Long Shot (59 page)

The way things were looking, though, it would probably be a moot point. Late in the process, I heard a little something about the Royals, a little something about the Reds, but nothing happened. As always, there was a Dodgers rumor. Tommy told me he was going to talk to Ned Colletti, the general manager, about bringing me to Los Angeles as the backup catcher to Russell Martin. My dad said that Tommy was also talking to Kim Ng, the assistant GM. It was, at best, a lot of talking.

Ultimately, the word from Tommy was that yeah, they
were
going make me an offer but decided instead to sign Gary Bennett. I thought, isn’t that typical? Even to the end, ten years after they’d traded me, the Dodgers were still jerking me around. If they’d brought in Pudge Rodriguez, sure, I could understand that. But Gary Bennett? No offense to Bennett, but he’d been with seven teams in seven years; not exactly a priority signing. He ended up contributing four hits to the Dodgers in 2008.

All the while, Danny had been telling teams that I’d come to spring training and we could take it from there. The idea of playing at home appealed to me, so he went to the Marlins and laid out a scenario by which I’d report to their camp, try out—I was pretty confident that I’d be their starting catcher by May—and sign for whatever they wanted to pay me, even if it was just the major-league minimum. They didn’t even go for
that
. I was beginning to get the message. Spring training came and went.

The lack of interest was humbling—a blow to my pride, I guess you could say—but not nearly as depressing as I might have expected. I was loving my extra time with Alicia and Nicoletta, who was now a year old. I was
also catching up on my reading, riding my bike around South Beach, outfitting our home theater, expanding my musical interests—nothing like a little Dvorak to chase down Dangerous Toys—and checking in on my Honda dealership in Philadelphia.

After the season started, there was some chatter about the Mets signing me for one day and letting me retire in their uniform, except that it wasn’t coming from the Mets themselves. I was interested, but I wasn’t about to call them and ask. In addition, I hadn’t yet resigned myself to the notion of not playing anymore. It wasn’t inconceivable that, at some point—after an injury, somebody not cutting it, whatever—a team would take another look at its roster and figure it could use a bat like mine at a bargain rate.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I might respond to a situation like that, especially if the team had little chance of making the postseason . . . until I went to the papal mass in Washington on April 17. Stan Kasten, the president of the Washington Nationals, was there, which was interesting, because he’d studied at a rabbinical college and remained active in the Jewish community. Maybe he somehow knew I’d be attending. Maybe he was just interested in theology. At any rate, he approached after the mass and asked me, “Are you in shape?”

Before I answered, it suddenly, finally, emphatically occurred to me how I felt, deep down, about coming back for one final season. I suspected there might be an opening here if I said, “Yeah, sure, Stan, I’m in shape. Give me a call. I’ll go down to Triple-A for a few weeks and play and see how it goes, and if it goes well, we can talk some more.” But I didn’t say that.

I said, “Nah.”

Baseball, I realized right then, was out of my system.

There was some tangible relief in that thought—a sense of liberation in the fresh understanding that I could leave it all behind and get on with my new life—but some melancholy, as well. I lamented the lessening of my enthusiasm for the sport, and felt that I’d somehow enabled it; that I hadn’t guarded my heart as I might have.

On the other hand, I had hit the hell out of the ball. The game and I had gotten everything we could get out of my body and soul.

I let it all sink in for a while, hashed it out with Alicia, had a talk with my dad, and then told Danny it was time. My preference was to just ride off into the sunset without a word; no fuss or fanfare and certainly no press conference. Danny persuaded me that there had to be
some
kind of announcement, just for the sake of closure, so we put together a press release and sent it out on May 20, by email.

The statement said: “After 19 wonderful years, I have come to the decision to officially retire from Major League Baseball. At this point in my career and after discussing my options with my wife, family and agent, I felt it is time to start a new chapter in my life. It has been an amazing journey and everything I have, I owe to God, for without His help, none of this would be possible. He blessed me with the ability to play the greatest game in the world and it has been a dream come true.”

I went on to write, with genuine feeling, about the two decades since I’d been a sixty-second-round draft choice, and thanked, by name, my owners, general managers, managers, clubhouse managers, teammates, agent, wife, kids, mom and dad, and, not by name, the fans.

“I can’t recall a time in my career when I didn’t feel embraced by all of you. Los Angeles, San Diego, Oakland, and Miami—whether it was at home or on the road, you were all so supportive over the years. But I have to say that my time with the Mets wouldn’t have been the same without the greatest fans in the world. One of the hardest moments of my career was walking off the field at Shea Stadium and saying goodbye. My relationship with you made my time in New York the happiest of my career, and for that, I will always be grateful.

“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-four 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.