Rich People Conversations: The Random Autographs Edition, plus an ode to Francisco
Because you had forgotten all about Shane Nance.
For this edition of Rich People Conversations we sifted through the old socks and Arby’s wrappers under our beds to dig up the most random baseball signature we own and dive into that player’s career. But, first, Jake has some prose worthy of your attention. And by “your” I mean “the Pulitzer committee.”
Let’s converse.
Francisco; or Modern Icarus
~Jake
He showed up in the dusty, old town the way they all do; on a horse named Delta.
It was a town on the mend. Not long ago, this Midwestern settlement was booming with golden hardware and legendary showdowns. Sheriff Kirby fought back the outlaws until he became one himself. But that was a century ago.
The current sheriff, a beautiful man named Johan, was doing his best to bring back those memories, but Johan was limited; he only worked two days a week. Those two days every week, outlaws marveled at Johan’s art and his ability to change things up. In those other five days, though, his deputies undid his work. Deputy Radke was once a sheriff himself, but his best days were behind him and he knew it. Deputies Silva and Boof were never altogether interested in the job. The town became so desperate, they allowed the Baker to help out. Times were hard.
That’s when he showed up.
He rode into town with his hat just so, the brim dangling over an eyebrow like a constant wink. The fingertips on his left hand were singed, remnants of fireballs thrown and opponents vanquished.
“Welcome to our town, friend,” Johan said. “Haven’t seen you ‘round these parts before. What can I do ya for?”
A pause. The smolder. The constant wink.
“I’ve actually been here before,” the man said. “Back in ‘05, right after you got one of them trophies of your’n.”
The man did look familiar. Oddly familiar. Almost like a mirror image. Years later, residents of the town would say if you squinted hard enough, Johan and the man would look exactly alike.
“The name is Francisco,” he said. “Francisco Liriano.”
Maybe it was the cut of his pinstriped pants or the way he wore his hat, but Johan liked the kid. Sure, he thought to himself. Let’s give him a shot.
Johan sent Francisco to the Bull’s Pen, where Tweaky Joe led a stable of misfits; there were steady guys like Juan Rincon and Matt Guerrier and Dennys Reyes, who could generally keep their stuff together as long as the damned Yankees weren’t visiting. There were youngsters who could surprise Johan in a good way (Pat Neshek and Glen Perkins) and there were youngsters who could surprise Johan in a bad way (Matt Garza and Kyle Lohse). There was also some lunatic who insisted everyone in town call him Crain Train.
And then there was Francisco.
Even more than Garza and Lohse behind him, Johan had a feeling with Francisco. He wouldn’t hand him the reins yet, but he gave him something no one else could: badge No. 47. It looked just like Johan’s, but different enough as if to say Francisco would be next.
Francisco showed his talent in that pen and learned a lot, too. What he mostly learned was to never interact with Magglio Ordonez, a longtime thorn in the town’s side.
One score of days later and Johan decided it was time to give the young man an honest shot running the town for a day. He knew the town needed a spark and Francisco could be the one to do it.
His first day running the town was against some local Brewers, and Francisco showed his range. In just half a day, he limited damage, just allowing two minor slip-ups, including one who made away with a score. On his first day, the town learned of Francisco’s giving-and-taking nature. He gave three free passes in his sting and took the souls of five men.
His first day was good and his second was even better. And his third time out was even better. Then from June 16-July 21, 2006, he was nigh perfect. On July 21, he did battle yet again with those dastardly Brewers, taking 12 souls during his 8-hour shift, keeping home free of any intruders and allowing just three matters of assault or, what Francisco called “hits.”
The town rejoiced. The feeling in the air was pure energy, little vibrations tingling almost everyone’s face. Those who had taken to drinking in the dark days before Francisco no longer felt any tingling at all. For the first time in years, they felt alive.
Francisco’s response to the joy was simple.
