Long Shot (42 page)

I suppose I should have expected as much from the media. It had been that way all year. Various writers had not only campaigned against me for MVP and harped on my failures in the playoff series against the Giants, but had conveniently neglected my contributions against the Cardinals. This was just another chance to pile on.

The charge was led by Wallace Matthews of the
New York Post
, who effectively called me a wimp in his column, then elaborated on the talk-show circuit. “Piazza,” he wrote, “did a pretty good impression of the old ‘Hold me back, Charlie!’ routine with home plate umpire Charlie Reliford. But that was as far as it went. From that moment on, the Mets were a beaten team, for the night, and possibly, for the rest of the World Series. . . . Piazza’s move toward Clemens was half-hearted and in a way, kind of laughable. He is supposed to be one of the leaders of this team, and considering his anemia at the plate—he went 1-for-5 in the Mets’ 4–3 Game 1 loss—he probably could have made no greater contribution to his team last night than to take a real run at Clemens and try to get him out of the game.”

The next day, Todd Pratt got in Matthews’s face and Wally acknowledged that he might have gone overboard in the swirl of the moment. That was swell, but how do you unring a bell?

Anyhow, Matthews had plenty of company. My teammate Darryl Hamilton questioned my pride. Even my pitcher, Mike Hampton, suggested that I should have gone after Clemens and it shouldn’t have mattered if it was Mike Tyson. I guess Hampton figured he had proven his manhood by nipping David Justice in the elbow pad five innings later. He told the
Post
, “I think we should’ve fought, to be honest with you. But that’s not my call. You can’t make something happen if guys aren’t going to defend themselves.”

Because Mike [Hampton] was a football player, he’d sometimes be asked about certain things and, well, Mike wasn’t always good at giving the right answer.

Taken in a vacuum, the incident would have required a different response. But the situation taken in the context of the first New York Met–New York Yankee Subway World Series, I think that was a much bigger moment than some people make it out to be. We were supposed to be putting forth our best foot.

The way it all transpired on the field, Mike was stunned. He took those couple steps and saw the bat and he was like dumbfounded, perplexed. He wasn’t angry, because it didn’t seem like it was an incident that came from anger. But because he had been hit in the head, because of the rivalry, people wanted these two titans to get into a wrestling match. The idea of having the two major stars of the competing teams in the greatest city in America out there fighting on the field . . . that would have been not only crazy but immature.

—Bobby Valentine

Belatedly, I did take a swipe, of sorts, at Clemens—through proper channels. I asked MLB for an investigation, describing him to the media as “unstable.” I have no idea whether my request had anything to do with it, but Roger was fined fifty thousand dollars. Of course, that begs the question of why, if he was penalized so heavily, wasn’t he thrown out of the game? I attribute it to the confusion of the moment. I think Reliford and the other umpires were as discombobulated and weirded out as I was.

To this day, I don’t know beyond a doubt what Clemens was truly intending or thinking. He’s never said anything different than he said that night. There remain questions only he can answer. But with the extra clarity that comes with time, perspective, and video, I’ll go this far: there should have been a fight. It hadn’t been possible in July, when I was lying on my back with my head ringing like school was out. In October, though, it was not only possible but—circumstances be damned—it was
in order.
Item one: Clemens threw a broken bat in my direction. Item two: I walked toward the mound and asked him what the fuck his problem was. Everything was in place, except that item three never happened. It should have been Roger saying something like, “Get your sorry ass back in the fucking box.” Or saying
nothing;
just giving give me a look, a gesture, any small, subtle, actionable trace of defiance. If he does that, we’re brawling. If he does that, the
whole thing makes sense and continues down its natural path. I was right there. But I had my parameters for fighting on the field, and the World Series was sure as hell no time to set them aside. Before I could take a swing at him, it was imperative that Clemens note my objection and issue a proper invitation, a verbal or visible “go fuck yourself.” Instead, he turned to the umpire and babbled on about
the ball.

He screwed up the script. He sabotaged my payback. I won’t repudiate my response, for all the reasons and mixed signals I’ve discussed; but looking back on it now, whether I kicked Roger’s ass or he kicked mine, there should have been some closure.

Without a fight that night, revenge would be hard for me and the Mets to come by. Clemens wouldn’t pitch in Shea Stadium—where he would not only have to face a hostile crowd but would have to
bat
—for two more years. And he wouldn’t pitch again in the 2000 World Series.

