Long Shot (60 page)

The whole experience has also gotten me
thinking
more about Italy and history. In large part, my fascination with the country in general and Rome in particular comes from the saturating sense of Christian tradition. After returning from one of my trips, I found myself pondering the great general and Roman emperor Constantine, who institutionalized Christianity in Rome and spread it across the Roman Empire. He’s a controversial figure in the respect that there’s some debate as to whether he was sincerely Christian or just used religion to unify his empire. Constantine wasn’t considered Christian as he prepared to lead his army into the great battle for Rome in the year 312. However, on the eve of the attack, while poised at the edge of the city, he saw in a vision that the battle would be won if his soldiers fought it with the symbol of the cross on their shields. The victory occurred just as Constantine had dreamt it, and marked his conversion to Christianity, which, in the view of some scholars, led to the founding of the Catholic Church. Anyway, Constantine kept bouncing around in my head to the extent that I prayed about this subject, searching for what my thoughts all meant and where I should take them. Before long, I was meeting with David Franzoni, a screenwriter (
Amistad, Jumpin’ Jack Flash
) who has lived in Rome and wrote and coproduced
Gladiator.
Our eventual agreement was that I would commission him to write a movie script about Constantine. I guess that makes me a producer of some sort. It doesn’t make me Hollywood, though, and I don’t want it to. I’m in it to get the story told.

I’m proud to be Roman Catholic. My Christian faith is fundamental
and precious to me—the cornerstone of my life. I think it was a gift, not unlike my ability to hit a baseball. But I’m not a theologian. I’m just a former ballplayer who wishes to join the fight against the decline of religion in our society. According to the Catholic faith, I became a missionary when I was baptized, and my particular role in that regard—at least, how I perceive it—is to promote a healthy discussion and help people become historically informed. The fact is, you can’t separate religion and history. When Christopher Columbus arrived in America, he planted a cross and said a prayer with a Franciscan priest at his side. Our country was founded on Judeo-Christian principles. I don’t wish to preach, but think how much simpler things would be if, instead of complicated laws and ordinances, we all followed the Ten Commandments. You want to buy my house? Let me show you the leaky pipe and the crack in the foundation. You willing to take that on? Is your word good? Okay, then, why do we need an inspection? Why do we need a title search? Why do we need lawyers? I give you the keys, you give me the money, and we shake hands.

Those are the sorts of thoughts to which I’ve been able to devote myself since I stopped playing baseball. I’m a board member of Catholic Athletes for Christ. At one point, I was seriously contemplating becoming a deacon, if I could, but came to realize that it required a level of commitment I hadn’t yet achieved; that my timetable and God’s, as usual, were totally different. In the meantime, I share my devotion in ways that I can. I give faith-based speeches at men’s conferences and the like, and was honored to do a radio interview with Cardinal Timothy Dolan, the archbishop of New York. On occasions like that, I testify in all sincerity that faith is what pulled me through a lot of adverse, daunting, humbling situations in my baseball career. I didn’t always stick close to my spirituality—I strayed from it much more than I should have—and yet, it stuck
with me
unfailingly. I had a little talent and a lot of determination, but the fact was, I had no business doing what I did in baseball. My career, frankly, was a miracle. In retrospect, I can see that clearly.

So I try to be mindful of the blessings I’ve received and, in turn, to do right by the Lord and a family that now includes two daughters—Paulina was born in 2009—who get my mornings going. They’re my link between sleep (often preceded by a glass of wine and a good cigar) and Starbucks.

As for the rest of the day, it would appear that, besides this book, I’ve become fairly predictable. My interests and hobbies fall pretty close to the tree, by and large: I’m Italian by blood and an Italophile as a result. I’ve been Catholic since my mother saw to it. My attraction to history—and, for that
matter, my sense of patriotism, to some extent—is probably related to the fact that my family lives at Valley Forge. (I mean, I collect
muskets.
) We’re in the automobile business; I’m a fan of Formula One racing. After being the object of more media coverage than I was ever comfortable with, I’m now an avid newshound instead (most of it “fair and balanced,” of course). I played golf at Phoenixville High School and still knock it around, the only difference being that now I get to do it in tournaments like Michael Jordan’s in the Bahamas, where my partner was Mario Lemieux—I admire the hell out of that guy—and we were paired with Wayne Gretzky and Jordan himself. (We finished third, in spite of me thinking the whole time, How cool is this? I mean, what am I, a snot-nosed kid from Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, doing in
this
group? I played with Mario again a couple of years later when the Jordan tournament was in Las Vegas, and that time we finished second, tied with Gretzky and Drew Brees.) My obsession with European soccer is not quite as easy to account for, although it’s been well fed by my visits to Italy. Mostly, I think, it’s a case of addiction. Soccer is the biggest reason I carry a smartphone; I need my updates on Palermo, the team in the pink jerseys. (And by the way, I have one of those. The last time I was over there, I met a team official and swapped one of my Mets jerseys for a Palermo shirt with my name on it.)

