Long Shot (33 page)

It was around two o’clock by the time I got to New York. Immediately, I was dumbstruck by the difference between arriving there and arriving in Miami. A crowd was actually waiting for me at the airport. “Yo, Mike! Go get ’em, Mike!” It was crazy and phenomenal.

Another crowd was standing in line at Shea Stadium to buy tickets. Next thing I know, I’m dumping my equipment bag at a locker next to John Franco’s, meeting and shaking the hand of Al Leiter—the starting pitcher that day—and being escorted to a press conference by Jay Horwitz, the Mets’ PR guy. My locker, incidentally, already had my number 31 uniform hanging in it, courtesy of Franco, who was in his ninth year with the Mets and fifteenth in the big leagues. Franco was the National League’s career leader in saves by that time, and of his own accord had given up his number so I could wear it, graciously switching to 45 in honor of Tug McGraw, one of his childhood idols. I had fond memories of McGraw from his days with the Phillies, but he carried significance with the Mets as the lefty reliever who had popularized the phrase “You gotta believe!” when they went to the World Series in 1973. Franco’s gesture made me feel wanted and recognized in a way that I really needed right about then.

That seemed to be the theme for the day. The trade had been made at the urging of Nelson Doubleday, but it was evident that even Fred Wilpon had come to believe in what I could mean to the Mets. He told Bill Madden of the
New York Daily News
, “Look, I’m a businessman, but I wasn’t able to sell this team to the public without Mike Piazza. They weren’t buying it . . . . Nobody can say we’re not a better team with Mike Piazza. Now maybe our fans will start believing in us.” Steve Phillips said it was the most exciting day of his career.

And then there was my new manager, Bobby Valentine. While never at a loss for original thoughts or words, Bobby’s image and personal style were cut from the mold of his mentor. Tommy Lasorda had been his first minor-league manager. Bobby was Tommy’s guy. And he was pleased.

I was in the bathroom of my office and Steve Phillips yelled into the bathroom to say we had gotten Mike. I think we got instant credibility with that trade, and we began to build an identity around Mike. The Mets had not had a player of Mike’s star quality in many years. For a couple years, since I’d gotten there, we’d been in search of an identity and credibility. But the instant impact was the fact that the Mets would make such a deal and Mike would actually be in our uniform. From the first day, everything about it was rather bigger than life.

—Bobby Valentine, manager, New York Mets

The revitalization of the Mets had already brought Leiter and another left-hander, Dennis Cook, by way of the Marlins. I’d never really crossed paths with Leiter, who had an earned-run average under two and a cut fastball that took some getting used to. We huddled for a brief meeting before the game with Valentine and the Mets’ pitching coach, Bob Apodaca, but for the most part we would depend on veteran instincts. It was complicated, highly technical stuff: when I walked out to the mound in the second inning, Al pointed out where Jerry Seinfeld was sitting. I told him that he’d probably develop some whiplash from shaking me off so much. Later, when Leiter and I became good friends, our mound conferences deteriorated further. One time, he was getting knocked around a little and I walked out there, glanced around at the runners on base, and gave him the Chevy Chase routine from
Caddyshack.
“You’re not that good,” I told him. “You suck.”

This time, we at least came up with a plan, simple as it was. We stuck with fastballs for a while and moved on to his off-speed pitches later in the
game, when we had the lead. Thankfully, I had contributed to that with an RBI double against Jeff Juden in the fifth. Leiter finished with his first shutout in two years, in front of a crowd numbering nearly thirty-three thousand—about half again as much as the night before. Talking to the writers afterward, Bobby described the occasion as so energizing that even John Olerud, our silent first baseman, had gotten caught up in it: “In the fifth inning, he said, ‘Let’s go, guys.’ ”

Franco was kind enough to let me stay with him for a few days, until I got settled, and it was in the wee hours that night when the gate closed behind us at his place in Staten Island. As soon as we stepped into the house, the bell rang. It was a carload of fans at the gate, just letting us know how excited they were about the trade; letting me feel the love.

By then, it was abundantly clear that, whatever else it might bring, life with the Mets would be interesting.

• • •

But not easy. Nothing in New York is easy.

