Man at work: The improbable and wondrous career of Peter Moylan
Really cool article on Moylan in The Athletic (which is well worth the $30/yr it costs):
“I don’t think on why I’m here or where it hurts; I’m just lucky to have the work.” — Jason Isbell, Something More than Free”
When Peter Moylan first opened the Apollo Cafe, a coffee shop and traditional Australian breakfast joint in a neighborhood of West Melbourne, he wasn’t thinking about life after baseball. His plans were simpler than that. Moylan is 39 and came of age in the cafe culture of Melbourne, the cosmopolitan port city in the southeastern corner of Australia. He thrives on conversation, connection and a fine iced latte. If he could serve poached eggs, coffee and avocado toast to some Aussie hipsters, well, that sounded cool.
Moylan is one of them, of course, right down to the arm-sleeve tattoos and the black rim glasses and barista pastiche. He counts singer-songwriter (and devoted Braves fan) Jason Isbell as a friend, has a wardrobe full of plaid, and can explain the proper way to froth the milk for a latte. Yet in some ways, Moylan says, he saw the cafe as another job, something to test his old work ethic.
Before pitching for a decade in the major leagues, Moylan spent his early 20s working odd jobs and sales gigs back home. He toiled as a day laborer. He worked one strange job as a salesman for a Japanese security company. He is probably the only pitcher in baseball history with a resume that includes bullet points for concreter, pool plumber and pharmaceutical sales. So early last year, as he prepared for a second season with the Royals, as the sun began to set on his baseball career, Moylan had an epiphany of sorts: He still loved the idea of work.
“I lived a life before I came over here,” Moylan says. “I know what it’s like on the other side. I know what it’s like to get up every day and have to go to work.”
It’s a Friday morning in July, and Moylan is biting into a prosciutto and egg sandwich at the Bluestone Cafe, an Australian-style breakfast spot in The West End neighborhood of Washington D.C. The Bluestone is not unlike the Apollo, which is why Moylan invited me here on the first day of the season’s second half. This is a true Australian cafe, he says, just like those back in Melbourne.
Moylan, a reliever with the Braves, is in town for a series against the Nationals. At 39, he’s the oldest player in the National League (and the third oldest overall after the retirement of Ichiro Suzuki). He’s on the final legs of a weird and wondrous career, the kind that can slip by without proper notice. Moylan is not Bartolo Colon, the 45-year-old cult figure with a rotund figure and nearly 250 career wins. He’s not Fernando Rodney, the 41-year-old reliever with the “Bow and Arrow” celebration and the Rally Plantain meme. In fact, he might be more interesting than both.
Banished from professional baseball as a teenager, he stumbled into an unlikely career as a submarine right-hander, surviving two Tommy John surgeries and multiple back operations, and hanging around the game for more than a decade. Once relegated to the Australian beer-league circuit, his days spent installing glass in kitchens across Sydney, he engineered one of the unlikeliest baseball stories you’ve ever heard.
“He never gave up,” texts Isbell, the Grammy Award-winning singer-songwriter. “At his age, most players in his situation never would’ve made it back to the mound in the majors. Plus, what’s not to love about an Australian side-armer who looks like a sailor from a Tom Hardy movie?”
And so, on one morning in July, the 39-year-old pitcher who looks like a sailor from a Tom Hardy movie, the former pharmaceutical sales guy with a trove of stories, is talking about the end.
Moylan would rather not have this conversation. He’d rather focus on his role in the Braves bullpen or his club’s place in a pennant race. But he can see his days are numbered. Maybe retirement comes this offseason. Maybe he can hold on for another year. Maybe his body will make the decision for him. “I’m not going to be able to find another job where I can make a million dollars after baseball,” he says. “I love the game. I love what I’m doing. But in the back of my mind, I’m also trying to work for the future, too.”
Work. It’s likely few players in baseball are better prepared for what happens after the game. Since debuting with Atlanta in 2006, just weeks after an appearance in the inaugural World Baseball Classic, Moylan has pitched in 499 games. He has offered levity to clubhouses and made espresso for teammates. He is, in the words of former Royals teammate Danny Duffy, “a perfect balance of a dude.” Yet crippling injuries and bad timing limited his total earnings to fewer than $6 million. It’s good money, of course. Moylan is not complaining. But in his mind, it’s not quite enough to stop working. Not yet, at least.
“I want to grind for another fifteen years before I can retire,” he says.
