Doc: A Memoir (35 page)

Three decades after I first became a professional ballplayer, I am still making my living in the world of baseball. I don’t have the heat on the mound I once did. Not even close. I prove that every now and then at an Old-Timers’ Game. I’ve finally given up on the idea that some
frustrated Mets manager might wave me down from the stands or the broadcast booth and send me in.

But thankfully, I’ve found many other ways to stay involved. I’ve been delivering Yankees pregame reports for WCBS radio. I do meet and greets in the luxury boxes at Citi Field and Yankee Stadium, talking with fans, sharing my insights about new generations of players, and swapping stories about the game all of us love. It turns out that after everything I’ve been through, there are still people who enjoy hanging out with me. We get to do it in a more casual, relaxed way than we ever could have before. It’s fun for them and fun for me. I participate in fantasy camps run by the Yankees or the Mets, giving the ultimate fans a chance to test themselves against major-league players under real major-league conditions. At my last Mets fantasy camp, I’m proud to say, I won the home-run derby against some serious sluggers, including Tim Teufel, Mookie Wilson, Doug Flynn, and Wally Backman. How many pitchers can say that? I think everyone was surprised including me. As I walked off the field that day, I smiled at a thought that shot through my head: “Maybe I should have stuck with hitting after all. Who knows how far I would have gone.”

I have had the chance to work with some rising young pitchers, the way my dad used to work with me at the park near our house. In my early days, the scouts and coaches often expressed amazement at what they called my “perfect pitching mechanics.” I do think I know some things about throwing a baseball, and it’s been fun sharing that knowledge with the next generation. I’d definitely like to do more of that, maybe at some point signing on as a pitching coach with a major- or minor-league team. There’s a lot of talent coming up out there. The game has nothing to worry about in that regard.

All things considered, I am mostly at peace with my baseball career. I know I’ve had some extraordinary accomplishments, and I know I left some other things undone. People still say to me, “You deserve to
be in the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.” They say I broke this record or that record. A lot of that stuff used to eat at me, and that was part of my unhappiness. It doesn’t so much anymore. I’ve realized, “Hey, wait a minute. When I was a kid, my dream was to play professional baseball. I never thought about awards, never thought about the World Series, never thought about the Hall of Fame, I just wanted to play professional baseball.” That, I did.

I got to play for sixteen years. I won just about every award that you could win. I got all this wonderful appreciation and love. That’s not bad for a skinny kid from Tampa. Once I got sober and looked at things that way, I started thinking, “What in the world do I have to be pissed at?”

The six- and seven-figure contracts and endorsement deals I used to get are ancient history now. I live a whole lot more frugally than I used to. Where did all that money go? I guess I know the answer to that. I sniffed a lot up my nose. I spent a lot on luxury living. I gave a lot away, buying houses and cars for quite a few family members and taking care of friends who needed a little help. I don’t complain. I wanted to do that. It’s one of the most satisfying things someone with a little success can do. And seven children don’t come cheap—their mothers either.

I don’t really miss the money that much except for how it would let me provide better for my family. I was living large and dying inside, and that is never worth it. What I have now is far better than piles of money and a lavish lifestyle. These days, I am finally becoming the father I always knew I could be.

I am blessed with seven amazing children. I love them all very much. Given what they’ve been through, it’s a miracle how well they’re all turning out. Credit to their mothers! What can I say? My children have unique and wonderful personalities. For reasons I can’t hope to explain, they all seem to like spending time with their father.

Dwight Junior is showing real dedication to his music career. He
has talent and charm and people like him. We did a TV show together. He met Jay-Z, who told him, “Gimme your stuff.” That could be an opportunity. “Lil Doc” is a big deal in Tampa. Of course, I wish he’d spend more time in New York. It’s fun to see a Gooden putting on a show again.

Ashley, the next in line, recently moved up to New York, where she’s studying to be a medical technician. She and I have similar personalities. She likes to have fun. Nothing really bothers her unless she’s pushed to the limit. She’s the oldest daughter, but she’s also like the youngest daughter. She’s definitely Daddy’s little girl. My mom and my ex-wife Monica are constantly on me for spoiling her. But everyone in the family does. She throws that smile on you, and she’s got you.

Ariel, my second daughter, is twenty-one now. She’s the mature one, the caretaker. She is like the mother of the other kids. She cooks for everyone. She makes sure my sons get off to school and do their homework. She’s very organized. She didn’t get that from me. Her personality is like her grandmother’s, my mom.

Devin, my eighteen-year-old, is the quiet one. You don’t know if he’s mad, sad, happy, or glad. He doesn’t show any facial expression. My sister Betty used to say that about me. The only time he gets excited is when he’s watching basketball. Or playing it. He’s big—six foot four and 225 pounds—and aggressive on the court. But deep down, he’s a real teddy bear.

Darren, sixteen, is a natural leader, like Ariel is. His older brother defers to him: Devin will ask Darren: “Should I get these shoes? Okay, I’ll get ’em.” Darren got his driver’s license even before Devin got his. Darren plays baseball, and he plays really well. Colleges are talking scholarships. He has a personality like my dad’s. If anything, Darren is even more outspoken than his grandfather was. Darren will always tell you exactly how he feels.

Dylan is a never-ending bundle of energy. He never tires out. He has a very active mind, and he loves playing pitch-and-catch with me.
Monique is sure he has the talent to be a starting pitcher for the Mets or Yankees or maybe a quarterback for the Giants. I keep saying, “He’s eight years old. Just let him go out there and have some fun.” Milan, the baby, climbs into things. She’s a little fussy still. But she’s a sweet girl, and she’ll win you over immediately. With Darren, Devin, and Ariel still in school in Florida, I am constantly flying down to see them. When I’m down there, I still usually stay with my mom. She doesn’t travel as much as she used to, except to funerals for her friends and relatives in Georgia. So she rarely comes up north anymore. But the Florida kids all stay for long visits.

