by Mike Piazza
“So today, I walk away with no regrets. I knew this day was coming and over the last two years I started to make my peace with it. For 19 years, I gave it my all and left everything on the field. God bless and thanks for a wonderful ride.”
That was it. I got a few calls, but didn’t take them. I didn’t want to talk about it. Sometimes, things are self-explanatory. One letter came—a nice one from my general manager with the Marlins, Dave Dombrowski, who by then was the president of the Detroit Tigers.
As I saw it, and still do, the end was almost symbolic. I went out as inconspicuously as I’d come in, even though I hadn’t envisioned it quite that way, either time.
EPILOGUE
Election to the Hall of Fame would, for me, validate everything.
I’m not being presumptuous here. I know better. I know that I wasn’t the most popular player with the media, I know that my defense will be an issue for some voters, and I know, most of all, that there are plenty of people who simply don’t buy my story, who still have a tough time with the concept of a sixty-second-round draft choice—a slow-footed suburban kid picked only as a favor for a friend of his father—legitimately doing what I did in my career. But I also know that I held my own at the most demanding position on the field and established records while I was at it. I know that, as a hitter, I set my goals high, striving every year for a .300 average, thirty homers, and a hundred RBIs, and accomplished that feat twice as many times (six altogether, with a few near-misses) as any other catcher in baseball history (my old mentor Roy Campanella did it on three occasions and nobody else has managed it more than once). I know that only nine other players have hit more than four hundred home runs with at least a .300 lifetime batting average without ever striking out a hundred times in a season, and their names are Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mel Ott, Ted Williams, Stan Musial, Hank Aaron, Chipper Jones, Vladimir Guerrero, and Albert Pujols.
So, yeah, without being presumptuous, I think about the Hall of Fame. I picture myself in it, in the company of Mike Schmidt, Ted Williams, Roy Campanella, Sandy Koufax, Johnny Bench, Jackie Robinson, Yogi Berra, Gary Carter, Carlton Fisk, Rickey Henderson. Tom Seaver, and Tommy Lasorda. I savor the sweetness of that prospect. That legacy.
I’d be less than truthful if I didn’t admit that my legacy is something I ponder quite a bit. Mostly, it bewilders me. I honestly don’t know why it is, exactly, that, from start to finish, I’ve been the object of so much controversy, resentment, skepticism, scrutiny, criticism, rumor, and doubt. I’ve thought about it quite a bit. Maybe it’s because my dad was rich. Maybe it’s because Tommy Lasorda looked after me. Maybe it’s because, off the field, I didn’t make much news on my own account and the press figured it had to latch on to anything that resembled it. Maybe it’s because I was a jerk from time to time. Whatever the reason, I suppose I might be a little oversensitive about it all, except that I feel I’m defending more than just my reputation. I’m standing up for what I consider to be—deeply wish to be—a fundamentally and triumphantly American story.
I set out to write this book with the ambition that it would make its mark as inspirational. It would be a true fairy tale of sorts, the chronicles of a kid who loved and lived for baseball, who dedicated his childhood to getting better at it, and still, in the eyes of others—in the view of nearly everyone but himself and his father—just wasn’t good enough to make a career of it; yet, in the face of continuing doubt and even the denial of opportunity, kept believing, striving, learning, kept hitting, until he was a big leaguer, a Rookie of the Year, an all-star, the best-hitting catcher in the history of the game. That’s the magic-carpet ride I feel I’ve been on, a sort of real-life Horatio Alger underdog adventure. Apparently, though, that kind of story is not for everybody. At least, my particular variation of it seems not to be. Whether it’s out of suspicion, envy, bad information, personal agendas, or insights I’m not privy to, some people find fault and fire away. They’ll sit you on the bench, throw at your head, withhold their votes, magnify your weaker moments, or make up stories about your lifestyle. They’ll associate you with illegal substances.
