Long Shot (52 page)

That said, I was never in Bench’s realm as a receiver, and few have been. I’ve seen the films. I’ve seen his athleticism. I’ve seen his hands. Hell, I’ve
shaken
his hand. Nobody compared to Johnny Bench defensively. But as a hitter . . .

I have to be careful here, for two reasons. One, because the last thing I want to do is crack on my teammates. And two, the second-to-last thing I want to do is diminish Johnny Bench in any capacity. I repeat, he is the greatest all-around catcher who ever played the game, without a doubt. I’m compelled, though, on my own behalf, to point out that Bench had Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, George Foster, and Tony Perez on his side. He batted in a Hall of Fame lineup. Unquestionably, I benefited quite a bit from the other run producers on my teams—Karros, of course, plus Raul Mondesi and Todd Zeile with the Dodgers and John Olerud, Robin Ventura, Edgardo Alfonzo, and later David Wright with the Mets—but up until the time I broke Fisk’s record, I was rarely in a lineup I wasn’t counted on to carry. There aren’t many other catchers you can say that about, if any. There aren’t any who won five Triple Crowns for their teams (Dodgers in 1993, 1994, and 1997, Mets in 2000—although Alfonzo and I had the same batting average—and 2001). Over my first ten years, I led my teams in batting average seven times (with one tie), RBIs eight times, and home runs all ten (with one tie). Those are just the facts. In the book
Baseball’s All-Time Best Sluggers
, author Michael J. Schell, using a complicated formula that includes adjustments for eras and ballparks, ranked me as the top-hitting catcher of all time by a considerable margin, with Joe Torre second. Bench was fourth, Fisk ninth, Berra eleventh, and Carter twelfth. For what it’s worth, I was rated the sixty-third best hitter overall. My adjusted batting average was thirteenth. I’m going to take a flier and assume that the twelve ahead of me were also a wee bit fleeter afoot.

Schell’s appraisal was seconded by Craig Wright. “With Mike Piazza we can say with certainty that he is—without question—the greatest offensive catcher in the history of the major leagues,” Wright wrote in the
Hardball Times Baseball Annual
.

There is no one else who is even remotely close. Piazza’s raw numbers are so impressive that it is easy to overlook that every single
season of his career his home field was one that favored the pitcher. Particularly during his years in LA, he was performing in the toughest park in the league for hitters, especially in hitting for batting average. Yet one could just throw out the park factors, and his offensive numbers remain mind-boggling for a catcher.

[The] combination of high average and power made Piazza truly unique among catchers . . . Piazza’s career slugging percentage as a catcher (.560) is over 50 points higher than any other catcher in history. . . . And remember, not a one of these numbers has been park adjusted. None of these other great offensive catchers played with home fields as tough as Piazza’s. . . . Most important of all, he was an absolute monster in his ability to shrug off the pain and fatigue of catching and knock the snot out of the ball.

As awkward as it felt to have Bench, Berra, Fisk, and Carter at the ballpark just for
me
, what a fantastic thing it was for my father. What a night.

Thankfully, I caught that game, made a couple plays, had a couple hits, and we won, 3–2, on a walk-off homer by Mike Cameron.

• • •

I was now the starting first baseman for the Mets, but the starting catcher for the National League all-star team. And Roger Clemens was the starting pitcher. You can imagine how the press tore into that story line.

The game was at Minute Maid Park in Houston, where Clemens had gone to high school and was now pitching. It was my tenth all-star selection in eleven years—I’d missed out in 2003 because of my groin injury—and my ninth start. The one I
didn’t
start, or even play in, was the 2000 game, which came three days after Clemens hit me in the head. Four years later, that drama apparently hadn’t played out yet; at least, not in the eyes of the media.

There were no man hugs or fruit baskets exchanged between Roger and me, but we did meet privately in the training room the day before the game. The other players were getting too many questions about us, so at one point Clemens put his arm on me—photo op!—and said something like, “When are we gonna go over some things?”

I said, “Yeah, let’s talk after the workout.”

