Long Shot

by Mike Piazza

  “Hey, babe, fifty thousand people in the stands. [Drag on the cigarette.] Don’t let them see you throw it into center field.”

  “Move your feet, babe! Cha, cha, cha! Cha, cha, cha! Move those feet!”

  “Hey, babe, sometimes you gotta go out there [to the mound] and let the wind blow a little bit.”

  “Gotta be a speed cop. [Drag on the cigarette.] Roy Campanella used to say, ‘Go ahead and steal. The speed cop’ll catch ya!’ ”

  “Hey, babe, you grab that ball, and if someone comes to take you out, you freakin’ put that ball right in their chops. [Drag on the cigarette.] I remember one time Frank Robinson was coming around third, and I had the ball in plenty of time and I’m thinkin’, he’s my homeboy, he’s my brother, he ain’t gonna do nothin’ to me.” At that point, Roseboro pulled up the pants of his uniform and showed me a three-inch gash on his leg. “That motherfucker almost filleted my ass!”

  We were divided into a blue group and a white group, and the catchers would do our early work on the little half field at HoHoKam Park, where the Cubs trained (Instructional League involved multiple teams in one place)—blue group one day, white the next. I thought, why can’t I go to both sessions? I mean, I had a lot of ground to make up as a catcher. So the second day, when it was supposed to be a day off for our group, I showed up. Kevin Kennedy was like “What are you doing here?”

  I said, “Can’t I work out today?”

  He paused for a moment, nodded his head, and said, “I fuckin’ like that! Yeah, sure.” Of course, a couple of the other catchers heard about it and called me a kiss-ass.

  One of the catchers I didn’t get along with particularly well was Eric Ganino, the Dodgers’ twenty-eighth-round draft choice that year from California, who seemed to me like something of a wiseass. We weren’t really enemies, but there was some bickering and jockeying going on between us. One day, during an intrasquad game, I was having a tough time catching and Eric was letting me know about it from the dugout. Being real clever like I am, I yelled back, “Fuck you!” This other catcher, D. J. Floyd, thought I was yelling at him, and suddenly charged me from the bench. It was on. We ended up having a full-scale, intrasquad brawl right there on the field. D. J. Floyd fell down at one point and I yelled at him, “Go fuck yourself, D.J.! I could punch you in the face right now!” At the various fields around the complex, the other teams were staring at us and wondering, What the hell is wrong with the Dodgers?

  I did have a few friends. We were scheduled to stay in Phoenix at the Maricopa Inn, and my roommate was a left-handed pitcher named Jim Poole. He suggested we get a couple more roommates and an apartment, so we rented one along with another pitcher, Jeff Hartsock, and a first baseman named Brian Traxler. I remember two things about living with those guys. One was going out with them to a bar, getting drunk, and dancing to the Romantics song “What I Like About You,” which was not a proud moment in my life. The other was watching the World Series with them when Kirk Gibson hit that incredible home run. It was one of those “where were you when” moments.

  Instructional League was also my introduction to Eric Karros, who would become my best friend in baseball. Eric was one of numerous players there who brought in big credentials from big colleges—he was the sixth-round selection that year out of UCLA—and here I was, a courtesy pick in the sixty-second round from a junior college where I was hurt half the season, trying to cope with a new position and some of the best breaking pitches I’d ever seen. A lot of my teammates wondered what I was doing there, and at times I did, too. I wasn’t getting a lot of positive reinforcement in those days. So it made an impression when Karros walked up to me one morning after I’d taken a round of batting practice and said, “Man, you’ve got a lot of power.”

  • • •

  The most important thing the Instructional League taught me about catching was that I needed to do a whole lot more of it. That spurred my dad and Tommy into action again.

  This time, Tommy’s idea was a novel one. For their young Latin American prospects, the Dodgers operated a winter camp in the southeastern countryside of the Dominican Republic. It had been built in a sugarcane field about forty miles from Santo Domingo and was run by Ralph Avila, the Latin American scout who had talked to my dad about me playing for his son, Al, at St. Thomas University. All parties agreed that a little basic training at a Dominican boot camp would be a hell of a way for me to spend the next three months.

