I was really getting jumpy. I had this second chance. Slowly, steadily, then quite dramatically, my pitching improved. It didn’t come a minute too soon. David Cone, who’d come to pitch for the Yankees the year before I did, was out with an aneurysm in his right armpit. I was in the rotation to stay.
Back in Florida, my dad’s health was falling apart. He was on dialysis three times a week for four hours a pop. But his kidney ailments were aggravating his hip replacement. His diabetes and gout were off the charts. As doctors prepped for another hip operation, they discovered he’d need open-heart surgery.
“I’m so scared, son,” my mother said on the phone. “They’re telling me he has two weeks to live if they don’t do the surgery. If he has the surgery, there’s no guarantee he’ll make it through.”
My father had at times been a challenging husband. From my early days sitting outside his girlfriend’s apartment, I’d witnessed some of that firsthand. But he and my mom had been together so long—and shared so much—she could barely imagine life without him.
“When do they want to do it, Mom?”
“They could decide on a moment’s notice,” she explained. “As soon as they think he’s ready, they’ll wheel him in.”
“I’ll come home if you need me,” I said, my eyes filling with tears.
“Your father needs you more than I do,” my mom said. “It may be your last chance to see each other.”
A few days later, my mom was on the phone again. “Dwight,” she said, “your father’s having surgery on Wednesday morning.”
On Tuesday night, I was scheduled to start against the Seattle Mariners. I discussed my dad’s condition with Joe Torre, the Yankees’ manager. Seeing my dad, Joe said, was bigger than baseball. George told me to do whatever I felt was right. I made afternoon reservations to fly to Tampa and skip the start.
But when I woke up on May 14 and started brushing my teeth, I didn’t see myself in the mirror. I saw my dad playing catch with me. Teaching Gary how to swing. Showing both of us how to run the bases. I saw him in the stands at my Little League games, smiling next to his friend who first called me “Doc.” Then, my dad was on the front steps bluffing Joe McIlvaine.
My dad wasn’t a great communicator, not in the usual sense. But he always had his own ways of letting me know what he thought. He loved me. I never doubted that. And he loved baseball.
“If you want to be great,” he told me, more times than I could possibly count, “everything else comes after baseball.”
So what did that mean? Should I stay and pitch against Seattle and have my dad die before I got home? Should I fly down to Tampa immediately? What was my father telling me?
I thought about that for just a few seconds, then the answer was perfectly clear to me.
“Take the baseball and pitch,” my father would say.
I couldn’t perform the surgery that would save his life. What I could do was honor him in the only way I knew how to, playing the game he had taught me, living the dream I had learned from him.
“I think I’m staying,” I called and told Monica.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” she gasped. “Your mother is beside herself. Your family needs you.”
“I know it sounds crazy,” I told her. “But Dad wants me here. Even if he only sees one inning on television. He’ll know why I’m on the mound.”
We hung up the phone, agreeing to disagree.
My mom called approximately forty-five seconds later. I wasn’t budging. We hung up simply disagreeing. But part of me started doubting myself. There was still plenty of time to change my mind. I could get right out to LaGuardia Airport and hop on a plane. I called Joe.
“It’s totally unnecessary to stay, Dwight,” he said. “Listen, you go to Tampa. Take as much time as you need. Your job with the Yankees doesn’t depend on this start. We do this one hundred and sixty-two times a year. You only get one dad.”
“It’s okay, Joe,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
The hours flew by. I packed some clothes because I knew I’d be traveling to Tampa, one way or another. The next time I looked at the clock, I saw I had twenty minutes if I wanted to catch the two p.m. flight. I drove to Yankee Stadium instead.
If I could get the thoughts of my dad out of my head, I figured, I’d be okay on the mound. If I couldn’t, I’d be cooked. I really needed to focus my attention on the Mariners’ lineup.
