Doc: A Memoir (7 page)

I just nodded.

“From now on, anytime a guy gets a base hit off of you, the next guy up to bat, you knock his ass down. If a guy hits a home run off you, the next guy up gets drilled. Hit him.”

I’d never pitched that way before. Frankly, it made me a little uncomfortable. Was he saying “Hit batters on purpose?” I guess he kinda was. But prior to that, I had no strategy of intimidation. Growing up, I relied on straight heat and controlling my curveball. Those were the two pitches I had, and that was enough.

I felt a little guilty the first few times I placed the fear of Jesus into a couple of opposing batters and nailed a couple more. I was not a naturally aggressive person. If anything, I’d always been a little shy. But Nice Guy Dwight really was becoming a different person on the pitching mound. I was playing on a whole new level. I knew I had to do something. I told myself, “Maybe this is just how it’s done around here.”

The Cumberland School of Batter Intimidation changed everything. “A little chin music goes a long way,” the pitching coach said. The other teams got the message: “Don’t mess with Doc.”

After a few super-aggressive outings, Cumberland had me dial back. Pitching hard and inside opened up my game a lot, and I kept doing it
throughout the summer. The results were hard to miss. All the hitters were more cautious with me.

In May, we drove up to the big town for an exhibition game at Shea Stadium against the Salem Redbirds, the San Diego Padres A-ball team in the Carolina League. And I was going to pitch. We were the opening act before a regular Mets-Padres game. I’d seen major leaguers play at spring training in Florida, but I’d never set foot in a real major-league stadium before.

Shea seemed amazing to me. Just the size of it was staggering. I was in total awe. TV did not do it justice. I know some people ragged on Shea, saying it lacked grandeur, that it wasn’t as impressive as some big-league parks. Well, to me, this was a cathedral of baseball. The field was nicer than anything I’d ever seen before, perfectly manicured and perfectly level. There were maybe four thousand people in the stands when we first took the field.

But as I was taking a measure of the scene around me, New York was also measuring me. The Mets’ first-round draft choice had brought his stuff to New York, and all the sportswriters wanted to see. Was he really worth the hype? I had nothing on my mind but total domination.

I pitched well. I struck out fourteen batters. I had a one-hitter going, but I blew the game in the ninth. I gave up a couple of hits and then a home run, and then I nailed a batter with a ball in the neck. By the time the trainer came to look at the stunned batter, our manager, Sam Perlozzo, was on the mound, pulling me from the game. I felt horrible as I walked back to the showers. Joe McIlvaine, the Mets scouting director who had signed me, came into the locker room with a big smile on his face. “No reason to be down,” he said. “You impressed a lot of people today.”

“I should have won,” I told him. “I won’t lose another game this season. Why couldn’t I win here?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joe said.

I wasn’t worried. I was just mad at myself. This was my first shot at
Shea, and I felt like I’d blown it. Weren’t we supposed to win? Wasn’t I supposed to win? I went back to Lynchburg and won every game I pitched after that.

Some weekends, Carlene came up from Florida, and that was fun. I didn’t consider us too serious, and neither did she. When Carlene wasn’t around, my roommate Darryl Denby and I would stroll through the mall, wearing our Lynchburg Mets jackets and hats, hoping to meet girls. You’d have to call our success rate “very hit or miss.” Something else happened in Lynchburg that didn’t seem important at the time. Living on my own, I discovered the pleasures of alcohol, especially forty-ounce bottles of Schlitz Malt Liquor. Other guys on the team would go out and shoot pool at night or come home from a game, order a pizza, and smoke some weed. Some guys would even smoke pot on road trips, then hit those southern truck stop buffets and put away four thousand calories for five bucks.

I wasn’t into pot. Getting high just made me sleepy. I didn’t get the thrill. But I liked the way those forties loosened me up and made me more social. I’d been sneaking Budweisers from my dad’s refrigerator since I was in my early teens. I wasn’t a frequent drinker then, and I didn’t drink that much when I drank. I don’t think I’d ever tried malt liquor before. Now that I had, I liked it. It had a higher concentration of alcohol than regular beer, delivering some extra bang for our minor-league bucks. I can honestly say I kept my drinking mostly under control. I told myself that drinking was just a part of growing up, like meeting girls and making money. Weren’t other kids my age off at college, going to parties, and exploring their independence? I’d skipped my chance to go to Miami, but these were my college days. Still, I knew enough not to let my mom and dad know I’d started drinking regularly—especially malt liquor. My dad, the Bud man, would definitely have frowned on me hitting the hard-core stuff.

