Even with my mom—I can see I’m gradually earning her trust again. I know trust rebuilds slowly. I can still see occasional flashes of doubt in her eyes. “I’m going to the store,” I’ll tell her. Or, “I’m going to pick up my kids.” She’ll say, “Okay.” But she’ll still have that look in her eyes like she’s wondering, “Is he really going to the store? Is he really going to pick up the kids?”
“You want to come?” I’ll ask her.
“Nah,” she’ll say with a smile. “That’s okay.”
It used to bother me when I got that look from my mother or from someone else. It bothered me, I suppose, because I had my own doubts. Now I understand. I have to regain people’s confidence in their own slow time. Everybody has a right to doubt me, whether it’s family, friends, fans, everyone. They have a right to watch and see how I’m different this time. And I’m proud to say I’ve been showing them. I’ll let my actions do my speaking. Time will take care of the rest.
Gerry, my sponsor, has a good way of describing this. “Days turn into weeks,” he says, “and weeks turn into months, and months turn into years.” It’s his way of saying an addict’s word means nothing. It’s actions over time that count.
I have been trying hard to remove the craziness from my life and surround myself only with positive relationships. I am keeping my distance from people who could tempt me back to alcohol and drugs. I no longer socialize with my drug-using friends. I don’t go to strip clubs anymore. I know they are danger zones for me. I try not to put myself into situations where, for some sick reason, my old life will seem attractive again.
Monique and I are getting divorced.
It’s a mutual decision, and I really don’t want to speak badly about her. With lawyers involved, I’m sure there will be some finger-pointing, but I’d really like to minimize that. Both of us love Dylan and Milan, the two children we have together. We both want what is best for them, and I intend always to be a regular presence in their lives. I still carry shame and guilt for the way I divorced my older children for drugs. Dylan and Milan have a right to a saner and more supportive upbringing. That includes not being exposed to the nuttiness of their parents’ intense marriage. I have tried to make this marriage work, tried hard and tried repeatedly. It both saddens and relieves me to recognize what has been true for several years. Monique and I are not good for each other, and together, we are not good for our kids. Both of us, I am sure, will be far better parents apart.
In my sobriety, I’ve also had some good insights on my friendship with Darryl Strawberry. In the public eye at least, that relationship helped to define me more than any other in my baseball life. Everywhere I go, even today, people ask me, “Where’s Darryl?… What’s up with Darryl?… How’s Darryl doing?” In people’s minds, he and I are still almost a package deal, and I understand that. Darryl and I arrived in New York one year apart. He was Rookie of the Year in 1983. I was Rookie of the Year in 1984. Two talented young players—a black outfielder and a black pitcher—helping to revive the sorry Mets. He was hitting the home runs. I was pitching the strikeouts. Doc and Darryl, Darryl and Doc—it was a feel-good story for everyone. Our names always seemed to be linked. And the fact that both our careers got shortened by addictions—that only seals the connection for the fans. Mets fans want all Mets players to be tight until the end, especially Darryl and me.
In ’84 and ’85, people did see us together a lot. At one time, I thought we were pretty close. I looked at him almost like a big brother. He would tell me, “This is New York. You have to handle yourself a certain way.” But starting in 1985, when that Nike billboard went up in Times Square and the K Korner was in full swing and I was getting so much attention around New York, I think Darryl began to resent me. He started saying things and doing things that weren’t so nice. I saw how he treated other people, and eventually I came to figure out he was treating me like that. At first, I just shrugged and told myself, “That’s just Darryl.” But over the years, we’ve drifted further and further apart to the point where, today, Darryl and I really have no relationship at all.
I’m not sure what makes Darryl behave the way he does. We had very different upbringings, and that’s probably a part of it. We just have different values, different ideas of what it means to be somebody’s friend. But I think he’s always been a little jealous. Before I got there, it was all Darryl, Darryl, Darryl. He was the player everyone was talking about. I’m not sure he liked it when people starting saying, “Darryl and Doc.” When you’re a celebrity athlete, it’s hard not to feel that being the star is part of what makes people care about you. But in a team sport like baseball, no one ever really shines alone. I think Darryl cares about Darryl and not too much else.
Over the years, I never downed Darryl, even when he was downing me. And I had plenty of reasons to. Many of the things he accused me of, he was doing too.
When rumors were floating about a drug-using Mets player, he jumped in to say, “It’s Doc.”
When he couldn’t mess around with women because his wife was there, he made sure my girlfriend found out what I was up to.
When I was about to share his spotlight at some big event—the Shea Goodbye, the Hall of Fame, this or that anniversary—he always seemed to find a reason to trash me to some reporter or to my relatives. He upset Gary, my mom, Monique, Betty—the list goes on and on.
