soon everyone in the place chanted along with Darryl.
In fairness, the sky was already overcast. Still . . .
“Tuttle, what the fuck is . . .” The home plate umpire stood scowling, mask in hand.
Tuttle rose to the top step, then went no further. At that moment, a few fat raindrops began to pound dimples onto the infield dirt.
The crowd screamed its approval. Daryl stopped for a moment, looked skyward, threw back his head and gave a mighty war cry. His bouncing and whirling gained renewed enthusiasm. Chanting filled the stadium. The heavens opened.
With his headdress drenched and sagging down the sides of his face, a grinning Darryl Clay retreated to the dugout.
“Told’ja,” he said.
twenty
Having produced a miracle the night before and the weather forecast calling for sunny skies, Darryl didn’t want to press his luck. So, the White Caps found no reprieve.
“Conman, I’m gonna need you to start tonight,” Tuttle said.
As the season wound down, Conor was no longer an afterthought. Tuttle gave him regular work. His fastball dominated. The curveball and change-up continued their improvement. Conor hadn’t expected a start, though.
“Great! What happened to Keith?”
Keith Abelard, the White Caps’ ace, if a team claiming only forty-seven wins could be said to have an ace, was scheduled.
“Nothing. He’s pitching. I need you to start in left field.”
“Left field?”
“Hey, it’s not because I don’t value you as a pitcher. And it’s not because the organization doesn’t care if you get hurt. Well, maybe that’s partly it, since they didn’t pay you a signing bonus, but I’ve watched you shag during batting practice. You’re the pitcher most likely to actually catch a fly ball. And you can run a little bit.”