“I only wish I could have worked a 9-hour shift,” Francisco told Johan, who beamed like a proud father.
Johan continued to be an ace sheriff and took young Francisco under his wing. He cautioned the budding star, though.
“Be careful, my boy,” Johan said. “There is a limit to how hard we can throw our opponents and how often.”
“Don’t worry,” Francisco said. “I’ll be fine.”
Two weeks later, Francisco nearly finished his 9-hour shift, yet again bringing his Enemies Repelled Average, or ERA, below 2. He was no longer just a star in Johan’s eyes, but also the world’s. The Major Lawmen Bureau (MLB) named him an All-Star and some even said he was already better than Johan, his role model. The old vet, though, again tried to heed caution.
“My dear boy, these innings and these rates are unsustainable. Care for yourself,” Johan told Francisco. “Use ice after your shifts. Eat a vegetable. Stay safe.”
Again, Francisco said: “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
Another two weeks later, Magglio the Miscreant returned yet again.
“You may be a star to many,” Magglio sneered. “But that number on your badge means nothing to me.”
It wasn’t long and Magglio was at it again. He hit up two stores at the start of Francisco’s shift and helped the Grandy Man get home safely. It appeared nothing had changed after all.
The next time Francisco saw Magglio, he tried to compose himself, but the body can only hide nerves so well. Sweat poured down Francisco’s face. He swiped his hat a few times, trying to wick the moisture on his fingers. And that’s when he saw Johan.
The award-winner stared at his young ward and said nothing but also said everything.
“You can do this,” Johan didn’t say but did say. “I made you for this moment. Vanquish him.”
Johan was right, Francisco thought. I can do this.
Magglio knew it, too. He saw four bullets fly past him and didn’t put up a fight. Magglio’s soul now belonged to Francisco, who did that 11 times that day.
It was a culmination of a beautiful summer. A summer of blazing fireballs and wicked benders. He stole 144 souls in just 121 hours on the job. He won 12 gold stars from Johan, only finishing with three demerits. He was magnificent.
“And in that moment,” town resident Stephen Chbosky said, “We were infinite.”
Except that we weren’t. And it never was going to be infinite. Just days after Francisco’s battle with Magglio the Miscreant, he felt a twinge in his left-hand cannon. He didn’t think it was much but it inevitably was much more than nothing. Magglio the Miscreant tagged Francisco twice and a guy named Marcus Thames bullied our hero, too. Francisco was broken.
The town saw him once more that year, just for two hours, and then it was over. Like a shooting star in the great night sky.
Francisco missed the entire next year and when he returned, he wasn’t the same. He was never going to be the same. He flashed those brilliant moments, including one beautiful day in 2011, but that was all. By 2012, he was gone.
His once mentor, who left the town years earlier, failed to heed his own advice. Following a beautiful day of his own, Johan also hurt himself and was never the same, where he was forced to hang up the stirrups.
To this day, there are rumors of Francisco still roaming from town to town. He carries a past of promise unreached.
But in that moment, in that Midwestern town, we were infinite.
Our most random autographs
(Important side note: There is not a worse human being than a grown man fighting with kids for an athlete’s signature. All of these autographs were collected throughout our childhoods.)
Jake: Lew Ford
My brother had this uncanny ability when we were younger. If there was a raffle with something odd in the pot, Josh was going to win it. In little league, my mom donated four folding chairs with the name of her company on the back. Each chair was raffled off individually, along with a number of other items. From what I remember, the PA called my brother, Josh, five times. Four times, he came back with those red folding chairs.
It’s that fifth time that gets me most, though.
Josh came home that night with a baseball signed by Lew Ford.
A signed baseball by an actual big-leaguer, pretty awesome right? Well, here’s the thing: Josh already had two Lew Ford-signed items.
We didn’t grow up as autograph hounds. We hardly had any signed items that weren’t laser printed. We waited in line for like four hours (probably half an hour) at a McDonald’s to get a signature from Corey Koskie and a friend of mine browbeat the Twins for Jacque Jones and Torii Hunter signatures for us after our dad passed away. But that’s mostly it.