One night before a road trip, three or four girls were at our apartment until three a.m., laughing and drinking. None of the ladies stayed
over, but Darryl and I definitely lost track of the time. Across the street, our team bus was leaving at eight a.m. sharp for Maryland and a game with the Hagerstown Suns, a Baltimore Orioles affiliate. Darryl and I knew all along that we’d be tired. But we were having fun, and we figured we could get some rest on the bus. The malt liquor was flowing, and I guess you could say we were negotiating with ourselves.

Bad idea.

We didn’t wake up until 8:40. I looked out the window at the stadium parking lot. The bus was gone. I jumped out of bed and started throwing pieces of my uniform into a duffel bag.

“Darryl!” I yelled down the hall. “We fucked up!”

From his room, all I heard was a groan. Then, “What the hell?” as his senses kicked in. “Why didn’t the Dominicans wake us up?”

We jumped into the Camaro and raced to Hagerstown, getting lost in our panic on the way. Three hours later, we arrived at Municipal Stadium. The game was in the fourth inning. And there was no way to sneak in quietly. The only way to get to our team was to enter the field near third base and trot to the visitors’ dugout on the first base side. We waited in the stands for just the right moment, a couple of sheepish guys in full Mets uniforms. At the break in the inning, hoping no one would notice, we jogged right across the field. I’ve done some embarrassing things since then, things worse than that. But at that point in my life, this took the cake. Even Sam, our even-keeled manager, blew up at that.

Joe McIlvaine called from New York. He was fairly calm under the circumstances. “We need to be sure that you know why you’re there, okay?” Joe said when he got me on the phone.

“It won’t happen again,” I said, and I meant it. That was another one I never mentioned to my dad.

That was the first time I ever remember alcohol interfering with me doing my job. I was sure it was a onetime slip-up, and for a while it was.

Sam came up to me at least once a week and said, “One more start
and you’re going up to double-A.” Then it wouldn’t happen. Week after week, he said that, and I didn’t get called up.

Lynchburg won the A-ball division with a record of 96–43, and we were headed to the playoffs. After my shaky start, I finished the 1983 season with a kick-butt record of 19–4. I had 300 strikeouts in 191 innings and 10 complete games. This was the pitcher the Mets believed in enough to draft me in round one. These numbers definitely got me noticed in New York. To celebrate, we had a team party at a pizza shop. Sam approached me again that night.

“You’re going to—” he started to say. I cut him off.

“I know, Coach,” I said. “I know.”

“It’s not what you think,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re going to Tidewater, triple-A.” He didn’t have to tell me that Davey Johnson was managing the Mets AAA club in Tidewater, Virginia. “Davey wants you for their playoffs.”

All of a sudden, an old, familiar feeling swept over me. “I want to stay here,” I said immediately.

I knew it was an honor, Davey Johnson wanting me to leap entirely over AA ball and help his AAA team. It was flattering too. But I was doing well in Lynchburg. I felt loyal to my teammates there. I was having fun. The Lynchburg team was on its way to winning the Carolina League. Didn’t they need me?

“That’s not how it works, kid,” Sam said. “You’ll be one step away from the majors. You should be excited.”

I didn’t feel excited at all. Partly, I guess, it was anxiety about what I might be facing in Tidewater. How well would I play there? And partly, it was—I wouldn’t call it homesickness, but I was well aware that Lynchburg’s season ended a couple weeks earlier than Tidewater’s would, no matter how well we did. Part of me really wanted to go be with my family back in Tampa.

“When do I have to leave?” I asked Sam.

“They want you there tomorrow, Doc,” he said.

I drove to Norfolk, where the AAA Tidewater Tides played at Metropolitan Memorial Park. At Tidewater, I pitched just as well as I did back in Lynchburg. We won the playoffs, then went out to Louisville to play in the AAA World Series, a round-robin event between the winner of the International League (us), the American Association (the Denver Bears), and the Pacific Coast League (Portland Beavers).