• • •

Evidently, the Yankees thought that
Shea
was their turf, too. When the Series moved there, George Steinbrenner trucked a load of Yankee Stadium furniture into the visiting clubhouse. Maybe it was in response to July, when, after Clemens nailed me, Steve Phillips banned the Yankees from our weight room.

At any rate, it can be safely said that the two teams didn’t like each other much. Except for Derek Jeter, of course. Nobody doesn’t like Jeter. And I’m not being sarcastic. The guy’s a pro, a gentleman, a tenacious competitor, and remarkably clutch. What most amazes me about him, though, is how long and well he’s eluded major controversy as a single guy and the face of his ball club—the
Yankees
, no less—in New York City. I can appreciate how truly difficult that is. Jeter has been smart enough to keep his opinions to himself, for the most part, and let his ballplaying do the talking. The New York media loves a talker, of course, but the ramifications can complicate the lives and careers of those who have something to say. Jeter has always been able to maintain a kind of skillful ambiguity in his public positions. More power to him.

While I’m at it, I should also note my admiration for Jorge Posada. It’s not unnatural or uncommon for Mets players to be a tad envious of all the attention and prestige heaped upon the Yankees, but guys like Jeter and Posada were certainly deserving of it. I could identify pretty closely with both of them—Jeter for his high profile and Posada for what he brought to the ballpark as a catcher. He was a tough out in that lineup and contributed plenty of intangibles behind the plate. As catchers go, I’d like to think that
New York was treated to a couple of pretty nice ones in those days. It wasn’t center field in the fifties, with Willie, Mickey, and the Duke, but it wasn’t too shabby, either.

Having won the previous two World Series, the Yankees, needless to say, were loaded with clutch, capable postseason players. That included their starter in game three, Orlando Hernandez. El Duque was 8–0 in the postseason, beating seven different teams. Nevertheless, I had faith in our guy, Rick Reed.

Ventura gave us a 1–0 lead with a homer in the second. Paul O’Neill put them up 2–1 with a triple in the fourth. Reed gave us six strong innings, and I led off the bottom of the sixth with a ground-rule double, then scored to tie the game on a double by Zeile. In the eighth, with El Duque still on the mound for the Yankees, Agbayani doubled in Zeile, went to third on an infield single by Payton, and scored on a sacrifice fly by Bubba Trammell. Benitez got the job done in the ninth, and we were off the mat.

That’s when Jeter stepped up. He led off game four with a home run against Bobby Jones. He tripled to lead off the third and scored to make it 3–0. In the bottom of that inning, Perez singled and I hit a one-out homer against their starter, Denny Neagle, to get us back within a run, but it was still 3–2 when they called in Rivera, the ultimate World Series guy, for the last two innings. He did his thing. We were down to our elimination game.

But we had Leiter ready for game five, and I always felt good about it when Al was pitching under pressure. Of course, they felt the same way about Pettitte, who was making his nineteenth postseason start in six years—and wasn’t half finished yet.

They scored first on a second-inning home run by Bernie Williams. We went ahead with a couple of cheap runs in the third. Jeter homered to tie it in the sixth. In the ninth, Leiter struck out Martinez and O’Neill but walked Posada and gave up a single to Brosius. And then, for all of the Yankees’ handsomely paid, widely admired, big-game superstars, it was Luis Sojo who singled up the middle to bring in the lead run. Another came home on a throwing error by Payton to make it 4–2.

I stepped to the plate as the tying run in the bottom of the ninth, with two outs and Agbayani on—Rivera pitching, of course—but my fly ball to center field wasn’t deep enough.

It was the story of the Series. I couldn’t deliver a punch.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

We’d grown accustomed to winning. Over the three seasons beginning with 1998, the Mets had put up the best record in baseball short of the two teams we were chronically judged against, the Braves and Yankees. Notwithstanding our World Series disappointment, we were movin’ on up. In that spirit, I sold my New Jersey house to a horse trainer and left for a penthouse condominium in Manhattan’s Gramercy Park.

Meanwhile, Mike Hampton, after winning fifteen games and rubbing a few people the wrong way in his only season as a Met, sought his prosperity elsewhere, signing a free-agent contract with the Colorado Rockies that made him the highest-paid pitcher in the game. Our own free-agent signing, Kevin Appier, took his place in the rotation. We were positioned for more of the same in 2001.