Even when I tried to keep my distance from him, Darryl kept popping up. Saying I was living in a fleabag. Claiming I was too stoned to come outside. Warning I’d be dead in a hurry. Taking whatever was happening and making it far, far worse. I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s how friends should treat their friends.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t been kind to Darryl in the past. Over and over, I’d gone out of my way to be decent and helpful to him. That’s just what friends do, I really believe that. I showed up in court to support him before he went into treatment at Phoenix House. When he got locked up, I gave money to Ron Dock to deposit in Darryl’s commissary account. When George Steinbrenner was considering hiring Darryl, I told the Boss I thought that was a great idea. I had missed my own retirement dinner, cruising the backstreets of Tampa, looking for him. And all along, as Darryl was calling Gary and Monique and my other relatives and spreading dire stories about me, I kept picking up signs that he was caught up in some of the same vices that I was. I wasn’t the least bit shocked to hear we shared the very same dealer in Harlem.
“You missed your boy,” the dealer told me more than once when I went uptown to score. “Straw just came through.”
All these years later, the little Darryl bombs keep going off. In 2011, when we had the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Mets World Series win, Darryl had a charity event at his new restaurant, Strawberry’s Sports Grill in Douglaston, Queens. It sounded like fun. I would have been happy to attend. I was there in support of him when he opened the restaurant in 2010. Unfortunately, this time I had a scheduling conflict.
When the people arranging the event called, I told them, “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I have another event in New Jersey that night I already agreed too. I wish I could be there, but I can’t.”
Word came back. “We’ll pay you.”
I explained: “It’s not about the money. I just can’t come.”
But when the night arrived, Darryl told a completely different story to the reporters and our teammates. He told them I was insulting the charity, the Mets, and him by not being there. He finished by announcing, “Doc’s not welcome at my restaurant.”
The whole thing was totally untrue.
I saw him a month or so later at a bar mitzvah we’d both been hired to attend. Darryl being Darryl, he told me how sorry he was. He blamed a miscommunication. He said he’d gotten bad information. He said he felt bad.
“I hope you’ll accept my apology,” he told me. “I should have called you myself. I shouldn’t have taken these other people’s word.”
“I accept your apology,” I told him. “But under
stand. I’m not gonna forget what happened. I’m not doing that anymore.”
We won’t be calling each other on holidays and birthdays to say, “How ya doin’? What’s up with you?” That hasn’t happened for years between us. I doubt it will ever will again. Losing the friendship of someone I once trusted and cared about has hurt me more than I realized. But I don’t see it changing. We all need good, positive relationships to be the best people possible. At this point, we have no relationship at all.
The next time I see him, I will speak to him and say, “Hello.” I will wish him well with whatever he’s doing. But I know what friends are and how they treat each other. I won’t make the mistake of thinking Darryl and I are friends.
28
Forward March
I AM MORE THAN TWO YEARS CLEAN NOW.
I am a loving son, a doting father, a loyal friend, and a totally out-of-control sports fan. I have a TV about the size of a movie screen in my basement, and I sit down there for hours watching game after game until I can hardly keep my eyes open. Sports may be my last untreated addiction. I love the Mets and the Yankees. They are two very different ball clubs, but I feel deep connections to them both.
I know the Mets could use a few fresh stars these days, especially after trading R.A. Dickey to Toronto. But I got a real thrill when Sheff finished his career with the team, especially hitting his 500th home run. When he got to 499, I followed him around like a groupie, hoping to be in the park when he crossed the magic line. David Wright is still a joy to watch, and hope springs eternal at Citi Field. I was just so sad when Gary Carter died. What a true class act he was. And I’m still in touch with quite a few guys from the 1986 World Champion Mets—the solid Keith Hernandez, the fun Wally Backman, the forgiving Kevin Mitchell, the sweet Mookie Wilson. I love talking to Bob Ojeda. I see David Cone at the ballpark. I’m on the phone with other teammates—not Darryl Strawberry so much. I definitely miss seeing my oldest friend from that crowd, the lovable and maddening Lenny Dykstra. In 2012, Lenny went to prison in California for auto theft and bankruptcy fraud. That just seems so wrong to me, Lenny being in prison. If anything, he belongs in a psych ward, not a prison cell.
I still get excited watching the Yankees on the field. I love how Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera play the game. The organization George Steinbrenner built truly lives on beyond him.
I like to watch the Knicks play basketball, and I may be the biggest football fan of all time. The New York Giants are my team. To me, Lawrence Taylor is still the greatest player ever. He was at the top of his game as I was reaching the top of mine. He redefined the pass rush, line play, and offensive formations in the NFL and totally deserved his ten straight Pro Bowl appearances. Ever since I came to New York, he and I have been good friends.
Yes, I grew up in Florida, but clearly my rooting loyalties were forged in the big town. Really, I just love sports, any sports. I could watch a wrestling match between two junior high schools I never heard of. Five minutes in, my heart will be pounding, and I’ll be jumping up from the couch.
But most of the time, I’m a pretty laid-back guy.
I like family barbecues. I like hanging out with really old friends. I love cheering on my children at their practices and games. I never yell at the ref or the coaches. I try not to be the crazy parent in the stands.
I don’t drive Camaros or BMWs or Benzes anymore. I have an SUV big enough to haul my kids and a lot of their gear. It’s a safe, comfortable vehicle, and it gets terrible gas mileage. After the 2010 wreck with Dylan in the backseat, everyone wears seat belts.