I’ve addressed the subject of steroids more than I wanted to or was comfortable doing. I was reluctant to cast aspersions on others players or lend credibility to my accusers. (I didn’t intend to use foul language, either, but, as you know, shit happens. I apologize to anyone whom I may have offended in the interest of being real.) Ultimately, though, I knew I had to discuss it, not just on my own behalf, but on my generation’s, as well. I felt it was important to paint the big picture that nobody seems interested in looking at; to supply some of the context that has been so roundly neglected. Besides that, if I didn’t provide my personal take on PEDs, others would continue to do it for me without knowledge of the facts. The bogus accusations are still out there, fifteen years after they first arose. That offends me.
I’m not, however, out for sympathy, and I know damn well that I wouldn’t get any if I were. And I shouldn’t. I haven’t been shortchanged. I’ve had a great life. I was raised with the unanimous support of a fantastic family. I’ve made a pile of money playing the game I love. I married the woman of my dreams. I live in paradise, with a boat in my backyard. Woe is far from me. I’d simply like to reiterate that it hasn’t all been as storybookish and fair-weathered as it might have looked from afar; certainly not as much as I’d once expected it to be, with all the idealism of a smitten kid starting out. Some of that, of course, is my own doing, a consequence of the playing face I put on in the minor leagues for the sake of self-defense.
I feel, in fact, that what I’ve done best in my career is ball up my fists and beat back the challenges. I played with a chip on my shoulder, and admittedly—unapologetically—I’m writing with one, too. More than five years since my final single started a ninth-inning, game-winning rally, more than seven since my twelfth All-Star Game, more than eight since I broke the home run record for catchers, I still feel the need for validation. Someday, I can only hope, election to the Hall of Fame will take care of that.
In the same spirit, my fervent desire for this memoir is that the reading public will approve my story. If that happens, and only if, then maybe the book can serve the intended purpose and prove to be, above all, inspirational.
• • •
In September 2011, the Seattle Mariners called up a six-foot-four, 230-pound third baseman named Alex Liddi, who had participated in MLB’s first European academy and played for the Italian team in the World Baseball Classic. From the town of San Remo, situated on the Mediterranean near the French border, Liddi was the first player born and raised in Italy to make it to the major leagues.
It was a milestone I’d looked forward to seeing, and hopefully it won’t prove to be an anomaly. I’m pretty confident that others will follow. A team from Italy made it to the Little League World Series in 2008, and the national team has traditionally done well in the European Cup, although the last few tournaments have been dominated by the Netherlands. International competition, however, doesn’t require that players be native to the country they represent, and the Netherlands has loaded up with guys of Dutch descent from Curacao. By contrast, Italy carries a relatively high percentage of natives on its roster; maybe half, or a little more. That said, the catcher Juan Pablo Angrisano is from Argentina, and he’s got a gun. I watch him and think, man, if I had an arm like that I’d still be playing.
A few years back, a right-hander named Alex Maestri was signed by the Cubs and became the first pitcher from Italy ever to make it to the minor leagues. Then the Reds signed a lefty named Luca Panerati at the age of eighteen. It’s progress. In 2005, there were no Italian-born players in the minors; by 2010, there were six. One of the obstacles for Italian prospects is that they don’t get the opportunity to play as much organized baseball as Americans or Dominicans or South Americans. There’s an eight-team Italian professional league that has been around since 1948, but they only schedule games for three or four days a week, fifty-f
our in all. When league officials told me that they’d like to arrange a working agreement with MLB, I had to advise them that major-league organizations are not going to send players over there to be idle half the time.
My role with the national team is to consult with the coaches and directors, do some promotional work, instruct the hitters here and there, then put on my number thirty-one jersey and help out at the big tournaments. The Italian lessons I take in Miami have been good for my rapport with the players, and so, in a different way, has the little bit of Sicilian dialect that my dad taught me; they get some nice laughs at my expense. But even with the bad accent, I feel as though I’ve connected with the old country. These days, I can hop on a plane and fly to Rome as easily as Philadelphia. Italy seems hardly foreign anymore. As I write this, in fact, I’m close to receiving my Italian citizenship, which will be a very emotional moment.
