Long Shot (20 page)

Needless to say, however, I was always on my pitcher’s side in any dispute
with an umpire. Most of it was general principle, but now and then a particular ump—Paul Runge, for example—would afford me another reason.

We were playing the Florida Marlins, and early in the game there was a play at the plate. I put the tag down but Runge called the runner safe, which I disagreed with. I said something like, “Aw, come on.” He didn’t answer—just stared at me with cold, penetrating, Charlie Manson eyes. I thought, oh shit. Later, I was batting against Ryan Bowen, three-two count, and I just sort of twitched a little bit toward a ball in the dirt. I trotted off to first base, and before I could take two steps Paul Runge’s yelling, “Yeahhhh! Ouuuttt!”

I knew he was baiting me, so I didn’t utter a word. I sat down in the dugout, strapped on my shin guards, went back out there, and Runge said, “You know, Mikey, Johnny Bench used to try to steal pitches from me all the time, and I told him, ‘Johnny, just catch the fucking ball. Don’t try to pull it back and snatch it back and frame it and all that bullshit.’ ” I think he was passing that along in a friendly, helpful sort of way, as if to say, okay, I tested you and you passed, so I’ll give you a little tip. Yeah, thanks, pal.

Frankly, though, it was out of character for me to respond so placidly. Playing angry had become a basic part of my game, and I didn’t feel compelled to change. After my Vero Beach drama, when I’d been driven to the brink of quitting and came back with my teeth bared, I was self-indulgent about my anger. As often as not, if I didn’t get a hit, I’d pitch a fit. I mean, I’d go
off.

I know it rubbed a lot of guys the wrong way. My temper made me look immature, which I was, and all about me, which I also was, but with a purpose. I truly believed, and still do, that a ballplayer can be selfish and still be a team player. Joe Morgan once shared with me his philosophy on how a team wins: by having a bunch of players who produce career years at the same time. I wanted every year I had to be a career year, and for that to happen, I felt like I needed every at-bat to be successful. If it wasn’t, I was incensed. It was as if something was always chasing me and I had to just keep going, keep going, no failures, no stopping, keep going, gotta have a hit.

I’m sure a lot of players hate it when they squander at-bats, but they don’t destroy the dugout; so, yeah, I confess to pushing it too far. I’d throw bats and helmets. I’d scream and cuss and make a scene all-around. When I’d see a great player like Fred McGriff strike out with the bases loaded, walk back to the dugout, lay his bat down, put away his helmet, and trot back out to play defense, I’d think, hmm, maybe I need to control myself. The idea never lasted long. That just wasn’t how I was wired. Like it or not—and frankly, I liked it—a baseball game brought out in me what Al Leiter, my future
teammate, describes as “that controlled rage that practically everybody who’s worth anything plays with.”

On one level, most of my teammates understood; on another, they just shook their heads; and on
another
, they thought—some, if not most of them—that I was just a total, self-absorbed, narcissistic, red-assed jerk. A few of them called me Snapper, in reference to my temper. Tommy would ream me out over the stunts I pulled in fits of rage. He was afraid I’d hurt myself, because I’d kick and punch things as hard as I could. He told me that Frank Howard had once banged his elbow on the bench after making an out, and it really set him back. Eventually, I stopped kicking stuff because I’d screwed up my toe by trying to punt the dugout; but I had better technique with punching.

When I was a kid, I was a Bruce Lee guy and always watched
Kung Fu Theater
on Saturday mornings. I also read a book in which he talked about disciplines called “kungs.” There was a speed-running kung, an eyesight kung, and an “iron-fist kung,” in which a guy broke his knuckles on a big rock, then allowed the knuckles to heal and proceeded to punch and punch the rock until ultimately it would move. The principle is that you have to clench your fist as tightly as you can and be committed to the punch—drive straight through it, even if you’re hitting a concrete wall. When I punched the wall of the dugout, it was an iron-fist kung. I’d never catch it at an angle or off center. Never with a haymaker. Always short and flush.

