Long Shot (31 page)

On the second day of our first home stand, we shut down the negotiations. It was decided: I would play the season, hopefully help the Dodgers to the World Series, and then file for free agency.

The next night, with all the commotion out of my head, I hit a grand slam off Jeff Suppan—Devon White went over the wall in center field and almost made an incredible catch on it, but the ball glanced off his elbow—and drove in six runs against the Diamondbacks. The night after that, I hit a grand slam against the Astros, 443 feet to right field, on a 3–0 pitch from Mike Magnante. As I trotted by Jeff Bagwell at first base, he said, “Holy moley, that was a bomb.” The Los Angeles fans actually cheered me out of the dugout for a couple of curtain calls.

Suddenly, I wasn’t such a monster. A few weeks later, I hit my third slam of the month, just down the right-field line against Kerry Wood of the Cubs. I remember a girl calling in to
Dodger Talk
after the game and saying, “Give him what he wants!” The tide was turning. I was winning the people back with my bat.

On Wednesday, May 13, we beat the Phillies behind Chan Ho Park and a big night of hitting from Todd Zeile, who had started every game for us at third base. I celebrated at Harry O’s, jumping onto the stage and playing some drums with the Fish Tacos, who were the basis for a band I loved called BulletBoys. Life was pretty good at that moment. The next day, after hanging out with my stuntman buddy Eddie Braun, I got to the ballpark early to film a promo for Classic Sports Network. Then I went 0–4 as Mark Portugal shut us out with relief help from Mark Leiter. In baseball, things change on a daily basis.

But I had no idea how much.

I was strolling out of the shower when our trainer, Charlie Strasser, approached almost giddy, it seemed to me, and said, “Fred wants to talk to you in the back.” In the training room, he meant—actually, Dr. Frank Jobe’s medical office inside it. I threw on a Pittsburgh Penguins jersey, and when I walked in, Zeile was already there, along with Billy Russell and Derrick Hall, the PR guy.

Fred cut right to it: “We made a trade. We traded you to the Florida Marlins.”

• • •

Holy shit, I’m not a Dodger anymore . . . I’ll never be in this clubhouse again . . . I’m leaving Eric. Nomo. Mondesi . . . I’m leaving Tommy . . . I’m leaving Los Angeles . . . I’m done here!

I took a moment—maybe a few—to let it sink in, and then asked Fred who Todd and I were traded for. He said he couldn’t answer because it wasn’t a done deal. I was thinking clearly enough to figure out that, if the details were still being sorted through, it must mean that Gary Sheffield was involved, since he had a big, complicated contract with a no-trade clause, which meant there would be further negotiations.

I told Fred, “I wish I could say it’s been a little slice of heaven,” and walked out. There was a lot to process. Dodger Stadium was no longer my summer home, but what was, really? I knew, Todd knew, and most everybody else knew that we wouldn’t be long for Florida; that the Marlins, who had won the World Series the year before and were dumping salary to start over, would flip us for cheaper players as soon as they could. One teammate predicted I’d wind up with the Yankees. Somebody else guessed the Phillies.

I shrugged and said, “I’m with the Fishes.”

In a few slow-motion minutes I was sitting in my car, talking on the phone with Danny, trying to make sense of it, trying not to cry. We felt there was a remote chance that it was all a scare tactic on the part of Fox, that Fred would call me in the next day and say, hey, you won’t believe what happened, but the whole thing has fallen through. And then, of course, I’d be spooked enough to go ahead and sign for the latest offer. Quite a scheme. Except that we were way off.

The next day was nuts. In the morning, there were TV news crews at the gate of my development in Manhattan Beach; my clothes guys were packing three big boxes of shirts, suits, and shoes they’d picked out—all Italian, of course—to send to Miami, and a suitcase to send with me to St. Louis, where the Marlins were playing; Jim Rome was on the radio hollering that you don’t trade a Hall of Famer and joking about Fred Claire waking up someday with the head of a horse in his bed; my housekeeper, Teri O’Toole, was screening the phone calls (Rome and Fabio got through); my buddy from the clubhouse, Bones Dickinson—I called him “the night squire,” for his skills in social brokering—was at the front door with three equipment bags of my baseball gear; and a writer from
Sports Illustrated
, Michael Bamberger, was taking note of the whole wacky scene. Then Teri handed me a phone that Lozano was screaming into.