Well, that and no less than four Lew Ford signed items between the two of us.
(Side note on the Corey Koskie event: I was 7, and I wanted nothing more than to seem cool in front of a big leaguer. It was 2001 and I kept thinking I wanted to say “I hope you win MVP, Corey. My dad talked me into saying “Good luck the rest of the year, Mr. Koskie.” Koskie had one MVP vote that year, finishing tied for 25th with Shannon Stewart. I’d say I won that one, Pops.)
(Another side note: in 2001, my absolute favorite player ever, Doug Mientkiewicz, finished 14th in MVP voting, tied with Rafael Palmeiro. Josh’s favorite player, Cristian Guzman, was tied for 16th with Mike Cameron and Edgar Martinez.)
Anyways, this is all a long way to say Lew Ford is my most random autograph. While Josh received Lew Ford-signed baseballs seemingly on a daily basis, I ended up with one after a day at the batting cages during which I nearly wet myself due to nerves. It was sometime between 2005 and 2007 and Josh and I scurried to Home Run Hitters (RIP) because we heard big leaguers were going to be there. I wore my best hat and grabbed a baseball that was good enough to be signed but not good enough that I’d miss.
Ron Gardenhire was there and so was Rick Anderson. That was exciting but I wanted to see real ballplayers, you know? There was this weird guy in a leather jacket and oily hair that I quickly gathered was Jason Bartlett. And then there was this random dad who was hanging around Bartlett and Gardy. But it wasn’t a random dad, of course. It was Jon Lewis Ford. A real-life big leaguer and my brother’s, well, hero isn’t quite the word, but you get the idea. They were eternally connected and only one of them knew it.
I don’t remember much else from that day except for this: Lew Ford was the only guy that was nice to us. It didn’t mean anything to anybody else that day, but to Josh and me, it was everything. There’s a photo someplace of us posing with the big-leaguers and Josh has this big toothy smile. It’s the smile that I’ll always associate with my brother and my brother only. It’s the smile that allowed him to get away with everything when we were younger and we were all OK with it. It’s true joy, is what it is.
So yes, I got my very own Lew Ford ball that day and a quick look at his Baseball-Reference page is something else. In his rookie year, Lew slashed .329/.402/.575. It was just 34 games, but man, imagine if we had known what a slash line was back then! In his rookie year, he hit .299 and bopped 31 doubles and 15 bombs. Oddly he received MVP votes but didn’t get any Rookie of the Year love. The next three years, Lew’s batting average continued to drop, which wasn’t going to cut it with the Piranhas.
Since then, he played in Japan, played 25 games with Baltimore and has become a Long Island Ducks legend. Before the world began actively trying to kill us all, Lew signed on to work with the Ducks for his 11th season, and seventh as player-coach for the Indy Ball team.
I had no idea who the Long Island Ducks were back in 2005 and I didn’t even know who they were until April 19, 2020, but this resolution feels right. An 8.3 bWAR in 519 big league games and an Indy Ball legend isn’t what I would have hoped for back at Home Run Hitters, but now, nearly 20 years removed, one of us is still playing baseball professionally and one is playing at the lowest level of amateur ball in Minnesota. We both play for teams with a bird name, though, so I guess we’ll call it even. Oh, and I am currently in possession of all of Josh's Lew Ford signatures. So, I'm winning.
Curt: Chris Magruder
I am not a parent, and neither are either of the other authors on this here newsletter for that matter, but there are certain things that make me excited to be one.
I will unquestionably be making a wiffle ball park in the backyard. The Little Curts will be educated on the greatness that is Survivor. And, yes, I will gladly take any excuse to eat mac and cheese for every meal.