In the words of Bobby Valentine, “The six-hundred-pound gorilla in the room was Todd Hundley. What do we do now?”

Coming into the season, Hundley was not only the Mets’ catcher and leading slugger but also their most popular player. In short, he was everything but healthy. After off-season elbow surgery, he was expected to be on the disabled list until July. It put the Mets in a tough spot, especially when the media was clamoring to trade for me and stick Hundley in left field when he was ready, which would be easier on his elbow. The last thing the ball club wanted to do was alienate him. And so, about the time Phillips was publicly saying that they didn’t need anybody else at Hundley’s position, he was also assuring Todd that I wasn’t coming to the Mets. I’m sure he meant it, at the moment. Having been put at ease, Hundley made light of the situation when the Mets reporters asked him what he’d do if the team made a deal for me. He said he’d empty his locker and get the hell out of there. It seemed to be all in good fun until the thing he had been told wouldn’t happen actually did.

Under the circumstances, Hundley was very cordial to me when I joined the club. Then, a few days later, rumors leaked that the Mets were displeased about his rehabilitation and concerned that he might have a drinking problem. In spite of that, he was back in the lineup about the time they expected him to be, just after the all-star break. He played mostly left field, and had a tough time with it. Todd was a hard-nosed guy, but it seemed as though all the drama took a toll on him. Some uneasiness developed between us,
compounded by the fact that I was struggling, too, leaving more runners on base than I ever had—a point that the New York papers hammered home on a regular basis. Given his track record with the Mets, I could understand that Todd might have thought he should still be catching.

Whatever he thought, it nearly came to a flash point on a team flight. The Mets were a team that drank on the plane—there was always beer available—and he’d had a few. I was listening to my Walkman when Hundley sauntered up and said, “What’s up, dude?”

I said, “What’s up, Hot Rod?”

Then he punched me in the arm, a little harder than I thought he should have, and I said, hey, take it easy. Then he punched me in the arm again. By that time, I was definitely getting ticked. I kind of pushed him away and thought we were going to fight. Fortunately, it didn’t escalate. You can’t fight on an airplane.

At any rate, I wasn’t concerned about being moved out of the catcher position; not at that time. I knew the Mets hadn’t brought me in to play first base or left field. I also knew that, after trading away those pitching prospects, they weren’t eager to watch me walk off to free agency after the season. The media saw it the same way. Like they are with any story line in New York sports that involves even a trace of controversy, they were all over the contract angle. From the moment I got there, hardly a day went by without some reporter or another asking me, “Did you talk to Danny today? Did Danny talk to Steve? Any progress?”

Before they would discuss a long-term deal, the Mets sent me off for an intense, full day of physical examinations. Among other indignities, I had to duck-walk, practically naked, in front of two surgeons, so they could look for signs of arthritis in my hips. I must have proved myself physically capable of swinging a bat and waddling after bread crumbs. Danny came to New York to stay with me for a while, and during our first road trip after the trade—which, wouldn’t you know, was to Miami, the third time I’d played there in three weeks, for three different teams—he and Phillips finally sat down for their introductory discussion. But there was no progress to report.

From that, I think, the fans of New York took their cue. It wasn’t that they didn’t
care
. There was none of that Miami apathy. In a short time, in fact, average attendance at Shea Stadium virtually doubled, from around eighteen thousand a game to roughly thirty-five. But people weren’t coming to the park for the purpose of showering me with hospitality and affection. Hell, no. They were looking for reasons to disapprove of me, and they found one every time I failed to drive in a teammate. Unfortunately, that happened
a lot. It didn’t matter that my batting average remained high—the more runners I left on base, the more they called me out; and the more viciously. Ira Berkow of the
New York Times
referred to it as “serial booing.”

Deep down, the issue wasn’t simply my clutch hitting—that I hadn’t come quite as advertised—but the fact that I hadn’t declared my unconditional loyalty to the cause. I hadn’t signed with the Mets or promised that I would. Privately, I wasn’t too enamored of the prospect. The fans, sensing that, considered me a hired gun. A mercenary. It offended them and set in motion a wicked cycle: I’d ground out to short with a man on second and the crowd would clobber me with boos. The more I was booed, the less I felt like staying in New York for the long term. The less I felt like staying in New York, the more it showed. The more it showed, the harder I was booed.

