'We’re all under construction': How Pat Murphy builds up the Brewers

ANAHEIM, CA - APRIL 10: Bench coach Pat Murphy #59 of the Milwaukee Brewers hits grounders during warmups before playing the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim at Angel Stadium of Anaheim on April 10, 2019 in Anaheim, California. Angels won 4-2. (Photo by John McCoy/Getty Images)
Milwaukee Brewers bench coach Pat Murphy, pictured in 2019, takes on the persona of jolly drill sergeant to usher his players through the routines of spring training. (Photo by John McCoy/Getty Images)

PHOENIX, Ariz. — One field of six in Maryvale, of 15 camps in Arizona, of 30 across baseball, and a dozen Milwaukee Brewers pitchers arrive to take their abuse. And hone their craft. That too.

“Hey pitchers,” orders the man with the canary yellow fungo bat as they report from an adjacent field. “Get your breath under control! Get your breath under control! That’s a long run! Control your breathing!”

Pat Murphy tends to say things twice, back to back like that, a habit maybe from the decades of coaching and the reasonable assumption the first noise gets their attention and the second is more apt to sink in.

It has not been a long run for the pitchers. It has not been a run at all. It has at best been a short trot, mostly by the rookies. The rest walked.

A voice from behind him, from somewhere among the dozen pitchers, suggests, “Hey, Murph, I feel like you need to instruct more today,” and there are a few chuckles and smiles.

Murphy whips around.

“Who said that?” he demands. “Who said that?”

Silence. Half-grins.

“Nobody said that?”

As he turns back toward home plate, another voice: “I think you’re hearing things, Murph.”

Murphy continues on his way, his back to the pitchers on the mound. He smiles.

“Fans!” he announces.

Every head turns toward his drill sergeant voice and cinder block jaw.

“This has been awful for you today,” he assesses. “We need a little enthusiasm! This is boring for the guys. So we need some enthusiasm! And when they drop a ball, I’d like you to boo, if you don’t mind.”

They nod, dutifully.

He reaches into a bucket and withdraws three baseballs. He faces his pitchers, scattered near the mound, PFP — pitchers fielding practice — about to commence.

“Let’s get this done,” he says. “Let’s get this done.”

This is the best 40 minutes of spring, every single morning, calendar pages nearing opening day, on a field with Murph and some of his favorite people, with 10 or 15 souls watching from a few rows of aluminum bleachers, there to watch but mostly because it’s shady on the bleachers, and now they are put to work being enthusiastic and booing. This is the best 40 minutes of spring, every single morning, because every one of these men gets a little bit better, and none get out for free, and they all have a laugh, and for it Murph loves them all a little bit more.

“Hader!” he’d cried one morning earlier in the week.

Josh Hader is perhaps the finest relief pitcher in baseball.

“Hader!” he’d cried. “You will not pitch for us this year if you do not get this right!”

All limbs and hair and goofy enthusiasm, Hader launched himself at a ball rolling to his right and scooped it up and contorted oddly and flung the ball wildly and did not get it close to right.

The tip of Murphy’s fungo bat fell to earth in feigned resignation, the whole thing just too sad to bear. Hader loped away. Murphy stared him to the back of the line.

“Freddy!” he’d cried.

And Freddy Peralta stepped up.

Feb 15, 2020; Phoenix, Arizona, USA; Milwaukee Brewers bench coach Pat Murphy (59) talks to the pitchers during spring training baseball in. Mandatory Credit: Rick Scuteri-USA TODAY Sports
Pat Murphy works with his pitchers during spring training earlier in February. (Rick Scuteri-USA TODAY Sports)

PFP is the empty-the-dishwasher of spring training. The renew-your-driver’s-license of February and March. The clean-the-gutters of camp. PFP has pitchers wandering clubhouses muttering, “Anybody seen my cup? Was right here …” PFP is at best 40 minutes of becoming more skilled at one’s craft and at worst seven balls off the exact same spot on one’s shin. Depends on the day.

So, Pat Murphy summons this dictatorial character that demands perfection and yells a lot. Everybody is in on the joke. Everybody gets that the routine is important. Everybody looks at Murph, 61 years old, cap pulled low, waving that garish fungo, and wonders if he’ll crack, and hopes he doesn’t, and he never does. Not ever. Not until the best 40 minutes of spring are up.

“He told me I’m a premature separator,” right-hander Justin Grimm said. “You know, ball and glove.”

Grimm said he was working on that.

“He came up to me, first morning,” right-hander Josh Lindblom said, “and he says, ‘Lindblom, I was watching video, why are you always getting hit in the feet?’ ”

Lindblom admitted, “I do have a tendency to get hit in the lower extremities.”

So he would work on that.

In the course of the best 40 minutes of spring, Murphy often finds a guy to ride. Sometimes it’s the star. Sometimes it’s the new man. Sometimes, maybe, it’s the guy who looks like he could use a little love.

“Bobby!” he cries. “Bobby freakin’ Wahl. Nice job! I’m taking Bobby off the list!”

“What list?” Bobby freakin’ Wahl queries.

“Don’t worry about it,” Murphy tells him.

The fans cheer, dutifully.

“Woody!” he cries at right-hander Brandon Woodruff. “Get through your throw, Woody! Eye contact! Get through your throw! Aw, that’s horse[stuff], Woody.”

He stares Woody to the back of the line. Soon, Woody is back in front.

“Woody!” he cries. “Eye contact! Get through your throw! Perfect! That’s some Tom Emanski stuff right there! Attababy, Woody! See, I know that education at Mississippi State. I know how smart you are.”

It’s not just the pitchers, either. Infielders rotate through the field, stopping for about 20 minutes to man the bases so pitchers have someone to throw to. Murphy called for a stoppage earlier in the week because his second baseman had gotten lazy. So Murphy stood halfway between home and second and informed the young man, “You’re ruining my drill!”

Nobody wants to be that guy. The pitchers seemed happy for the momentary distraction.

“I have avoided that so far,” left-hander Eric Lauer said. “Which is good for me.”

The horn sounds. It ends the best 40 minutes of spring.

“Fans!” Murphy cries. “If any of you fans wants to meet LoCain or Yelich or Brandon Woodruff, just c’mon out. Don’t worry about security. Just walk on through. Just challenge ‘em. They want to be challenged too.”

The security guard sags.

“Why would he do that to me,” he says.

As the pitchers trot to their next destination, Murphy cries after them, “Guys! Nice job! Have a great day!”

“Yes sir,” one replies.

“I’d like it yes sir sir,” he says. “Two sirs.”

The first gets his attention, see. The second sinks in.

Two hours later, leaning against a wall outside a clubhouse nearly empty, Murphy grins at the memory of the time they had, the best 40 minutes of spring, just like yesterday’s, just as it will be tomorrow. Players pass on their way home or to the lunch room and every one of them says something to him. See ya tomorrow, Murph. Or, hiya Murph. Or, I’ll get it, Murph. Or, just, Murph!

He’s lived the better part of a life in this very world, with the uniform stuck to his back with sweat, with young men around walking into — or away from — a game or a season, in places like South Bend and Tempe and San Diego and, now, into his fifth season as bench coach for the Brewers, in Milwaukee. So he dares them to be great and have fun and laugh and take it all very seriously, just as he dares it for himself. Maybe he couldn’t have always been this way, but it feels right today, in this place, and nobody’s having a better time than he is.

“I think we’re all under construction,” he says. “It doesn’t end until you allow it to end. And I just like where my shoes are right now. I love the game. I love doing things people don’t think you can do. … This is the sweet spot of my life.”

He pauses.

“Yeah,” he says. “The sweet spot of my life.”

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