I may have actually broken my knuckles a few times doing that, but I never said anything. I just varied my routine a little. Once, I messed up a shopping cart in the clubhouse. In Atlanta, I threw a water jug. In Montreal, I slammed my helmet against the wall and it bounced into the stands, where a fan grabbed it and wouldn’t give it back. At Dodger Stadium, I struck out and tried to fire my helmet into the little slot in the dugout by the bat rack. I missed the slot and the helmet ricocheted and nicked the head of one of our trainers, Dr. Bill Buhler. I rushed up and apologized to him, and he said he was okay, not to worry about it; but that incident made me less dangerous with a helmet in my hand. Still, my anger didn’t fade. Maryann Hudson, the beat reporter for the
Los Angeles Times
, wrote of me, “He likes to play baseball as if he is tearing somebody’s head off.” She had it right.

“People are always telling Mike that he should smile more,” Lasorda told her. “But I say leave him alone. This is how he got here.”

That was just his nature, and it probably allowed him to achieve the success he achieved. He wasn’t that way off the field. But if that’s all
you’re seeing, I could understand how, as a teammate, you may not be feeling like really rooting for this guy. Nobody felt like he’s the underdog, let’s pull for him. It wasn’t jealousy—just, I’m not pulling for this guy; he’s a pain in the ass. He’d sit in the dugout going, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I used to watch and cringe when he’d make an out. He’d say, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!,” then hit his fist on the concrete. It wasn’t with the open palm, just for show. He would literally smoke the concrete top of the dugout with his closed fist. How he didn’t break his hand in fifty different places ten different times, I’ll never know. That was his greatest achievement in baseball.

—Eric Karros

• • •

The baseball life had its effects, as you might expect, and they were magnified by my immediate success. So, for that matter, did the culture of Southern California.

There’s no disputing that California changed me. I loved growing up in Phoenixville and I give it credit for my drive, work ethic, and value system; but after I’d been in Los Angeles long enough to get the hang of it, I was thinking, well, let’s see, I’ve got the beach, I’ve got Hollywood, I’ve got Sunset Strip . . . I don’t think I’ll be going back to Sal’s or Nardi’s anytime soon. I guess that’s how your mind works when you’re twenty-four and the good life is coming at you in waves.

I have to say that California style was not something I came by naturally. I had to step it up. One of the girls I dated said I dressed like a redneck. I wouldn’t have minded, except that I was feeling the need to be more like what I thought I was
supposed
to be like, now that I had sand in my shoes, money in my pocket, and press at my locker. At one point, I was talking to a friend back home about my first season in the big leagues and he said, “I don’t care about that. Have you slept with Pamela Anderson?” That was an epiphany for me. Is this really what guys expect out of me? And yeah, I was influenced by that. Maybe if I’d been more confident outside of baseball, maybe if I’d been more social in high school, maybe if I’d have completed college, maybe if everybody outside my family (or so it seemed) hadn’t doubted me from the time I was seventeen years old, I wouldn’t have cared what people
expected
of me. But I cared. I cared deeply. A couple of decades later, with the advantage of perspective, my best advice would be to shut out all the noise and make your own personal choices; to seek after what
you
think is important, not some shallow, superficial, popular concept of status and satisfaction. Young men are being taught and tantalized by the
wrong things. I certainly was. I was sold the whole bill of goods. I wanted to be the rock star.

Thankfully, Eric was there to help me with the particulars, like clothes. Eric actually had a clothes guy.
Everybody
had a clothes guy—not to mention a car guy and an electronics guy and a pay-my-bills guy. I could hold my own with cars and electronics, but I needed some sartorial expertise in a big way. The Dodgers didn’t allow us to wear jeans on the road; always a suit and tie. Not only that, but the players had this thing going where they’d all try to outdo each other on the plane, as far as looking good. I had no suits and no chance. So Eric introduced me to the clothes guy whom Hershiser had introduced
him
to, Alex of Best Dressed by Alex. He made me three suits, two sport coats, and some slacks, and I wrote him a check for around thirty-two hundred dollars. My hand was actually shaking as I cut that check. But I knew I had to step it up. I was severely style-challenged. A few people seemed to think I acquired some, soon enough, but that was only because there were professionals around to see to it. Even when I was in New York, playing for the Mets, the famous designer Joseph Abboud told one of my teammates, Robin Ventura, that “we need to get Piazza into some of our clothes. He dresses like a monkey.”