Before he began this most unlikely career in baseball, Peter Moylan worked. And if this is it — if this is the end for a pitcher adored by teammates and respected by opponents, for a man who once sold furniture at a place called Allen’s in Melbourne — maybe it’s time to appreciate this crazy, wild, improbable baseball tale. “I got released as a 19-year-old for being a dickhead, and that was my chance. And I’d squandered it.” — Peter Moylan
His career fell apart on a sandy beach in Florida, a moment of immaturity that included spring break and drinking and a fight with some bro with a mouth. He never likes starting with the beach story, though. It happened, of course. No use ignoring it. It’s just … he usually starts earlier. In the spring of 1998, Peter Moylan was 19 and in his third spring training with the Twins. He was still a traditional baseball prospect then, a 6-foot-2 pitcher with a decent fastball and an over-top-delivery. If he stood out, it was only because he possessed an Australian accent and a wild streak.
Raised in Perth, a coastal city in Australia’s southwest corner, Moylan had taken to baseball as a young boy. His father, Tom, would travel to the United States on business and attend games at the Astrodome in Houston. He found the sport fascinating and passed his curiosity to his son. Moylan started playing T-ball in grammar school, learning the nuances and the history. While rugby and Aussie Rules football dominated imaginations back home, he discovered his identity in the niche endeavor.
He loved the sport, first of all. He loved the competition, and the way his athleticism and arm strength seemed perfectly suited for pitching. He threw harder than his friends. He could hit. Discovered by scouts, he showed enough talent to sign a professional contract with the Twins as a 17-year-old. He just wasn’t ready for what came next. “All of a sudden, I’m across the world, living in a hotel by myself,” Moylan says. “I did what any normal 17 year-old kid would do. I had a good time. I had a great time.” He spent two summers playing for the Twins’ rookie affiliate in the Gulf Coast League. He ate the “****ty food” and he lived in the small hotels (think Fort Myers, Fla., in the 1990s), and he rarely took care of his body. Years later, Braves teammate Kris Medlen would call Moylan the perfect guy to meet at the bar. Great stories. Hilarious. Loyal, too.
Yet as a teenager, he hadn’t mastered the secrets of moderation. He drank too much beer. His work ethic floundered. His manager that second summer, a baseball man named Steve Liddle, remembers a young pitcher who did “so many off-the-wall things.” “He was just really immature and wasn’t ready,” says Liddle, now a coach with the Detroit Tigers. “He did some legendary things.”
One of the legends came on a spring day in 1998, just months after Moylan sustained a season-ending ankle injury in his second year. Back in Florida for another spring training, he headed to the beach one afternoon to indulge in the spring break scene. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a shaggy haircut, Moylan got into a shouting match with a beachgoer who called him an “Australian [expletive].” One punch ignited a fight, and the fight drew a crowd, and within 30 seconds security was on the scene.
Moylan expected to be turned loose within minutes. It was just a scuffle, he thought. The cops hit him with a “drunk and disorderly” charge and hauled him off to the Lee County Jail, where he sat overnight. With no cash for bail, he called the only person he knew with money — teammate Michael Restovich, a former second-round pick.
Restovich, who later played six seasons in the major leagues, played the role of good friend, offering money for bail. Moylan came clean to the Twins. And within two days, he was released, embarrassed and unemployed, heading back home with career shot and his pride destroyed. “I was just a **** kid,” Moylan says. “I thought I had the key to success. And I didn’t.” “I found a job at a glass backsplash company. It was the most fun I’ve had working. I was working my ass off, though. I would be up at 6 in the morning; I’d be at the factory by 7. I could have done it for the rest of my life and been happy.” — Peter Moylan
I send Moylan a text message in June, inquiring about an interview for this story. Minutes later, I get a response. “100 percent,” he texts. “I would love to do it.” I had covered Moylan for two seasons with the Royals, where he twice made the team as a nonroster invitee to spring training and once led the American League in appearances (79). Yet I hadn’t seen him since he signed with the Braves in the offseason, returning to the franchise where his career began. His 2017 season had been quietly terrific. At the age of 38, he had held right-handed hitters to a .163 batting average. In 58 appearances after May 24, he logged a 1.42 ERA. The Royals would only offer another invite to spring training, so Moylan opted to return to Atlanta, where he has an offseason home. When the Braves happened to be in Washington D.C. right after the All-Star break, I sent Moylan another text. He had just returned from the disabled list. The arm injuries would persist for two more months. He suggested breakfast at Bluestone Lane. “Good food and coffee,” he said.
Moylan still enjoys telling his story, even after all these years, even if there’s a bit self-indulgence in it all. When he thinks back on his journey, he describes it as a “mind-****.” “It’s a ****ing cool story,” he says, laughing.
In a moment, he is talking about the months he worked at this Japanese security company called Secom. It was one of the first real jobs he had after baseball kicked him to the curb. It came just months after he returned home to live with his mother in Sydney. He was still 19 years old. The job description was simple: Drive around Sydney and sell a version of Secom’s security system. The retainer was $30,000 per year. Moylan received a company car and phone. “And I did not sell one security system,” he says. “I don’t even remember talking to anyone about a security system. I think I might have just driven around for three months, just grabbing McDonald’s and getting coffees.”