The whole experience has also gotten me thinking more about Italy and history. In large part, my fascination with the country in general and Rome in particular comes from the saturating sense of Christian tradition. After returning from one of my trips, I found myself pondering the great general and Roman emperor Constantine, who institutionalized Christianity in Rome and spread it across the Roman Empire. He’s a controversial figure in the respect that there’s some debate as to whether he was sincerely Christian or just used religion to unify his empire. Constantine wasn’t considered Christian as he prepared to lead his army into the great battle for Rome in the year 312. However, on the eve of the attack, while poised at the edge of the city, he saw in a vision that the battle would be won if his soldiers fought it with the symbol of the cross on their shields. The victory occurred just as Constantine had dreamt it, and marked his conversion to Christianity, which, in the view of some scholars, led to the founding of the Catholic Church. Anyway, Constantine kept bouncing around in my head to the extent that I prayed about this subject, searching for what my thoughts all meant and where I should take them. Before long, I was meeting with David Franzoni, a screenwriter (Amistad, Jumpin’ Jack Flash) who has lived in Rome and wrote and coproduced Gladiator. Our eventual agreement was that I would commission him to write a movie script about Constantine. I guess that makes me a producer of some sort. It doesn’t make me Hollywood, though, and I don’t want it to. I’m in it to get the story told.
I’m proud to be Roman Catholic. My Christian faith is fundamental and precious to me—the cornerstone of my life. I think it was a gift, not unlike my ability to hit a baseball. But I’m not a theologian. I’m just a former ballplayer who wishes to join the fight against the decline of religion in our society. According to the Catholic faith, I became a missionary when I was baptized, and my particular role in that regard—at least, how I perceive it—is to promote a healthy discussion and help people become historically informed. The fact is, you can’t separate religion and history. When Christopher Columbus arrived in America, he planted a cross and said a prayer with a Franciscan priest at his side. Our country was founded on Judeo-Christian principles. I don’t wish to preach, but think how much simpler things would be if, instead of complicated laws and ordinances, we all followed the Ten Commandments. You want to buy my house? Let me show you the leaky pipe and the crack in the foundation. You willing to take that on? Is your word good? Okay, then, why do we need an inspection? Why do we need a title search? Why do we need lawyers? I give you the keys, you give me the money, and we shake hands.
Those are the sorts of thoughts to which I’ve been able to devote myself since I stopped playing baseball. I’m a board member of Catholic Athletes for Christ. At one point, I was seriously contemplating becoming a deacon, if I could, but came to realize that it required a level of commitment I hadn’t yet achieved; that my timetable and God’s, as usual, were totally different. In the meantime, I share my devotion in ways that I can. I give faith-based speeches at men’s conferences and the like, and was honored to do a radio interview with Cardinal Timothy Dolan, the archbishop of New York. On occasions like that, I testify in all sincerity that faith is what pulled me through a lot of adverse, daunting, humbling situations in my baseball career. I didn’t always stick close to my spirituality—I strayed from it much more than I should have—and yet, it stuck with me unfailingly. I had a little talent and a lot of determination, but the fact was, I had no business doing what I did in baseball. My career, frankly, was a miracle. In retrospect, I can see that clearly.
So I try to be mindful of the blessings I’ve received and, in turn, to do right by the Lord and a family that now includes two daughters—Paulina was born in 2009—who get my mornings going. They’re my link between sleep (often preceded by a glass of wine and a good cigar) and Starbucks.