In that respect, Manhattan Beach was my refuge. I didn’t have to dress up to sit in the sand or have a beer at Harry O’s. And it didn’t take long to become well stocked in casual wear. The president of Quiksilver, Bob McKnight, was a huge sports fan, and he’d invite me, Eric, and Raul Mondesi to his warehouse in Huntington Beach and say, “Pick out what you want. Go crazy.” We’d load up on T-shirts, shorts, sunglasses, flannels, hats, whatever. I once brought along a friend named Eddie Braun who was a stuntman. Eddie called it “the rape-and-pillage store.” We also got a lot of gear from No Fear. I was all set.

I did take a stab at style by picking up a Jaguar convertible as a loaner car. I thought I was becoming a big deal, but the first time I heard somebody yell “Hey, Mike!” at a stoplight, I took the car back. I suddenly realized I didn’t
like
being a big deal, if that’s what this was. To put it another way: I didn’t care for the demands of the spotlight. For one thing, I didn’t like people calling my hotel room—usually when I was still trying to sleep on the morning of a ball game. Often, it was media. Once, though, when I was in New York for a TV appearance, a woman I knew from Los Angeles called thirty-four hotels to find me. That’s when I started checking in under an alias. My favorite was Hugo Boss.

I also never understood or had much patience with the autograph phenomenon. When people crowded around the fence of the player parking lot
after a game, I couldn’t help but wonder why they were there. I no longer placed baseball people on pedestals and didn’t wish to encourage it. I’d just slip into my car—or more often, Eric’s car—and get the hell out of there. I received hate letters from fans asking why I couldn’t at least wave at them. After a while, the Dodgers’ public relations guys prevailed upon me to give a nod or a wave or something—anything to show that I wasn’t a total jackass. So I did better. I signed a few autographs. I’d never be Ernie Banks, and I had no tolerance for so-called fans who exploited the situation for their own profit, but I was well aware that my livelihood depended on the popularity of the game and the players. No doubt, I owed the paying customers. What I felt I owed them, though, was good, hustling baseball and, to the best of my ability, a team deserving of their support. They responded to that.

Some, I might add, responded a little too brazenly for my taste. Aggressive women didn’t really turn me on. If a girl followed me home, it didn’t mean that I had to take advantage of it. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t an angel. But from a spiritual standpoint, that sort of thing just left me feeling empty, incomplete. Obviously, premarital sex was morally objectionable to the Catholic Church, which, like my very Catholic mother, was still a major influence in my life. That said, my world had been rocked, and there was a battle going on inside me. On one hand, as a young, single, Rookie of the Year candidate in the most glamorous city in America, I felt I had an image to live up to; the rock-star thing was a powerful temptation. And let’s be real—a little late-night adventure with a beautiful, willing woman was a pretty powerful temptation, too. I was not only human but a physical, previously sheltered, highly visible, glaringly eligible human with a sudden and extraordinary degree of opportunity along those lines. I was floating between two worlds, following my moral compass one night, and the next, the macho beats in my headphones. There were some very compelling, confusing contradictions that I had to deal with constantly. On the occasions when I
did
step out, I made a point of going to confession afterward.

At any rate, I wasn’t all-in. I’d go through my mail and see the female handwriting and the hearts on the envelope, and then the photos inside, the sweet letters . . . and generally, I’d toss them. They tended to blend together. Once, though, won over by the picture, I called the girl, asked her to come to the ballpark one night, and put her on the guest list. After the game I walked out to meet her and learned my lesson about going by photographs. Another time, before a home game against the Marlins, I was warming up Candiotti in the bullpen, which I usually did to get accustomed to his knuckleball du jour. It was a cool thing, because the fans would crowd around and get me
pumped up for the game. This particular night, I noticed a girl walking down the aisle, tracking me like a laser beam. With the way she filled out her jeans, it was all I could do to keep one eye on the knuckleball. I mean, she was
gorgeous
. Then I hear, “Mike! Mike!” and she’s handing me a little packet. I went back to the clubhouse and everybody gathered around, like little kids in a tree house: “Let me see! Let me see!”

It was a picture of her in a bubble bath, and a dorky poem. Something like: “I’m in the bath, and I want to go fishing, too. But I don’t want to catch Marlins, I want to catch you.” Everybody was grabbing at the picture, asking, “You gonna call her?”