What all of them want from me, I think, is that I remain in their lives. Open to them. Available to them. They want to know that I’m okay, I’m accountable, and I’m in their lives to stay. It’s what they want, and my key goal is to be the father they deserve.

I stay busy these days, which is good for me, busier than I was in my playing years. I do memorabilia and autograph shows. I appear at the occasional restaurant opening and sports-mad bar mitzvah. I make quite a few speeches—to corporate audiences, sports groups, school assemblies, and recovery organizations, you name it—telling my stories about life in baseball and my life in recovery. What I like most is weaving the two together, especially for kids.

That’s another heartfelt goal of mine, to make a positive difference with young people. There’s a lot they can learn from how I messed up. That’s the reason I so enjoy talking to youth groups, one of the reasons I believe I’m still here. From the lifestyle I was living and the situations I put myself in, there were many times I easily could have died. That didn’t happen. And now that I’ve been given this fresh opportunity, I want to touch people’s lives again, the way I once did on a baseball diamond. Only I want to use real-life issues this time.

Lately, I’ve been asked to tell my story quite a bit to school assemblies and sports banquets and baseball clinics and community groups. I love talking to young people. Back in 1985, when schools were calling
and asking the Rookie of the Year to talk to students, I felt like I was far too young. I didn’t have a message. I was barely out of high school myself. But now, when I’m standing up there, I get an adrenaline rush like I haven’t experienced since I was out on the mound pitching a really good game. I actually have something to share. I can feel it when I’m getting in a groove and the kids are connecting. I’m telling my story and sharing my lessons and taking their questions and trying to inspire them with some of the things that I’ve been through.

Whatever the age group, I talk baseball initially. That gets their attention before I switch to the life issues. The stories aren’t so different from the ones in this book. I start out real positive. I tell about my family and how they shaped me. I talk about growing up in Tampa and how I started playing baseball. I describe the dream I got from my father and how I rode it all the way to the major leagues. I talk about how amazing it was—all the attention, all the excitement, all the love.

And then I start slipping in some issues from real life.

I say, “Unfortunately, my career was cut short because of these mistakes I’ve made.” I talk about drug use. I talk about prison. I talk about my children, how much I love them and how my decisions were so difficult on them. I tell them how I’d straighten up for a while, then slip back again.

It’s an amazing story, almost hard to believe.

The same guy who went to the World Series and the White House also found himself in housing project apartments with lowlife moochers, risking his talent and trashing his life for the fleeting pleasure of getting high.

The kids ask great questions. The younger they are, the more direct their curiosity.

“Are you still getting high now?”

“No.”

“You said your dealer was your cousin. Did he give you a good price on the drugs?”

“No.”

Those are wonderful questions. They show me that the kids are paying attention. I try to help them understand that the drugs don’t always come from some stranger on a corner. The dealer can be a cousin, a friend, or someone else they know, someone they trust.

“Do you still have a big house?” the older kids often ask. “Do you still have a sports car?” Those are fine questions too, and I don’t mind answering them. But I want them to think deeper than that.

“I’ve had all that stuff,” I tell them. “But I didn’t have peace in my heart. I didn’t spend time with my children. I didn’t live up to all my potential. And now I’m working to change that. I’m working hard to become the person I know I can be.”

I’m not covering up my pain with cars, fancy clothes, and jewelry, I tell them. “I’m living better now.”

I explain how I made bad choices because I didn’t deal with the issues inside. I didn’t ask for help. If I’d been a better man, I tell them, I would have asked for help. I thought being a man was trying to handle things on my own, but it kept taking me down the wrong roads. I tell them, “Learn from me.”

I ask them to think about their own relationships and how it would feel to lose one because of something they did. “Just like I told you guys how much I love my kids, how much I love my parents, well, I didn’t communicate with them. I was basically isolated and drugs became my family.”

I let them know just how powerful and destructive drugs can be, how they can take you away from everything you love until the drugs are all that you love. Then I talk about where I am now. I tell the story, which is my favorite, of being in the hotel room and hearing that gospel song. Even today, that story gives me goosebumps. Sometimes I tear up. I recognize that moment as the blessing it was. It was kind of magical, and it was real.

Then I tell them about my road back.

I say, “I got myself out of that hole. I went into treatment. I was finally ready to change. I’m doing what it takes and surrounding myself with people who can help. And it’s not perfect. And it’s one day at a time. And I’ll keep struggling with this for as long as I am alive. And by me being here today talking to you guys, you’re helping me. What’s helping me now is telling you my story. This is therapy for me right now. This is what’s keeping me clean. So thank you for helping me be the man I want to be, be the man I know I can be. Thank you for being here for me.”

Thank you all.

AT
age nineteen, Dwight Eugene Gooden was baseball’s pitching phenom, thrilling New Yorkers and fans everywhere. Nicknamed “Doc” for his surgical, 98-mph fastball, he was named Rookie of the Year, became the youngest player ever to appear in an All-Star game, received the Cy Young Award, and guided the 1986 New York Mets to World Series victory—his first of three World Series rings. After a long battle with drug addiction, Gooden, a dedicated father of seven, is now clean and working with at-risk children and adults.

ELLIS HENICAN is a columnist at
Newsday
and an on-air commentator at the Fox News Channel. He is the author of three recent
New York Times
bestsellers:
Home Team
with New Orleans Saints coach Sean Payton,
In the Blink of an Eye
with NASCAR legend Michael Waltrip, and
Damn Few
with Navy SEAL commander Rorke Denver.