The Secom gig came after Moylan latched onto one friend who worked in the concrete business and another who owned a pool plumbing company. (“Cash jobs,” he says.) It came before he worked in sales for a company called Flick Pest Control. (It’s what it sounds like.) And before he found an ideal setup at a company called DecoGlaze, founded by a friend, Jason Hedges. DecoGlaze specialized in building and installing backsplashes for kitchens. Moylan joined the operation and became proficient at cutting and painting glass. He worked on installations and important jobs. He kept 12-hour days and repeated the process for weeks. “It was awesome,” he says. He would have kept doing it, too. But he met a woman, and she found a job in Melbourne. He followed and dived back into sales, working at a furniture company before being poached by a fabric company. Finally, he dipped his toe into pharmaceuticals.
All the while, Moylan thought of baseball. He still longed to play, so he found competition in local club leagues in Melbourne. He never thought it would lead anywhere, especially when he blew out his back for a second time. He was mostly content. He was married with two young daughters and a career in pharmaceutical sales. He became a fixture in the local baseball scene, playing for the local Victoria squad and a more informal club. He watched teammates put in arduous hours during the week and spend their weekends on some diamond in town. “Guys were making real sacrifices to play the game they loved,” he says. “Getting paid literally ****ing nothing.” Moylan had carved out a role as a first baseman and occasional closer. Yet it was his history of back injuries that inspired a miracle. In order to hit in a way that did not aggravate his back, Moylan designed something akin to a loopy, upper-cut swing. It was successful and pain-free. He wondered if he could mimic the motion on the mound.
Sometime in late 2004, six years after being released from the Twins, he started toying around with a submarine-style pitching delivery. He found the right angle. He could command it instantly. It felt … normal.
“That was the weird thing,” he says. “It was like it was meant to be my slot.” The revelation came a full year before Australia would choose its team for the inaugural World Baseball Classic in 2006. But the crazy thing was that Moylan was not even on the radar for the roster. Not then, at least. Even in Australian circles, he was kind of washed up. That changed when a collection of Australian team scouts showed up to watch a local game between Victoria and South Australia in late 2005. Moylan, still messing with his new motion, pitched an inning in relief. A scout approached afterward with a stunned look on his face:
“You were 94 to 96, “ he said. Moylan looked back and paused, his eyes squinting. He’d rarely seen radar guns at club games. He probably hadn’t been clocked in years. And now, he was throwing side-arm, nearly 6 mph harder than when he threw over the top. “Holy ****,” Moylan remembers thinking. “Something crazy is about to happen.”
What came next has been well documented in various stories over the years. Moylan made the Australian WBC team, appearing in a game against Venezuela. He caught the eye of major-league scouts. He traveled to the Braves complex near Orlando, where he was hosted by future Royals executives Dayton Moore and J.J. Picollo, then with Atlanta. He called his wife. All Moylan had wanted was a chance to pitch in the WBC, to prove something to himself. Now he had an offer to sign with the Braves. He also had a career back home — a pharmaceutical sales gig that paid $65,000 year, a company car, and two young daughters.
Four weeks later, he was pitching in the major leagues, facing Ryan Howard on an April night in Atlanta. “His personality and likability are off the charts. He really loves the game. Anybody that got released and was in Australia and is in a beer league and just loving it, that’s how you find out who loves the game.” — Paul Byrd, former Braves pitcher and Fox Sports South broadcaster
One day last season, Moylan pulled up a screen, logged into his Amazon account and shopped for an important item: A Breville Express Espresso Machine, retail price $599. He was in his second season with the Royals. He had also tired of the coffee options in the Kansas City clubhouse. They insulted his tastes and abused his senses. He believed he could improve the situation. “We need good coffee here,” he said.
And so he made it.
There are many ways to stay in major league baseball for 12 years. You need good fortune and good numbers and some baseline level of health. Yet there are other traits and skills that help, such as the ability to fit into a bullpen, offer presence to a clubhouse or concoct the perfect iced latte for your teammates. “He genuinely cares for other guys,” says Royals second baseman Whit Merrifield, a former teammate and golfing buddy. Moylan long ago reconciled with his reputation as a “good clubhouse guy”, the baseball cliche with a vague definition. He’s still not exactly sure what it means. But you better believe he’s embraced it.
Maybe it was his friendly Australian accent or his life experiences. Maybe it was his years in sales, the ability to connect and communicate and put people at ease. “His outlook on life in general,” says Braves manager Brian Snitker. “He has no filter. He’s not afraid to tell anybody anything.”
Says Braves rookie reliever Jessie Biddle: “He’s such a young spirit. I forget half the time that he’s 39 years old. He’s just fun to be around.”