But what I’m most excited about is being able to regale them with tales about how my childhood, which was in reality pretty comfortable and easy, was much harder than they have it with their newfangled technology and all that stuff. That’s what parents are supposed to do.
My primary story won’t be about dial-up internet or how I had to walk to school in the winter or how awful the Bradley Center was, but rather about how I had to go about figuring out what players and coaches would be available for Autograph Friday Nights at Miller Park.
It basically consisted of calling the stadium, getting put on hold and transferred a couple of times, finally getting the list of players who would be signing that night, looking up those players’ stats in the newspaper from that day and then coming up with a game plan to figure out who we wanted to sign for us.
It really wasn’t all that difficult a process, but you best believe I’m going to embellish the crap out of it.
This went on for a handful of years in the early-to-mid 2000s—basically, before the Brewers got good and stopped the autograph seshes—so there was no shortage of replacement-level players and assistant hitting coaches that the team would trot out for 30 minutes before each Friday home game. Boy, did I ever get the an obscure collection of Sharpie signatures on baseballs that are sitting somewhere in a box in my garage. I may own the record for most zero-WAR players’ autographs obtained between the ages of seven and 10.
It was guys like Tommy Phelps, Matt Wise (pre-salad tongs incident version), Wes Obermueller, Keith Ginter. Because they played for the Brewers and signed baseballs for me, they were, thus, my childhood heroes.
Now that I think about it, my entire life makes a lot more sense now in light of that last sentence.
All of those guys were, to varying degrees, random major leaguers, but none can match the level of what I think is my most random autograph, Chris Magruder.
I don’t even remember the specific instance of getting our high-socked, switch-hitting, reserve-outfielding hero’s autograph. In fact, I can only recall a few instances of reaching the bottom step of the field-level seats at Miller Park and handing off my ball to a big leaguer, and one of those such moments was Shane Nance. Good Lord, the 2003 Brewers really did form who I am, didn’t they?
A quick Twitter search for “Chris Magruder” turns up a modest amount of results, most of which are people naming him in response to tweets asking for names of random athletes but also some about an Iowa Catholic Radio host named Chris Magruder.
Perhaps what gives Magruder this completely arbitrary classification of “random” is that he was neither just a blip on the radar, nor did he do anything to stand out.
He appeared in 157 games with Milwaukee from 2004-05, but started in just 33 of them. During that span, he hit .218/.283/.344, good for a 63 OPS+, which wasn’t exactly good, but you’ve got to keep in mind that he could play all three outfield spots capably and this was the ‘04-05 Brewers we’re talking about here. In the final five weeks of his Brewers (and MLB) career, he started just once and went 2-for-18 at the plate overall.
I remember being at a game where Carlos Lee got hurt in the second inning and Magruder took over batting cleanup, which was funny. (It really is a wonder that those early-2000s Brewers teams didn’t turn Young Curt into a Yankees fan or something.)
He also once scored the winning run when Mike (don’t call me Giancarlo) Stanton balked him home from third in the bottom of the 10th in 2005.
This video is so awesome. The entire stadium doing the “O” thing for Lyle Overbay is peak 2005. It’s so pure. I love it. Miller Park “O” chant forever. Also, let the record show that was a balk. #VindicatePaulSchrieber.
Magruder finished his time with the Brewers worth -0.1 WAR on Baseball Reference, 0.1 fWAR and -0.5 WARP, and honestly that all sounds about right, but come on. His name rhyming with Zapruder should be worth at least 1 win by itself.
Tom: Bobby Kielty
A red-headed outfielder who bounced around the big leagues for seven years, occasionally dressed like a clown and somehow etched his name in Red Sox World Series history?
It doesn’t get much more random than that.
To be honest, I don’t remember exactly when or where I acquired Kielty’s Herbie Hancock, but it was somewhere between 2001-03 and probably involved waiting in line outside the Metrodome after running a couple of laps on the field to properly celebrate “Sunday Kids Day.”