“As of eight this morning, five teams had called Dombrowski [Dave Dombrowski, that is, the Marlins’ general manager] wanting to make a deal,” he told me. “It gets better. The Dodgers want you to dress for tonight’s game. They say that until the deal is done, until Sheffield makes up his mind, you’re a Dodger.”

“This is such bullshit,” I said. “Who knows when Sheffield’s gonna make up his mind? He’s got a ring, he’s got a house in Florida; maybe he doesn’t
want
to go anywhere. He’s got the Dodgers by the balls. What are they gonna do—say the deal’s off? And have all that egg on their face? No way.”

It was a hellish state of limbo. In addition to the no-trade clause, Sheffield had taken a large advance from the Marlins. That would now be negotiable. There was also the matter of the extra income tax he would have to pay in California. That would be negotiable, too. By the time everything was added up, Sheffield, who would play right field in Los Angeles, would be making about twice as much as I was for 1998. Meanwhile, I was just learning that the Dodgers would also be taking on the salaries of three other veterans—Bobby Bonilla, a strong hitter who played mostly third base (and could thereby replace Zeile); Charles Johnson, an outstanding catcher; and Jim Eisenreich, a reserve outfielder. In addition, they’d receive a minor-league pitcher, Manuel Barrios. All for me and Zeile, who, with his wife, Julianne McNamara—the gold-medal Olympic gymnast—and two young kids, had just moved into his Southern California dream house.

Anyhow, Danny and I agreed that I had to report to the ballpark. But I didn’t have to talk to the media. Having already been down that road, I didn’t want to say anything I’d later regret. So, after I parked my Cadillac, I took the stealth route into the stadium, through the yellow seats on the 100 level. It didn’t work. I suddenly heard a stampede of footsteps coming from down the corridor. When I turned around, they had me surrounded. I said I’d talk about it in St. Louis, when everything had settled down. Have a nice day.

In the relative safety of the clubhouse, I went straight to Russell’s office, separated from the press by a closed door and a couple of security guards. It was a matter of waiting. We heard that Sheffield and his agent were in the building, negotiating. Karros came in and said, “You know what’s strange? You’re the marquee player in the deal, but you’re not the one holding it up.” Tommy was next. He kissed me on the cheek, pulled me up close, and said, “Before you’re out of this game, you’ll break every offensive record ever set by a catcher, you’ll have a harem, and you’ll have more money than you’ll know what to do with.” Then came my man Nomo, nodding, with a jersey to sign. There would be more of that before the night was over.

Finally, approaching game time, Zeile and I got word from Fred that we didn’t have to dress. The thing was getting done.

Hugs all around. Autographs for my teammates. Photos with the clubhouse guys. Then the players made their way to the dugout, leaving the locker room to me, Todd, and the strange, dense silence.

It was the first inning when I got out of there. As I came into view walking down the runway toward the parking lot, fans in left field began to cheer and clap. I didn’t want to look back. I raised my hand in appreciation and kept going.

My car radio was already tuned to the game. I slid in a tape, then pulled out for some pizza at Paisanos in Hermosa Beach. Before it arrived, a cute little girl on Rollerblades skated up and said, “Aren’t you supposed to be at the ballpark tonight?” I said yeah, and signed a paper plate.

They officially announced the trade after the game. Fred Claire had the honors, which was odd, because he hadn’t been much involved in it, which was odder. Tommy hadn’t, either. It turned out that Bob Graziano had engineered the deal, acting on behalf of Chase Carey, the CEO of Fox Television. Fox happened to be in discussions with the Marlins about purchasing their TV network, SportsChannel Florida, which was controlled by the Marlins’ owner, Wayne Huizenga, who was a matter of months from selling the team to John Henry. The cable discussions proved successful, and so did the Marlins’ effort to dramatically reduce their payroll. Apparently, somehow, I helped make it all happen.

“[The trade] had nothing to do with the team itself or any type of normal move that’s ever been made,” Claire said years later in an interview with
MLB.com
. “You can’t go back in time and show me a player of [Piazza’s] magnitude traded in May. That shows how out of balance it was. It was made for non-baseball reasons.”