As for the rest of the day, it would appear that, besides this book, I’ve become fairly predictable. My interests and hobbies fall pretty close to the tree, by and large: I’m Italian by blood and an Italophile as a result. I’ve been Catholic since my mother saw to it. My attraction to history—and, for that matter, my sense of patriotism, to some extent—is probably related to the fact that my family lives at Valley Forge. (I mean, I collect muskets.) We’re in the automobile business; I’m a fan of Formula One racing. After being the object of more media coverage than I was ever comfortable with, I’m now an avid newshound instead (most of it “fair and balanced,” of course). I played golf at Phoenixville High School and still knock it around, the only difference being that now I get to do it in tournaments like Michael Jordan’s in the Bahamas, where my partner was Mario Lemieux—I admire the hell out of that guy—and we were paired with Wayne Gretzky and Jordan himself. (We finished third, in spite of me thinking the whole time, How cool is this? I mean, what am I, a snot-nosed kid from Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, doing in this group? I played with Mario again a couple of years later when the Jordan tournament was in Las Vegas, and that time we finished second, tied with Gretzky and Drew Brees.) My obsession with European soccer is not quite as easy to account for, although it’s been well fed by my visits to Italy. Mostly, I think, it’s a case of addiction. Soccer is the biggest reason I carry a smartphone; I need my updates on Palermo, the team in the pink jerseys. (And by the way, I have one of those. The last time I was over there, I met a team official and swapped one of my Mets jerseys for a Palermo shirt with my name on it.)
• • •
The last game at Shea Stadium was held on September 28, 2008, against the Marlins. It was grim—the Mets’ sixth defeat in their final nine games, during which time they fell out of first place (losing the division to the Phillies, who won thirteen of their last sixteen) and also squandered the wildcard (by one game to the Brewers, who won six of their last seven). I hate to say it, but it was typical Mets.
The closing ceremony was held after the game, which was a real mood killer. Other than that, it was a cool event. The festivities started Friday with a tribute to the greatest moments in Shea history. Number one was clinching the 1986 World Series, number three was clinching the 1969 World Series, and I slipped in between at number two, the home run to beat the Braves in the first game after 9/11.
On Sunday, they laid out red carpets for the former players’ entrances into the stadium. Tom Seaver and I were the last two to walk in. He came from left field and then I came from right, with my dad at my side. The fans were screaming my name, and of course my dad got emotional, which of course made me emotional. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I felt strongly about giving back to my father, because, indisputably, he had been a tremendous inspiration in my career. He was a major reason why I was there. Honestly, I sometimes felt as though I played more for my dad than I did for myself. But I didn’t mind. I wanted to do it for him.
The script had Seaver throwing the last pitch and me catching it. He was sixty-three years old, so I asked him if he wanted me to move up in front of the plate. “No, no, no,” he said. Naturally, he bounced the ball to me. Ace defensive catcher that I was, I was able to snag it, even while nearly rippin
g my black dress slacks.
The whole affair felt good, and it spoke to why, if I do make it to the Hall of Fame—I’ll be eligible for induction in 2013, along with Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, Craig Biggio, and Curt Schilling—I hope to go in as a Met. Technically, it’s not the player’s call; the Hall of Fame itself makes that decision. But players can let their preferences be known, and mine is pretty strong. Maybe I’m hypersensitive in this respect, but I appreciate appreciation. Over the years, the Mets have shown me theirs. I seldom felt that the Dodgers did.
In terms of pure baseball, the case for either team is not much different from that for the other. I hit more home runs (220-177) and drove in more runs (655-563) with the Mets, but had a higher batting average (.331-.296) with the Dodgers. I was Rookie of the Year with the Dodgers, but played more games (972-726) with the Mets. I went to the World Series with the Mets, but most of my best seasons (four of my top five finishes in the MVP voting) came with the Dodgers. Overall, largely because I suffered more injuries in New York and passed my prime there, I was probably a better player in Los Angeles, but the margin is not overwhelming. More important, performance is not entirely the point.
When I retired, Tommy Lasorda told USA Today, “I would hope he would go into the Hall of Fame as a Dodger. We’re the one who gave him an opportunity.” He’s certainly right about that. Nobody else did, and the organization never let me forget it. It was a good deal for the Dodgers—a great deal—and yet, every time we negotiated a contract, they made me feel that I owed them. The last time, they turned the fans against me. Then they traded me. Ultimately, it was the Mets who gave me an opportunity. They also gave me the market-value contract that the Dodgers wouldn’t. If there’s a single person in my career with whom I feel most closely associated, yes, it’s definitely Tommy. If there’s a team, however, it’s the Mets.