Once I got to the stadium, I tried to put my dad totally out of my head. I put on my uniform and went out to the bullpen to warm up. Mel came out to watch me.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I said, not knowing if I was or not. But there was no turning back now. Mel, Joe, and even George were in my corner. I knew I couldn’t exactly dress, warm up, and then announce that I’d decided not to pitch. No other starting pitcher would be loose or warm. I’d gotten back some confidence after my past few starts. But this was a whole new kind of pressure, the kind that barely a year ago would have had me thinking, “I can’t wait to get out of here and go get high.” But I’d been changing. I was going to withstand that pressure and give this game my all. I didn’t stay behind to get rocked for four lousy innings. I was here to pitch the absolute best I could.
That thought came back to me when I took the mound and walked the Mariners’ first batter, Darren Bragg. The count went to 3–2, and I threw a curve to him that looked good to me but not to the ump. The first batter of the game was now on base, and the Mariners’ young superstar Alex Rodriguez was at the plate.
Three years into his pro career and only twenty, A-Rod would have a breakout season in 1996, hitting .358 and crushing thirty-six home runs. For any pitcher, this kid was trouble. His line shot to dead center sent Gerald Williams sprinting toward the wall and my heart sinking.
At the last possible second, Gerald stabbed his glove skyward and hauled the ball in like he was scooping ice cream out of the sky. I could barely believe it, I was that unnerved. If Gerald’s Willie Mays act didn’t happen, I’d have no one out in the first and a runner on second or third. Nothing that followed would have happened without that catch.
Gerald wasn’t done. After he caught the ball, he pivoted and threw a laser beam to Derek Jeter at shortstop. Jeter turned and fired the ball to Tino Martinez at first base to double-up Bragg, who by then was confidently approaching third base. Lifted by 31,000 cheering fans, I thought of my dad in Tampa in his hospital bed. I hoped he was watching. I knew he’d be smiling if he was.
When the Yankees were at bat, I didn’t even watch for the first three innings. I walked halfway down the tunnel to the clubhouse and just stood there by myself. I thought about my dad and got teary-eyed. Did I make the right decision? I thought I had.
In the top of the sixth inning, Gerald came through again, swooping underneath an Edgar Martinez line drive as it was about to hit the grass. That ended another potentially troublesome inning. Due to a Tino bobble that was ruled an error, the Mariners already had a runner on second base. But I still hadn’t really processed what was happening here.
Going into the top of the seventh, my teammates were all clued in. Joe Girardi, our catcher, had stopped talking to me. Derek, Wade Boggs, even the other pitchers—none of them would say a word. The only guy who would speak to me was the assistant trainer, Steve Donahue. He spent the early part of the game keeping me calm and letting me know the whole club was there for me if I needed anything.
The fans were on their feet, cheering loudly. But I figured that was just because they were psyched we were holding our own. This was the first time we’d faced the Mariners since they’d knocked us out of the playoffs the year before.
That’s the first time I remember looking at the scoreboard. Only zeros up there. My heart really began to pump. For the first time, I allowed myself to focus on the fact. I had a no-hitter going. I was six innings deep. Could it last?
In the seventh and eighth, I retired batters in order. But my pitch cou
nt was getting higher. Could I get through the ninth before the Mariners got to me? Would my aching arm hold out?
I locked in and went as hard as I could. I didn’t know when I’d ever be in this position again. Problem was, I was just about on empty. I had one inning to go.
I put A-Rod on with a walk. Then Griffey hit a grounder that sent first baseman Tino Martinez in motion. A-Rod made it safely to second. As Tino went after the ball, I should have covered first base for him. He could have flipped the ball to me for an easy out. For some reason, I was frozen, transfixed, watching Tino make the play.
Griffey motored down the base path. In a split second, I saw my no-hitter going out the window on an infield hit in the ninth inning. Tino fielded the ball and sprinted toward first base to try to make the play himself. Griffey was flying. Tino wasn’t going to make it. At the last second, ball in glove, Tino dove toward the base. Arm outstretched, he slapped the bag an instant before Griffey’s foot landed.
One out.
You’d think I could breathe a sigh of relief there. No. I walked Edgar Martinez to put runners on first and second. Mel came to visit me.