  That list of parties, however, didn’t include anyone in the Dodgers’ front office, notably Charlie Blaney, who had just taken over as the club’s minor-league director. When Blaney found out I was down there, he put in a call to my dad and played dumb. Asked him where I was. My dad played dumber and said he didn’t know. Blaney said yes you do. My dad said, well then, talk to Tommy about it, which Blaney did. I don’t know if Tommy and Blaney ever actually came to an agreement on the subject, but the bottom line was that I stayed on as the first American player ever to enlist at Campo Las Palmas.

  There were fifty or so prospects in camp, and we slept in a rustic dormitory that was favored by tarantulas. Needless to say, I chose a top bunk. The Latin guys didn’t seem to find the tarantulas particularly creepy; they actually played with them. I tried to fit in with the culture the best I could, but that was one line I didn’t cross. In fact, I never quite came to terms with the whole relationship between Dominicans and nature. There were chickens on the grounds, laying eggs that would be hard-boiled for our breakfast—some of the chickens themselves might have been dinner—and the night watchman’s job was to keep the stray dogs away. He was an old guy with a little red hat and a shotgun, and every other night or so he’d shoot down a couple of dogs. I’d be listening to my heavy metal and suddenly hear Boom! Boom! Everybody’d go running out to see. One night I watched him blow away a big Labrador retriever. It bled to death right in front of me.

  I was happy to find a little gym on the premises, with some old dumbbells, barbells, and benches. I’d go in there and lift after dinner, which upset one of the motherly ladies who worked in the cafeteria. She scolded me: “You’re going to get sick doing that!” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was getting sick, all right, but not from the lifting. Actually, the food was a little skimpy by American standards but not worth complaining about. For most of the Dominican players—there were also a few from Honduras and Nicaragua, among other places—our little dining hall might have seemed like the Four Seasons. Still, whether it was from the lunch meat, the water, the sugarcane juice, or just the cultural adjustment, there were plenty of times when my stomach had me on the run. I told my mom that I needed some familiar food. When my dad came to visit, he smuggled in a bunch of peanut butter and Carnation Instant Breakfast. Tommy made the trip with him, and I was sitting outside eating my lunch—a bowl of soup and a slim sandwich of mystery meat—when they walked up. Tommy took one look and said, “Jesus Christ! How do you eat this shit?”

  My dad also treated me to a few weekends at the Jaragua Hotel in Santo Domingo, where Joe Ferguson stayed while he managed the organization’s Licey team in the Dominican Winter League. When I was there, I partook liberally of the pasta, the Friday night meringue music, and the big bottles of Coke you could buy for a dime, although you had to put the bottle back in the rack when you were finished. Periodically, other players would come to town, and we’d hit the disco and drink Presidente beer. Santo Domingo became pretty familiar to me; often, after a long day at the camp, Ralph would drive me down to catch bullpens for the Licey pitchers.

  I was grateful for the special privileges I was being afforded, and if my camp mates understandably resented me a little bit, they at least appreciated the effort I gave it. And my struggling attempts at Spanish. Some of the instructors—Ralph Avila, Leo Posada, Chico Fernandez—and the visiting coaches, like Johnny Roseboro, spoke English; but for the most part, I felt like the Latin players must feel when they come to play in the States. When we were riding our short bus to play the As
tros or Cardinals and the other guys were telling jokes in their impossibly fast, slang-heavy Dominican Spanish, my couple of classes of foreign language at Phoenixville High gave me no chance whatsoever. I often wondered if the joke they were laughing at was on me. Manny Acta, who manages the Cleveland Indians, was an infielder for the Astros—it’s hard to imagine now, with his bald head, but at the time he had big, fluffy hair—and years later he told me, “Yeah, I remember you down there. We were all talking about, ‘Who’s this gringo coming down here to play with us?’ ”

  Among the players in camp was Pedro Martinez, who had just signed and turned seventeen. His brother, Ramon, had already made it to the big leagues, and he’d stop by to work out, as well. I caught Pedro the first time he threw in a game. After one pitch, honest to goodness, I thought I’d broken my hand. For a little guy, he threw so fucking hard I was stunned. He also had a hissing curveball and a nasty changeup. I thought, Who is this guy? He’s gonna be unbelievable!