It was an amicable conversation, but not quite what I was looking for. I didn’t really expect an apology—Roger didn’t earn his reputation by being
nice
—but it would have gone a long way. For me, it would have provided some closure, at last. The bat-throwing episode still ate at me, and in the
broader, career context, it does to this day; mostly because it stole my World Series. I had earned and relished the privilege of playing in the first Subway World Series since 1956 and intensely hoped to make my mark on it. Instead, my place in Series lore was ordained by a dramatic role in an idiotic incident that was none of my doing. I felt cheated.

Short of an apology, I wasn’t seeking even an explanation from Clemens, because, face it, for what he did that night, there
was
none. But I thought maybe he’d at least admit to being a little reckless with the beanball that started the whole soap opera. I’d have accepted that. As it turned out, I don’t think we accomplished much.

We were on different pages even in the bullpen warming up before the introductions. Roger threw me a couple of pitches, and as I squatted, waiting for more, he stopped, toweled himself off, and rested for a while. I finally walked back to the dugout and somebody else took over.

When the game started, with 26 percent more people watching in New York than the year before—nationally, on the other hand, the ratings were down 7 percent—flashbulbs went off and so did the American League. Ichiro Suzuki started it with a double. Pudge Rodriguez followed with a triple. Manny Ramirez homered. Alfonso Soriano homered. Under normal circumstances, I’d have been out to the mound a time or two during the rally, but Roger and I were all talked out. By the time the top of the first was over, it was 6–0.

Afterward, some writers actually asked me if I’d tipped off the American League batters. I wasn’t out for revenge against Clemens, but if I
had
been, I’d have gotten far more satisfaction out of catching three no-hit innings from him. That way, he’d have had to tell the media that I’d been solid back there. It would have been a much better story, and a much better night, if we’d worked well together, shut them down, and won the game.

When the season resumed at Shea, Howe had me catching, for a change, and we beat the Phillies in eleven innings, on an RBI single by Ty Wigginton, to pull within a game of them and the Braves. But I was in the throes of a pretty serious power failure, and hearing the boos to prove it. The slump was aggravated by the fact that I could barely run.

Back on Memorial Day, in Philadelphia, after sprinting over from first base to try to catch a pop foul, I’d banged my left knee sliding into the fence in front of the dugout. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal—I wasn’t feeling much pain around that time—but two months later it was still swollen and getting crankier. My acceleration wasn’t there. The knee would give out when I climbed stairs. The pain could be controlled by cortisone shots and
anti-inflammatories, but even then it felt like there was a golf ball inside. I played through it, then missed a few days after spraining my wrist while manning first base. It happened against the Marlins when Juan Pierre bunted and the throw arrived on the home plate side of the bag. As I reached for it, my hand crashed against Pierre’s shoulder and bent backward.

By that time, my slump had spread to the rest of the lineup. David Wright came up from the minors, took over third base, and showed the stuff of a star, but it didn’t help. Meanwhile, at my request, the organization signed Lasorda’s
real
godson, my youngest brother, Tommy, a catcher and hardworking guy who had experienced some knee problems and been released by the Dodgers from their minor-league system after playing, or
not
playing, behind Russell Martin. It was a nice gesture, and I was glad for Tommy, but that didn’t help us, either.

At the end of July, we were eight games out and still sinking. In early August, playing in Milwaukee, I barely made a double out of a ball I hit to the wall. It worried me.

In fact, I was feeling fragile all the way around in those days; diminished. Unless Al Leiter was pitching—Al understood that there were things he could do on the mound to neutralize the running game—I rarely caught. It was understandable, of course, given my difficulties behind the plate, which were intensifying at a troubling pace. Not only was my mobility compromised, but the criticism of my throwing clanged so loudly in my head that I developed a mental block about it—not as bad as Steve Sax, when he couldn’t make the throw from second to first, but bad enough. I was insecure and leery of cutting loose. Ironically, I didn’t have that trouble when I played first base. Runners would actually take off on pickoff plays, thinking that I couldn’t throw the ball over to second. I’d wonder what the hell they were doing and just gun them down easy as could be. I mean, c’mon, it’s only ninety feet. It happened three or four times.