Old teammates have plenty of anecdotes about Moylan, the connector. One year in Kansas City, he shared a bullpen with former Yankees starter Chien-Ming Wang and a group of young relievers. The presence of Wang, 36, intimidated the young pitchers, who were unsure how to start a conversation — or whether the veteran Taiwanese pitcher even wanted to talk. Yet in a matter of days, Moylan had broken the ice, coaxing old tales from Wang and putting his young teammates at ease.
“With a guy like Pete, it was incredible how he got guys to open up,” says reliever Brian Flynn, a teammate with the Royals. “He bridged that gap with every single guy. So we got to know Chien-Ming because of that. He was like the glue.” He was also a survivor, a man who had reached the majors at 27 and did not wish to leave. It did not matter if doctors would replace his ulnar collateral ligament twice (2008 and 2014) or if he needed another surgery on his back or a procedure on his shoulder (both in 2011), or if he pitched just 28 2/3 innings from 2011 to 2014. He would soon have three daughters — two from his first marriage, which ended in divorce, and one from a second. He still had his unorthodox delivery. He had a charisma that generated opportunity. He signed with the Braves as a player-coach before spring training 2015. The deal paid just $5,000 per month. He spent his mornings rehabbing from his second Tommy John surgery before working with the club’s minor leaguers for the rest of the day. He watched games and wrote reports. He stayed in extended spring training and coached the pitchers, making mound visits and charting pitches.
It was the kind of gig handed to a player on the last legs of his career, a transitional job that usually ends up with the player taking on a more full-time coaching role.
“On the days that I wasn’t throwing, I’d go down to Melbourne, Florida, and I’d watch these kids pitch,” Moylan says. “[The Braves] were like, ‘Okay, we think you’re done, but we will give you a chance to prove you’re not.’ ” Four months later, he was back in the major leagues, his first appearance in two years. It was the first time he felt like crying after being called up.
“I don’t want to fully immerse myself into deciding what or thinking about what I’m going to do (after baseball) until someone says, ‘Hey, you’re not going to get a contract.’ … until my agent says, ‘That’s it. We have no offers.’” — Peter Moylan
Two days before I met Moylan for breakfast, he had done one of those Escape rooms with his two oldest daughters, Montana and Matisse, in Atlanta. It was the All-Star break; he’d gone in with minimal expectations. The whole thing — puzzles, clues, trap doors? — seemed a little silly. But then he stops. “Have you watched National Treasure?” he asks, referencing the Nicholas Cage adventure-heist film.
“It was basically me as Nicholas Cage, trying to go around, trying to decipher all these codes,” he says. “It was incredible. It was so good. I swear. I went in there and I was like, ‘For ****’s sake, what are we doing?’
“From the minute I walked in I was like, ‘OK, this is kind of cool.’ Moylan and I were talking about his daughters because his oldest, Montana, is a senior in high school. Earlier this season, it became a source of humor in the Braves clubhouse that Moylan had a daughter not much younger than rookie outfielder Ronald Acuņa Jr., who turned 20 last December. Moylan found the jokes hilarious.
In some ways, his return to Atlanta hasn’t been ideal. He recorded a 4.45 in 28 1/3 innings. He landed on the disabled list for a second time in late July. One month later, he was transferred to the 60-day disabled list, which ended his season. Yet he has few regrets about coming home. The club, perhaps ahead of schedule, is positioned for its first playoff berth since 2013. The clubhouse has been invigorating. Moylan calls Acuņa one of the best young players he’s ever seen; he calls second baseman Ozzie Albies a “gamer” and first baseman Freddie Freeman a star and outfielder Nick Markakis “as professional a baseball player as I’ve been around.” “There is just an innocence and a youthfulness with this team,” he says. “In the years to come, this team’s going to be really ****ing good.”
It’s certain, of course, that Moylan won’t be around for most of the good times. He understands that. He will turn 40 in December. On the 60-day disabled list, he’s spending September in the Braves’ home clubhouse, offering his knowledge and wit.
He will play as long as he keeps getting chances, he says. He’s also realistic. Maybe this weird and wondrous and improbable career is nearly over. The final answer will come later, but Moylan has options: He has the cafe back in Australia. (They just got their liquor license!) His old friend from the glass business is expanding to America. Another friend, a motivational speaker, wants to take Moylan on tour. Then there is baseball and the specter of broadcasting. Moylan would probably be a natural. He’s not sure if he wants it.
What he does know is that he wants to keep working. He desires a paycheck, of course. It’s a simple need. Yet he wouldn’t be happy on the golf course or watching Netflix. He worked for years before he ever stepped on a major league mound. He watched friends do the same. He found perspective in the ability to show up day after day, to grind and work and finish a long shift cutting glass at 11 p.m.
He’s ready to keep going.