  In retrospect, the most amazing thing was that, down in the Dominican, Pedro Martinez was the nicest, sweetest guy in the world, always laughing and joking. When he came to the States, he seemed to turn instantly into something else. He was the most competitive son of a bitch you’d ever see. I mean, he ate gunpowder. More to the point, Pedro was just a little prick; that’s about the only way I can describe him. I remember thinking, is this the same guy I knew at Campo Las Palmas? As our careers moved along, I had my issues with Pedro; but I’ll say this: I wish the Dodgers hadn’t traded him for Delino DeShields right after our rookie years. And I really liked Delino DeShields. I know it broke Pedro’s heart to be separated from Ramon like that. He deeply loved his brother.

  When I finally got home to Valley Forge, there was only time to catch a little rest, put back a few of the pounds I’d lost—thanks, Mom—and scoot down to Vero Beach for my first spring training.

  • • •

  In the late winter of 1989, I arrived in heaven. They called it Dodgertown.

  What a place. The moment you pulled into Dodgertown, it was all baseball. Some guys might have wanted more, but not me. When a workout was over, what I wanted to do was play more baseball. At Dodgertown, you could do that. We’d play a four-hour spring training game, and then Tommy would roll out the cage and pitch to us for as long as we wanted. We worked, man. That was Tommy’s philosophy—we fucking worked. Sunup to sundown. It was crazy. It was fantastic. These days, you never see anything like that. Guys are out of there by the fifth inning. Five and dive.

  Tommy Lasorda was a master at generating enthusiasm—especially among the young players. Right from the beginning, he made us feel like real Dodgers. Tommy would frequently put the greenest kids from the lowest minor-league teams in major-league exhibition games. We’d play, say, a Bakersfield game, and then we’d hear on the walkie-talkie, “Piazza, Karros, Eric Young, up to the big-league field.” We’d schlep up to the stadium and the game would be almost over. Maybe we’d hit, maybe we wouldn’t; whatever. At the least, we’d sit in a big-league dugout next to pros like Kirk Gibson, Eddie Murray, Mike Scioscia, Lenny Harris, and Rick Dempsey, if they were still around. Then, after the game, somebody would wheel out the cage for extra hitting and Tommy’d be out there dropping pretty good left-handed curveballs on us. I loved it. Loved it.

  That first year, just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, I actually made a trip with the big-league team to West Palm Beach to play the Atlanta Braves in a split-squad game. I was catching and Dale Murphy was batting and I’m thinking, how in the world did I get here? My daydream was shattered a moment or two later when Dion James came around to score. There was a play at the plate, and he ran me over.

  Those were the times when I felt like I was living the fairy tale, just like I’d always imagined it. I still remember driving up the first day and seeing Tommy in the cafeteria, then seeing the food in the cafeteria. Big vats of eggs and orange juice and bacon and pancakes. Even my second year, my third year, the moment I got there, the feeling was “Ah, Dodgertown!” I was pumped.

  Of course, I’d been to Dodgertown the year before, when I showed off my arm for Joe Ferguson. But I knew it was for real this time when I checked in to get my uniform and the old equipment guy asked me if I was a catcher, grabbed a bag of gear, and threw it at me, as if to say, “Here’s your stuff, you piece of shit. Get out of my face.” I didn’t mind. As soon as I headed out to the field for the first time and laid my eyes upon all the players spread out and stretching, I felt the kind of adrenaline rush I remembered from walking up the steps of the Dodgers’ dugout as a thirteen-year-old batboy at Veterans Stadium.

  The next thing I knew, Brent Strom, a minor-league pitching coach, was yelling, “Catchers to the strings! Piazza!” I was the first catcher summoned to the strings section, which was Dodgertown oblivion—a bullpen area that Branch Rickey devised back in the day, using thick string or cord to outline the strike zone and encourage pitchers to throw to the edges; actually hit the strings. By the time I got there, it was just a row of mounds and another of home plates. That first day, I did nothing but catch bullpens; must have been ten of them. But that’s when I really started learning to catch. I caught good curveballs. I caught pitchers who knew what they were doing.