Kielty signed a Woodbury Athletic Association baseball with a blue permanent marker. It read:
“To Tommy. Keep swingin’.” - Bobby Kielty
To get sappy for a minute, those four words meant a lot to #YoungTom. I thought it was so cool that a big-leaguer took an extra five seconds of his time to scribble a quick piece of advice between the seams. When I was cut from the ninth-grade baseball team, it was Kielty’s simple message that kept me going. I guess you could say Kielty is responsible for my extremely average JV baseball career? So there’s that.
But enough about me. Let’s get to the fun stuff.
Kielty played five seasons in the minor leagues before making his MLB debut with the Twins as a 24-year-old in 2001.
The following year, Kielty batted a swift .291/.405/.484 with 29 extra-base hits and logged almost as many walks (52) as strikeouts (66) in 112 games with the Twinkies (again, imagine if we had any idea what slash lines were!). He also registered a 2.7 oWAR, which is remarkable considering the outfielder never had an oWAR over 1.3 for the rest of his career. Kielty finished fourth -- yes, fourth -- in AL Rookie of the Year voting. (Wisconsin native Eric Hinske ended up winning in 2002. Good for the cheeseheads.)
In 2003, Kielty played 75 games for Minnesota and was pretty, pretty, pretty good -- a .370 OBP and 108 OPS+ -- before he was sent to Toronto at the trade deadline for veteran outfielder Shannon Stewart. At the time, the Twins were 7.5 games back in the division. We don’t get to say this many times, but … what a ballsy move by Terry Ryan!
Kielty’s baseball career started declining like my body during #QuarantineSZN after he departed from Minnesota. But that’s where his story gets more interesting.
After playing a half-season with Toronto, Kielty spent the next three years with Mr. Moneyball, Billy Beane (I mean, Brad Pitt) and the Oakland A’s as a corner outfielder.
Here’s my favorite part of the Kielty Khronicles: In 2005 spring training, he started growing out his red hair. It got to a point where Kielty’s teammates claimed he reminded them of Ronald McDonald. I mean, they’re not wrong.
Kielty’s red mop earned him the nickname “Ronnie Mac” and A’s fans at the Coliseum put up a sign in left field that read “Ronnie Mac Land.”
Later in the season, A’s catcher Jason Kendall (there’s a name!) surprised Kielty by stuffing a Ronald McDonald costume in his locker. Before a game in August, Kielty warmed up on the field while wearing the full Ronald McDonald suit, face paint and trademark clown shoes. Brilliant. I searched high and low across the dark web for pictures or videos or fan fiction of this scarring event but couldn’t find any. But I did find this:
Bobby Kielty. An American treasure.
Although Kielty’s best baseball (and hair) were behind him by the time I hit puberty, the outfielder had his biggest moment as a big-leaguer in 2007, his final MLB season.
Kielty was waived by Oakland and picked up by Boston in August. He played in 20 regular-season games for the Red Sox and two contests in the ALCS.
His big moment came in Game 4 of the 2007 World Series. With Boston leading 3-1 in the top of the eighth inning (and one win away from a title), Kielty pinch-hit for reliever Mike Timlin. On the very first pitch he saw from Brian Fuentes, Kielty blasted it into the bleachers for a 4-1 Sox lead.
Boston went on to win the game, 4-3, and complete the series sweep, so you could say Kielty, the man who politely signed a baseball for 10-year-old Tommy D, won the city of Boston another championship.
Kielty’s career World Series statistics will always read like this:
1 AB. 1 H. 1 R. 1 RBI. 1 HR. 1.000 BA.
Not too shabby.
Happy birthday, Joe Mauer!
~Tom (although this could probably all apply to Jake, too???)
My favorite athlete of all time (sorry, Willians) turned 37 years old Sunday. I’d like to think Mauer celebrated by spending hours upon hours in the rap studio that was rumored to be in the basement of his bachelor pad back in the day. Happy birthday to Our Monotone King.