“Got anything left, Doc?” he asked me. Before I could speak he said, “I know the answer.”
“The answer,” I said, “is no. I don’t have shit left. But I’m not coming out. No chance.”
Mel went back to the dugout, convinced I was either going to throw a no-hitter or cost the Yankees the ball game. We were only winning 2–0. He’d done his part in asking. No one would blame him for leaving a pitcher on the mound eight and one-third innings into a no-hitter. The people were on their feet. They wanted me to stay in.
Jay Buhner came up, and I threw a wild pitch. The runners advanced to second and third. Now I was one mistake from blowing the no-hitter and the game. I took Buhner to a count of 2–2 before he went down swinging.
Two outs.
The Mariners’ first baseman Paul Sorrento came up. At two balls and a strike, I threw him a curve that hung a little too long. Five times out of ten, that’s a home run for a halfway decent hitter. I got lucky. Sorrento was too far underneath it and popped the ball up to Derek Jeter at short. Derek had to step back into the outfield, waving everyone else away. The ball hung up in the nighttime sky for what seemed like forever. Then I heard a small pop when it landed in Derek’s firm glove.
That was three.
I’d thrown my first no-hitter. In my wildest dreams, I’d never dare imagine this. It was beyond sweet.
My teammates hoisted me up on their shoulders, a major-league first for me. They knew what this one meant to me. All of us together were celebrating the long and difficult journey I had so recently come off. We were celebrating the father who for me had launched it all.
When they put me down, I went straight to the clubhouse and called my dad’s hospital room.
“How’s Daddy?” I asked my mother when she picked up the phone.
“He’s kind of out of it,” she said. “We had the game on the TV, though.”
“Did he see me?” I hoped to God the answer was yes. Mom didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” she said. “He was in and out of consciousness for most of the game. But when you got the final out and they carried you off the field, he knew what was happening. He could hardly speak but he said, ‘Our boy did it. A no-hitter, oh my God.’ And he cried.”
I was on the first flight the next morning.
The news of my no-hitter was everywhere. People kept coming up to me—at LaGuardia, on the plane, again when we landed in Tampa—wanting my autograph. At the hospital, people were shaking my hand on the way to my dad’s room.
Dad’s surgery had just started when I got there. Four hours in the operating room felt like a million years. Finally, I got to see my father and do what I’d known I’d do from the moment the no-hitter was done.
I handed him a ball from the game. Together, we clasped our hands around it. I told him how much I loved him. He closed his eyes and held the ball. He nodded. He was on life support. He barely came off it for the next seven months, his last.
One of the doctors walked into the room as I was leaving and said: “He doesn’t have much left, Dwight. But he was so proud of what you did.”
15
Pushing It
THE FINAL STAGE of a baseball career can be very frustrating. I know mine was. The little bursts of brilliance are separated by wider and wider gaps.
After my 1996 no-hitter with the Yankees, I went on a glorious 11–1 tear. It’s amazing what a single confidence boost can do. For a couple of months there, I was the best starting pitcher in the Yankees rotation. But in September, my arm completely wore out. The pitches I’d thrown that year—on top of the pitches I’d thrown for the past twenty—had taken an undeniable toll on me. However much I wanted to keep on going, my body had other ideas. I sat through the victorious playoffs and World Series, consoling myself with the knowledge that my eleven wins that season had helped to get us there.
My father died that next January. I know he loved me. I know he was proud of me. I know I caused him a giant load of unnecessary heartbreak and pain. A few days before he passed, George Steinbrenner postponed a day of meetings to sit in the hospital with a dying man. George had bumped into Ray Negron and asked how my dad was doing. “Not the greatest,” Ray said. “They’re all over at the hospital. He could go at any time.”
George stayed with my dad for almost three hours. The Yankees boss did most of the talking. Dad could barely speak. That simple kindness was a side of George few people ever heard about. I believe the visit prolonged my father’s life at least a couple of days. That spring, I went back to baseball—I tried to, anyway—for the first time ever without my father to call.