  I learned a lot from being around the pitchers. The pitching coaches—Johnny Podres, Claude Osteen, Dave Wallace, Burt Hooton—conducted meetings on pitching philosophy for the minor leaguers. Once, when they called a meeting, I figured, hey, I’m a catcher, I need to know what they’re thinking out there; I should go to that meeting. I was the only catcher there. My old roommate, Jeff Hartsock, and this pitcher from Iowa, Bill Wengert, turned around to look at me, as if a hippopotamus had just pulled up a chair, and one of them said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  My response: “What, I can’t go to a meeting? A meeting about pitching? And I’m a catcher?”

  When I proceeded to follow up on a point that was being discussed, they thought that was revolutionary. Bill Wengert: “What the fuck? Piazza comes to the pitchers meeting and he actually asks a question!”

  The catchers were usually with the pitchers anyway, down at the strings. That was our social circle. Our entertainment was the movie they’d show every night in the theater. The only guys who didn’t go were the ones sneaking off campus. I never snuck out, because I was a nerd and too tired most of the time, but I had roommates who did. A couple of outfielders, Donnie Carroll and Chris Morrow, got out one night by climbing the fence; but there was always a security guard on duty checking for guys coming back. So they got a cab to drop them off at the tree line, made their way through the woods, climbed onto a roof, and dropped down into Dodgertown like commandos. They called it Rambo-style. It was all good, except that while they were gone, one of the coaches, Tom Beyers, stopped by for bed checks, looked around, and saw there was nobody else in my room. A couple of hours later, here they come. The door opens and they start high-fiving each other, like “Hey hey, we made it!” I said, “No, no, you guys are screwed. They had a bed check.” Reggie Smith, the great switch-hitter from the old Red Sox and Dodgers, was in charge of running the players who had been caught the night before on bed check. They were known as Reggie’s Runners. Carroll and Morrow were active members of the club.

  In a lot of ways, it wasn’t very smart to go out in Vero Beach. The local guys were always mad that the Dodgers would swoop down and take their girls, so there were plenty of fights. It wasn’t like you could avoid the locals, because there were only a few bars in town. The best one was Bobby’s on the Beach, but we couldn’t go in there because that was the coaches’ bar. Kevin Kennedy and Dave Wallace were responsible for holding up the walls at Bobby’s, and if they saw you in there, you earned yourself a morning reservation with Reggie’s Runners.

  But Tommy took us out from time to time. Once, a few of us who had done something or other exemplary went to dinner with Tommy and Steve Boros, who was the minor-league field coordinator. Across t
he room, we spotted a cute blond girl with what seemed to be her family. Her brother or whoever it was came up to our table and said, “My sister is here and she would be very interested in one of these young men taking her out for the night.”

  Tommy said, “Which one?”

  “She said the guy in the red shirt.”

  That was me. I gave out a little “woo!” Pretty girl from Canada, it turned out. I felt like it was quite an accomplishment when I made it to second base that night. I hate to sound juvenile about it, but at that time I was juvenile, in a lot of ways. For one, my father considered girls to be among the distractions that he needed to keep out of my path. I also had my mother’s sense of morality instilled in me. I’d been sheltered, somewhat. Combine all that with my focus on baseball, and there were a lot of elements working together to make me socially tentative.

  I can’t deny that Tommy looked after me in those years—socially, to a small degree, and definitely, in a big way, on matters of baseball. I’ll deny all day that I was ever handed anything I didn’t deserve; but indisputably, he was the steward of my entry into pro ball and conversion to catching—my enabler, so to speak. For those first few spring trainings, Tommy took the extra step of putting Joe Ferguson in charge of my catching education, although Ferguson was certainly not the only one who played a part in it.

  Tommy himself actually had some hands-on input with my catching skills. When he threw BP, he usually wanted a catcher behind the plate. I’d go back there and he’d bounce the ball in the grass and shout, as only Tommy could shout, “Come on, Michael, block that ball!” He was as much a cheerleader as an instructor. But there was no shortage of coaches on call to teach me the mechanics of the position. It was a collective thing between Fergy, Johnny Roseboro, Kevin Kennedy, and Mark Cresse. Ferguson had a body type similar to mine—he was tall—and was able to show me a particular technique of blocking balls in the dirt. Most catchers kick their leg out to stop the ball, but because my legs needed more room I had to angle my feet a little differently. Joe understood that.