• • •

The last game at Shea Stadium was held on September 28, 2008, against the Marlins. It was grim—the Mets’ sixth defeat in their final nine games, during which time they fell out of first place (losing the division to the Phillies, who won thirteen of their last sixteen) and also squandered the wildcard (by one game to the Brewers, who won six of their last seven). I hate to say it, but it was typical Mets.

The closing ceremony was held after the game, which was a real mood killer. Other than
that
, it was a cool event. The festivities started Friday with a tribute to the greatest moments in Shea history. Number one was clinching the 1986 World Series, number three was clinching the 1969 World Series, and I slipped in between at number two, the home run to beat the Braves in the first game after 9/11.

On Sunday, they laid out red carpets for the former players’ entrances into the stadium. Tom Seaver and I were the last two to walk in. He came from left field and then I came from right, with my dad at my side. The fans were screaming my name, and of course my dad got emotional, which of course made
me
emotional. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I felt strongly about giving back to my father, because, indisputably, he had been a
tremendous inspiration in my career. He was a major reason why I was there. Honestly, I sometimes felt as though I played more for my dad than I did for myself. But I didn’t mind. I
wanted
to do it for him.

The script had Seaver throwing the last pitch and me catching it. He was sixty-three years old, so I asked him if he wanted me to move up in front of the plate. “No, no, no,” he said. Naturally, he bounced the ball to me. Ace defensive catcher that I was, I was able to snag it, even while nearly ripping my black dress slacks.

The whole affair felt good, and it spoke to why, if I
do
make it to the Hall of Fame—I’ll be eligible for induction in 2013, along with Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, Craig Biggio, and Curt Schilling—I hope to go in as a Met. Technically, it’s not the player’s call; the Hall of Fame itself makes that decision. But players can let their preferences be known, and mine is pretty strong. Maybe I’m hypersensitive in this respect, but I appreciate appreciation. Over the years, the Mets have shown me theirs. I seldom felt that the Dodgers did.

In terms of pure baseball, the case for either team is not much different from that for the other. I hit more home runs (220-177) and drove in more runs (655-563) with the Mets, but had a higher batting average (.331-.296) with the Dodgers. I was Rookie of the Year with the Dodgers, but played more games (972-726) with the Mets. I went to the World Series with the Mets, but most of my best seasons (four of my top five finishes in the MVP voting) came with the Dodgers. Overall, largely because I suffered more injuries in New York and passed my prime there, I was probably a better player in Los Angeles, but the margin is not overwhelming. More important, performance is not entirely the point.

When I retired, Tommy Lasorda told
USA Today
, “I would hope he would go into the Hall of Fame as a Dodger. We’re the one who gave him an opportunity.” He’s certainly right about that. Nobody else did, and the organization never let me forget it. It was a good deal for the Dodgers—a
great
deal—and yet, every time we negotiated a contract, they made me feel that I owed them. The last time, they turned the fans against me. Then they traded me. Ultimately, it was the Mets who gave me an opportunity. They also gave me the market-value contract that the Dodgers wouldn’t. If there’s a single person in my career with whom I feel most closely associated, yes, it’s definitely Tommy. If there’s a
team
, however, it’s the Mets.

In a hard-to-explain, total-picture sort of way—probably because of all that happened in those times, or maybe just because I’m an easterner—my years in New York represent real life to me. To that extent, the chief connection
I felt was actually more with the fans and the city than the franchise itself, especially when my days as a Met were winding down. Two things, I believe, bonded me to Mets fans. The first was choosing to sign with the ball club after I was relentlessly booed in 1998. The main reason the people had given me a hard time in the first place was that they didn’t believe I was committed to the organization. When they found out I
was
, it changed everything. The second factor was 9/11. It was a shared and profound experience, the kind that people can only get through together. Everyone suffered, and grew closer for it. That was still evident at the ten-year anniversary in 2011, held at Citi Field.