I started 1997 thinking I’d pulled a groin muscle. The golf ball knot inside my leg told doctors the problem was a hernia. That meant more surgery, more recovery, more rehab, another trip down to the minors—and, when I finally got back to the Bronx, sporadic and unpredictable starts. At that point, I could only dream of surprise no-hitters and glorious 11–1 tears. The Yankees started me twenty times, and my 9–5 record was not what I would have liked. After David Cone got hurt in the postseason, I pitched well against Cleveland in game four of the playoffs. I was good, but not good enough to secure a spot on the roster of such a talent-packed team. When the Indians expressed an interest in picking my contract up in the off-season, I left the Yankees with George’s full blessing.
One of the biggest things to come out of my time with the Indians was what happened one night in Detroit. Over the years, I had kept in touch with a guy from childhood who’d grown up to be a flight attendant. Randy and I traveled in different circles, but when we happened to be in the same city, sometimes he’d come out to a game. At dinner after we played the Tigers, he introduced me to another flight attendant, a feisty and beautiful woman named Monique Moore. She was attentive. She liked to laugh. She seemed to hang on every word I said. I wasn’t looking for a new relationship. Monica and I were having our problems, but we were still married. My cycle of use and relapse, use and relapse, had left her exhausted. Monique and I didn’t jump into anything immediately. But we did agree to stay in touch.
After two seasons in Cleveland, I knew I was nearing the end. This getting older as a pitcher—I was thirty-three, and older than that if you went by pitch count—really did stink. But it was tough to accept my baseball mortality. I sent some feelers to the Mets before the 2000 season. No thank you, I heard back. I signed with Houston but flamed out quickly after a single, rotten start. I just didn’t have the stuff I once had, or even the stuff the good young pitchers had now. I asked to be traded home to Tampa Bay. I knew manager Larry Rothschild from when he coached with the Marlins. He’d always had an interest in me. With the Devil Rays, I figured, I’d be closer to home. And as a local guy with family and friends in the area, I could probably help fill some seats as well. As troubled as our marriage was, Monica even jumped in. On April 21, when
I debuted my Devil Rays number 16 jersey, she packed two SUVs with sixteen of our friends and relatives for the short drive to Tropicana Field. Dwight Junior, who was fourteen years old, looked pretty sharp in his Rays batboy uniform. I pitched three scoreless innings and, thankfully, didn’t embarrass the Gooden family name.
But that was about as good it got during my big hometown return. With a 2–2 record, I started on a Wednesday night in late May against the Oakland A’s. In four painful innings, I gave up seven runs. The whole Rays team was terrible. It wasn’t just me. There were three errors before I left the game, and I didn’t commit any of those. All of Tampa–St. Pete knew how awful the Rays were. Only 13,000 people showed up that night to watch us get slammed 9–2. Immediately after the game, Chuck Lamar, the general manager, called me into the office. I was still in my uniform, sweating. Larry was also sitting there.
“We think you should retire,” Chuck said. Those were the first words out of his mouth.
“Retire?” That was a little abrupt, wasn’t it?
“Listen,” Chuck continued. “It’s for the best. Retire and come to work with us.”
His plan was to take the money the team owed me and spread it out over a few years, while I worked in the Rays’ front office. The way I heard that was: “Quit pitching, get your money late, and work a boring job for free.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Why don’t you release me?”
They were fine with that.
I was thirty-five years old. In less than four months, I’d been dumped by two lousy teams. There didn’t seem to be a next stop. I had nothing to do but sit at home and stew. For three weeks, my phone didn’t ring. “This really is it,” I thought. I could already feel myself getting out of shape. Then Ray Negron called.
“Would you like to come back to the Yankees?” Ray asked.
Who said my life had no surprises left? Three weeks later, I was about to pitch in a Yankees uniform at Shea Stadium in the first game of a home-and-away doubleheader against my old team, the New York Mets. I was nowhere near ready. But I couldn’t say no. When would I ever get that chance again?
Doc: A Memoir Page 16