Otherwise, though, first base and I were not getting along so well, either. Selena Roberts wrote in the
New York Times
that “the first-base experiment has failed with a transition that has been awkward and inglorious for Piazza. . . . The move has only exposed Piazza to ridicule.”

Truthfully, it exposed me to more than ridicule. It was the first time I’d ever been frightened on a baseball field. A major leaguer is not supposed to admit something like this, but I was terrified of a ball being hit in my direction. It felt as though every time a pitch was sent on its way, all the eyes on the planet turned to me. I didn’t mind that when I had a bat in my hands; I had prepared for it my entire life and welcomed the chance to do what I
did when it meant the most. But I hadn’t prepared for playing first base—at least, not nearly enough—and was rattled by the knowledge that I would be roundly judged after any play that came my way. I felt like I was sitting at a piano on the stage of Carnegie Hall with sheets of Chopin in front of me. Wearing mittens. The whole scenario made me so nervous that, between innings, especially if I’d just hit, I’d run back to the clubhouse and
eat.
They had great food back there, so I’d just whip up a sandwich or grab some little something. I actually gained weight, up to 236, the heaviest I’d ever been. All because I was stressed over playing first base.

Naturally, the extra weight put more burden on my knee, which wasn’t up to the task. Finally, after an 0-for-4 night in a loss at St. Louis on August 6, I sat down with Art Howe to talk. I felt as though I was at a crossroads—if not career-wise, at least New York–wise. I was a bad first baseman, the Mets didn’t want me to catch, and the whole situation was beating me up. My spirit was broken, my confidence sapped. In short, I was a mess. I told Art that I’d certainly play if he needed me to, but it was painfully obvious that I wasn’t helping the club at the moment.

He and I agreed that a couple days off were in order, and so was an MRI. The diagnosis was white fluid on the knee. It was chronically sprained. The risk, if I continued to play, was tearing an ACL.

I had another chat with Art, and he said he was just going to put me on the DL. Jeff Wilpon was in on that conversation, as well, and told me, supportively, “Go take a few days off. Take three or four days, get yourself together, then we’ll send you down to Port St. Lucie, get you in rehab. . . .”

It was a good plan, but I had an idea how to make it better. Without wasting any more time, I hurried to Kennedy Airport, got on a JetBlue flight to Long Beach, California, where Alicia was staying, and proposed to her.

• • •

My intention was to take her to dinner and hide the ring underneath her pillow after we got back. But when she picked me up at the airport and we checked into a place in Laguna Beach, I thought, hey, wouldn’t it be nice to go to dinner as an engaged couple?

So I got down on my knee in the hotel room and asked her to marry me. Normally, Alicia would have some kind of irreverent, smart-aleck reply for whatever I said or asked. This time, she just said yes. We set the date for January. Just like that, the low point of my career had morphed into the high point of my life.

I stayed in California for a few days before heading to Florida for rehab. The Mets held steady for a couple weeks; then came the crash.

When I returned to the lineup on August 30, feeling stronger and refreshed, we had lost seven of the last eight. I homered my first night back, but beyond that provided no relief whatsoever. Altogether, we dropped eleven straight to make it a miserable sixteen defeats in seventeen tries.

Within a couple weeks, I was thoroughly embarrassed, deeply perplexed, and more discouraged than I’d been before I went on the DL. I thought I’d gotten better. I also thought I was better prepared, psychologically, for first base. But my performance there only reinforced the obvious, operative truth about my change of positions: it was
wrong
.

Maybe if the transition had been more deliberate and people had been conditioned to the fact that I wasn’t
really
a first baseman yet—if there had been a learning curve, maybe a year or so of dabbling over there before moving in as a starter—it might have worked better. Maybe, even, if I’d had a full spring training at first base, following some special instruction in the offseason . . .

Or maybe the Mets simply shouldn’t have forced the issue. Wouldn’t my defensive difficulties have been moderated a bit if I’d just cut back on the catching to, say, four games a week, DH’d in the American League parks, played first base here and there—maybe against certain left-handers—and been available off the bench the other days?