The anniversary was especially poignant. I caught the first pitch from Johnny Franco, with the infield ringed by first responders, representatives of Tuesday’s Children (an organization dedicated to helping people affected by 9/11), and former teammates. It was a gratifying example of how, even after I’d left New York, Mets fans embraced me as one of their own. It didn’t turn out that way in Los Angeles.

It’s unfortunate that my relationship with the Dodgers had to end like it did. I wish I could look back on my first team and feel about it the way Carlton Fisk felt about his. He chose to go into the Hall of Fame wearing a Boston cap, even after the Red Sox cast him off. When his contract expired, they never even made an offer to keep him. Fisk eventually played longer with the White Sox, and had some of his better years in Chicago—I, for one, identify him more with the White Sox than the Red Sox—but when he retired, his heart was still with the franchise that brought him to the big leagues. Of course, my circumstances were a little different. Carlton turned thirty, played in the World Series, and went to most of his all-star games before changing colors. I did all of that with my third organization. Also, having grown up in New England, his feeling for Boston is obviously a little different, by nature, than mine is for Los Angeles. Even so, I can’t say that I fully understand his decision. I don’t have that inside me.

I’d rather pull a Catfish Hunter. On his Hall of Fame plaque, the hat is blank, generic. To me, that’s gutsy. That’s integrity. If the Hall came to me and said, “We want you to go in as a Dodger,” I’d say, “Well, then I’ll go in as nothing.” I just wouldn’t feel comfortable with
LA
stamped on my head for all of eternity.

Nah, if I’m fortunate enough to go to Cooperstown, it needs to be with New York of the National League. Seaver could use some company, anyhow.

• • •

Before Omar Minaya was fired as general manager of the Mets, he offered me an unspecified, whatever-you-want-to-do kind of job with the organization, which is sometimes code for “roving minor-league instructor,” though not necessarily. It was a nice gesture, but I didn’t
know
what I wanted to do, or even if I wanted to do it in baseball. I was enjoying other things for a change. I wasn’t ready.

A year or two later, when I was working with the Italian team in Florida and the Wilpons were being hammered for their ties to Bernie Madoff, the Mets asked me if I’d talk to the press and make a nice remark or two about their owners. I was happy to do that, but, as is so often the case with New York media, the subject turned. I was asked if I had any interest in buying into the ball club myself or had made any inquiries along those lines. I said that I’d discussed it only vaguely, through conversations with people who weren’t really involved. Around the same time, Dan Lozano had actually reached out to Frank McCourt about me becoming a party in the ownership of the Dodgers—yes, the Dodgers—but McCourt was preoccupied with his public spectacle of a divorce and its implications for the franchise. At any rate, I’m still not sure if I’m ready to get back into baseball—or whether I ever will be, for that matter. I have a lifelong tendency to move on.

Since I left Phoenixville, for instance, I haven’t really kept up with it. When I visit home, several times a year, it’s to Valley Forge, which is nearby but not the same. The fact is, I don’t have much of a relationship anymore with the place where I grew up. For the most part, that’s on me. I’ve never been one to try to organize a legacy for myself on the way out, or after the fact. In the case of Phoenixville, there were also some family situations that factored in. My brother Tony quit the high school baseball team. My brother Tommy moved down to Florida, close to me, for his senior year. My dad felt that local organizations expected him to subsidize their projects. And so on. Through it all, feelings have been hurt. In 2008, I was inducted into the inaugural class of the Chester County Sports Hall of Fame, along with Andre Thornton, former football coach Dick Vermeil, and former Mets pitcher Jon Matlack, among others; but that wasn’t a Phoenixville thing. Understanding the disconnect between me and my hometown, and hopeful of repairing it, Doc Kennedy, my old high school coach, arranged a little ceremony last spring in which my number 13 was retired and hung on the fence of the baseball field. A bunch of former teammates, including Mike Fuga and Joe Pizzica, were on hand, and Doc’s number was retired at the same time. A couple thousand people showed up. It felt good. Afterward, I joined Vince,
my mom and dad, and most of the old Phantoms for pizza and beer at the Polish Club.