At the end of May, however, we were somehow ten miserable games under .500, already trailing the Phillies by thirteen and Atlanta, which was having its own uncharacteristic troubles, by five. Inexplicably, we stunk. Zeile’s production was down and Alfonzo’s and Ventura’s were
way
down.

My problems, once again, were primarily on the defensive end, throwing out base stealers. In June, Gary Carter, the Hall of Famer who was a minor-league catching instructor for the Mets, spoke out to the
New York Times
and suggested strongly that I consider switching positions. He referred to my percentage of throwing out runners as “horrible.” I know that Gary was trying to be supportive in his own way, one of his points being that I could better preserve my knees, hands, and body if I moved out from behind the plate, presumably to first base. I appreciated the health benefits of what he was talking about—at the time, for instance, my back was acting up—but frankly, the whole thing stung me a bit, and it was getting old. From all directions, it was becoming an annual refrain that I just couldn’t bring myself to hum along with. Catching had been my ticket into professional baseball
in the first place, and on some fundamental level I equated my success with my position. I was reluctant and probably a little frightened to give it up. I felt that, if I began to dabble at first base, it wouldn’t be long at all before I was over there full-time. To me, it seemed like more of a life change than just a position change; sort of like checking into a nursing home before the kids started college. I didn’t care to entertain that notion until I absolutely had to. And the way I saw it, that moment had not arrived. I was still an all-star catcher.

Besides, I had a clever, one-step solution to all my problems. I dyed my hair blond. It was so intimidating that, in the tenth inning of a game in Houston, the Astros walked me intentionally with one out and nobody on base.

Roger Clemens avoided me, as well, when we played the Yankees that year. Joe Torre saw to it, even though Clemens’s regular turn in the rotation came up when we played in June at Shea and again in July at Yankee Stadium, just before the All-Star Game. I guess Torre had seen enough of the circus. He said he was concerned that, if Roger hit me accidentally, nobody would believe it. (Incidentally . . . before the season, MLB had sent around a memorandum to umpires that confirmed their prerogative to eject a pitcher who they believed had deliberately thrown at a hitter’s head. I’m not sure I would have supported that concept before my encounters with Clemens in 2000, but my perspective had effectively been revised.)

I did face Clemens at the All-Star Game in Seattle. He started for the American League, I batted sixth for the National, and my fly ball to right field on a three-two fastball completed his two perfect innings. That mundane little out was apparently so fascinating that it warranted twenty minutes of interviews after the game. I should note, though, that it wasn’t the only topic of conversation. There was a more memorable moment that night, with indirect connections to me in two respects. It involved a broken bat and Tommy Lasorda.

Since we’d won the pennant the year before, Bobby Valentine was the National League manager. Although Lasorda had been Bobby’s first minor-league manager, they’d never worked together in the same dugout; so Bobby invited him to Seattle in an honorary capacity. Tommy didn’t disappoint. He delivered a classic, X-rated pep talk before the game: “Those motherfuckers over there want to beat your fucking ass. . . .” MLB actually taped it and gave me a copy.

Unfortunately, the American League owned us in all-star games during
that period. This time, I was catching my old teammate Chan Ho Park in the third inning when Cal Ripken Jr., in his last of twenty-one seasons and nineteen straight all-star games, opened the scoring with a home run. As poignant as that was, however, the night’s enduring image came in the sixth inning, with the American League leading 2–1, Mike Stanton pitching to Vladimir Guerrero, and Tommy coaching third base. He was having a good time of it, chattering away in full glory, going through his whole repertoire and entertaining everyone within earshot, as Guerrero took a whack at a pitch in on his fists and fractured his bat at the handle. The fat part hurtled right at Tommy and caught him with a glancing blow to the left hip, sending him tumbling over on his back, feet in the air. He nearly completed a backward somersault, then rolled over on his side and popped right up. I was pretty scared—Tommy was seventy-three years old—but everybody else seemed to think it was hilarious. Bonds ran out to give him a chest protector. All right,
that
was funny. I thought it was less amusing, though, when they replayed the entire thing on the big scoreboard at Safeco Field. Maybe I just wasn’t in a laughing mood, since we were on our way to losing our fifth straight All-Star Game.