The open hostility made me a wreck and all but a recluse. Each time the cycle spun around, I retreated further into my shell. I’d rented a thirtieth-floor apartment on the Upper East Side, Seventy-second and York, and rarely left it for the first month or two. It wasn’t only the treatment at Shea that affected me; the entire scenario—the whole New York thing—seemed overwhelming. As badly as the Mets wanted me to turn around the franchise, I wanted just as badly to turn it around, and the last thing I needed was extra pressure from the biggest, loudest, most demanding city in America. I put more than enough of it on myself. Bad nights only got worse when I replayed them in my head. I’d often give Al Leiter a lift home from the ballpark, and if we’d lost or I’d struck out with two guys on base, I was horseshit company. Al would try to lighten the mood with small talk, but I had nothing to say. Certainly nothing pleasant. After a while, he stopped trying.

Even the basic logistics of the city took their toll. As a visiting player, I’d never had any difficulty navigating New York—after a game, I’d just go for a steak at Peter Luger’s in Brooklyn—but dealing with it in an everyday capacity, there were so damn many restaurants, and so damn much of everything, that in the beginning it just locked me up. It might have been different if I’d arrived in the off-season or been producing the way I wanted to; if I hadn’t been distracted, daunted, and depressed. As it was, I couldn’t cope with New York
and
leaving runners in scoring position. The simplest things seemed forbidding. I was paying more to park my car in a garage than it cost me for a place on the beach in Los Angeles. My dad had a friend in the automobile business named John Bruno who was kind enough to show me around the town—we had some nice Sunday nights in the West Village—but I didn’t feel like a part of it, or particularly care to. My defense mechanism was kicking in.

In more general terms, an inner voice told me never to get too attached to a city. During my time in Los Angeles, I’d been friends with one of the goalies for the Kings. He had been traded as soon as he bought a house. He convinced me that, in professional sports, investing in a place to live is the kiss of death; or the kiss of trade, as it were. In Los Angeles, I’d gone ahead and bought one anyway, established some roots, connected with the town, and suffered the consequences. In New York, in 1998, I wouldn’t be making the same mistake. Not without a long-term contract, at least. Any major commitment would have to be a two-way proposition.

I really wasn’t sure how the Mets felt about that. During the trading process, they hadn’t been one of the teams that predicated their interest on signing me to an extension. And it wasn’t like I was fast becoming a local icon or anything. Negotiations were uneventful. In general, the organization seemed to be as leery about the situation as I was—in which case, why not test the market?

We were in a holding pattern, and my state of mind was stuck on gloomy. New York, frankly, was beating me. At one point, I told my dad that I didn’t give a shit anymore. He grumbled back at me, blaming anyone he could think of for the mess I was wallowing in. I’d thought he’d be happy, at least, that I was closer to Philadelphia.
Nobody
around me was happy.

Even my housekeeper was depressed. Teri O’Toole had moved east with me from California but was jolted by the brusque, snappish style of New York City. She eventually went into the convent.

• • •

There was at least one way in which New York embraced me without reservation. Unwittingly, and with startling regularity, I seemed to feed the city’s craving for drama. As soon as the narrative threads had been established for the Hundley controversy and the negotiations watch, Pedro Martinez went ahead and hit me in the hand with a two-seam fastball on a Friday night in Boston. This was early in June.

According to the papers, there was no way that Pedro would deliberately put me on first with two strikes already, even though there were also three balls and the base was open, with a runner in scoring position. I suppose there was a slight chance of that being true. It’s also true that he disliked me, he had exceptional control, I’d knocked him around in our previous meetings (seven for seventeen with three home runs), and it hurt like hell. I might have been hypersensitive to that sort of thing because it was my free-agent year, but it
felt
like a knockdown pitch. In the baseball tradition, I usually made a point of not rubbing the spot where I’d been hit or in
any way acknowledging the power of the pitcher, but that time, halfway to first—after pausing to stare at Pedro for a couple seconds—I doubled over in pain. They took me straight to the hospital for X-rays. The hand, my left, was badly swollen but nothing was broken.