Claire had been in on some of the initial trade talks, but was ambushed on Thursday night when they told him the deal was almost done. Graziano called from the Dominican Republic to let him know. Fred assumed they’d already worked out the complication of the no-trade clause, because he was certainly aware of it, but evidently not. The final details were nailed down by Carey. It was a different way of doing things.

Bob Graziano told me that there would be a press conference to announce the trade, and I said, “Then there will be two announcements, because you don’t need me. I’m not going to stand for this, not going to be a part of this.”

My objective (had been) to sign Mike and have him continue and hopefully finish his career as a Dodger. That’s what I wanted to have happen, and that’s what
should
have happened.

—Fred Claire

On their front cover, next to my full-frame, unsmiling mug shot,
Sports Illustrated
called it “The Trade of the Century.” In terms of total salaries, it was the biggest ever made. The Dodgers took on $83 million in payroll and sent about $26 million to the Marlins—a net cost to them of around $57 million. Graziano told the media that the deal “helps improve our chemistry, helps improve our hitting, and helps improve our defense. I think the team is markedly improved.”

Jim Murray, for one, disagreed. “The Dodgers always have adhered to the Branch Rickey theory of roster cutting that it’s better to deal a player a year early than a year late,” he wrote in the
Los Angeles Times
. “But in Piazza’s case, 10 years early? . . . The Dodgers traded away more than a part of their team. They traded away part of their soul.”

Dave Dombrowski of the Marlins called that night and told me to take another day before flying to St. Louis to meet his team. Todd did, but I had no interest in sticking around Los Angeles any longer. I’d been kicked out of the nest and needed to start flapping my wings before I crashed to the ground. I was staggered and disoriented, in serious need of something tangible to do. All along, I’d kept the faith that the situation would eventually be worked out, one way or another. The concept of being traded by the Dodgers was so crazy, so unthinkable, that I had hardly entertained it—in spite of Danny’s warnings. I
couldn’t
.

Maybe that was my mistake. Maybe I overestimated myself and underestimated the organization. But how could I not see it that way? I’d just had my best year, one of the best years—maybe
the
best—in the history of baseball, for a catcher. In spite of everything we’d been through, I honestly believed that I was going to be a Dodger for life. There was no way the club could let me go.

When it did, I felt like the stone rejected. Get me on a plane.

• • •

Los Angeles was all I knew as a major leaguer. I took out an ad in the
Times
thanking the fans for five years of fantastic support. I would genuinely miss them, and the city, too. L.A. was my comfort zone. There was a lot of anxiety over leaving it.

After a couple days had passed, however, I was amazed by how quickly the emotional ties had been snipped and the good times forgotten. Ramon Martinez, for instance, told
Sports Illustrated
, “You’re not going to see teams running on us so easily anymore. And we can be more confident about throwing breaking balls in the dirt with men on base. Charles [Johnson] will block
them. It’s very good news for the pitchers.” He told the
Times
, “Everybody can see the difference in the team. Everyone is excited again, and we feel good about the team. You can see a big difference on the bench in the games . . . the way we’re acting even when [we’re trailing]. Everything is better now.”

The ironic thing was, I remember that the first day, Charles Johnson was walking in from warming up the pitcher in left field before the game. As he passes each section on his walk to the dugout, each section stands up and starts cheering. And I’m thinking, wow: Arguably the best hitter who’s ever played on this team, and arguably the most beloved player on the team, is gone, forgotten, just like that.

Within the organization, I think that, initially, people were excited about the changes. But at the end of the year, it was, oh wow. The trade was like an earthquake. It shook everything. It changed everything about the Dodgers . . . .

—Eric Karros

My connections were mainly to Eric and Tommy, but Eric was engaged to be married and Tommy appeared to be
dis
engaged, in spite of his title. I appreciated the sensitive position Tommy was in and understood that he couldn’t stick his neck out for me during the negotiations, which weren’t really his jurisdiction. Nevertheless, I was disappointed in what he had to say after the trade. His message was that the Dodgers had tried their best to sign me. In other words, it was all my fault. I’m not sure what I wanted to hear from Tommy, and I’m not sure what I
needed
to hear from Tommy; but what I
did
hear made me sad. I guess I’d expected some sadness from
him
, but got the company line instead, spoken with a stern voice that could have come from Sam Fernandez or Bob Graziano.