I dominated the final game against Denver, the White Sox farm team, and we won the AAA World Series. I flew back to Tidewater the next day, jumped in my car, and drove home to Tampa.

Meanwhile in New York, 1983 had been a flop of a season for the big-league Mets. They’d gone through two managers, George Bamberger and Frank Howard. Their 68–94 finish was only enough for sixth place in the National League East. Rumors were flying that Davey Johnson would be moving up to Shea from Norfolk for the 1984 season to manage the team. Throughout the playoffs with Tidewater, he’d been telling me, “If I get to manage the Mets, I’m taking you with me.” He got the nod in November.

Just a few days later, I was back in the off-season instructional league in St. Petersburg, playing catch on the side of the field, when Davey walked by. “Davey.” I flashed him a smile. “Remember what you said?”

“Oh yeah,” he assured me as he kept strolling. “You’re in.”

During spring training, I didn’t stay at the team hotel. Since my parents lived just twenty minutes away in Tampa, I drove home every night. And as the end of spring training approached, my dad started asking me if I thought I would make the team. Spring training was coming to a close, and I still didn’t have an answer for him.

I woke up extra early the last day, after tossing and turning all night. I was on the road early and got to the ballpark before almost anyone. I was hoping Davey would notice and tell me one way or another right
away, before everyone else came in. After the game that day, I knew, the team would be flying out to Cincinnati to begin the regular season. I hated the idea of bringing my luggage with me in the morning and then being told I hadn’t made the team. That would be mortifying.

I told my dad to put my bags in his trunk before he drove over for the game. If I made the team, someone could run out to the parking lot, grab the bags, and load them onto the bus.

If I didn’t, no one would have to know they were there.

During pitching drills and warm-ups, I heard nothing. In the dugout, I saw a chart listing who was pitching that day. My name wasn’t on it. Mel Stottlemyre, the pitching coach, walked by and said, “We might use you today, Doc. I’m just not sure yet.”

That made me think they were still undecided. Normally when a game started, the other pitchers hung out in the bullpen. But there was no way I was leaving the dugout.

The innings crawled by. I still had no clue. During spring training, the managers sometimes sat outside the dugout. Midway through the game, I saw the Mets’ general manager, Frank Cashen, approach Davey. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they whispered back and forth. Not long after that, Davey walked over to me. He had his hand out.

“Congratulations, Doc,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t I tell you? You made the team. Now get out to the bullpen. I’m gonna use you in the seventh.”

Before I trotted to the bullpen, I asked one of the clubhouse kids to get my stuff out of my dad’s car and put it on the bus to the airport. I went into the game and struck out four of the six batters I faced.

After the game, I told my dad I made the team.

He had the same look on his face he did the day I was drafted, like this dream of ours kept coming true. I was on my way to the majors—drafted, signed, and tested—a full-fledged member of the New York Mets. I was heading off to opening day in Cincinnati, ready to face the team my dad and I had watched on television in the family den.

Truly, everything after that was gravy.

Playing

Rookie Season

W
HEN I WAS CALLED UP
to the big team, I felt like a whole lot of people had been waiting around for me, and I thought I understood why. To the players, the fans, and the sportswriters who’d been following my progress in the minors, I was the bright, shiny hope for a baseball team that desperately needed some.

These were tough times all around in New York, and not just for the Mets. Crack was exploding. Crime was high. People felt jittery in their own neighborhoods. When the rest of life is difficult, sports can bring important relief. That was true in Georgia in my father’s and grandfather’s days. Maybe it would be true again in New York, a city with two professional baseball teams. But being a sports fan is a whole lot more fun when your team has a shot at winning. Given all the hype about me in the minors, Mets fans were thinking I could help turn some things around for them, maybe bring back some of the fun that
had been sadly absent since the Mets’ World Series season of 1969. Of course, I wasn’t going to rescue the struggling franchise alone. That would take a team effort, literally. I was nineteen years old. But I could help. I knew I could. And I was about to learn something else: if I could do that for New York, there was almost nothing New York wouldn’t do for me.