I don’t drink. I don’t use cocaine or any other recreational drugs. I can prove it if I have to. As part of my five-year probation from the Ambien wreck, I still get drug-tested regularly. Every single one of my tests has been clean, and I expect them all to stay that way.
Some people resent having to pee in a cup every week. I try to recognize it for what it is: another tool that will help to keep me sober. If I start using again, the New Jersey Probation Supervision Services Division—and therefore Judge Venezia—will know in a hurry. After what he said in court that day, I can’t imagine the judge will be feeling much sympathy for me and my dirty urine. I would hate for him to demand his baseball back.
Clearly, I’ve always been ripe for addiction. My whole life, whenever I had something I liked, I wanted more of it—way more of it—even if having more was a terrible idea. Obviously, that was true with drugs and alcohol. It was also true with sex, which wasn’t so good for my marriages. I’m not a coffee drinker. But if I were, I’m sure I’d be guzzling ten grande cappuccinos a day. In that period before the Hall of Fame induction, I substituted food for drugs and slapped on a quick sixty pounds. I never wanted to be the Nutty Professor, but there I was. Every once in a while, I still have a cigar. I have to be careful not to do that too often. I start smoking—in no time, I’ll be the next Luis Tiant, the Cuban-born pitcher who liked cigars so much he launched his own line. Instead of El Tiante, I’d probably call mine El Medico.
Some addicts can handle their addictions. I know that. They’re called functional addicts. They can have a few drinks or do a little cocaine—and leave it right there. That isn’t me. This is a tough, relentless battle I am fighting. Never again will I underestimate the power and cunning of my enemy. But I am as well armed as I can be.
Three decades after I first became a professional ballplayer, I am still making my living in the world of baseball. I don’t have the heat on the mound I once did. Not even close. I prove that every now and then at an Old-Timers’ Game. I’ve finally given up on the idea that some frustrated Mets manager might wave me down from the stands or the broadcast booth and send me in.
But thankfully, I’ve found many other ways to stay involved. I’ve been delivering Yankees pregame reports for WCBS radio. I do meet and greets in the luxury boxes at Citi Field and Yankee Stadium, talking with fans, sharing my insights about new generations of players, and swapping stories about the game all of us love. It turns out that after everything I’ve been through, there are still people who enjoy hanging out with me. We get to do it in a more casual, relaxed way than we ever could have before. It’s fun for them and fun for me. I participate in fantasy camps run by the Yankees or the Mets, giving the ultimate fans a chance to test themselves against major-league players under real major-league conditions. At my last Mets fantasy camp, I’m proud to say, I won the home-run derby against some serious sluggers, including Tim Teufel, Mookie Wilson, Doug Flynn, and Wally Backman. How many pitchers can say that? I think everyone was surprised including me. As I walked off the field that day, I smiled at a thought that shot through my head: “Maybe I should have stuck with hitting after all. Who knows how far I would have gone.”
I have had the chance to work with some rising young pitchers, the way my dad used to work with me at the park near our house. In my early days, the scouts and coaches often expressed amazement at what they called my “perfect pitching mechanics.” I do think I know some things about throwing a baseball, and it’s been fun sharing that knowledge with the next generation. I’d definitely like to do more of that, maybe at some point signing on as a pitching coach with a major- or minor-league team. There’s a lot of talent coming up out there. The game has nothing to worry about in that regard.
All things considered, I am mostly at peace with my baseball career. I know I’ve had some extraordinary accomplishments, and I know I left some other things undone. People still say to me, “You deserve to be in the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.” They say I broke this record or that record. A lot of that stuff used to eat at me, and that was part of my unhappiness. It doesn’t so much anymore. I’ve realized, “Hey, wait a minute. When I was a kid, my dream was to play professional baseball. I never thought about awards, never thought about the World Series, never thought about the Hall of Fame, I just wanted to play professional baseball.” That, I did.
I got to play for sixteen years. I won just about every award that you
could win. I got all this wonderful appreciation and love. That’s not bad for a skinny kid from Tampa. Once I got sober and looked at things that way, I started thinking, “What in the world do I have to be pissed at?”
The six- and seven-figure contracts and endorsement deals I used to get are ancient history now. I live a whole lot more frugally than I used to. Where did all that money go? I guess I know the answer to that. I sniffed a lot up my nose. I spent a lot on luxury living. I gave a lot away, buying houses and cars for quite a few family members and taking care of friends who needed a little help. I don’t complain. I wanted to do that. It’s one of the most satisfying things someone with a little success can do. And seven children don’t come cheap—their mothers either.
I don’t really miss the money that much except for how it would let me provide better for my family. I was living large and dying inside, and that is never worth it. What I have now is far better than piles of money and a lavish lifestyle. These days, I am finally becoming the father I always knew I could be.
I am blessed with seven amazing children. I love them all very much. Given what they’ve been through, it’s a miracle how well they’re all turning out. Credit to their mothers! What can I say? My children have unique and wonderful personalities. For reasons I can’t hope to explain, they all seem to like spending time with their father.
Dwight Junior is showing real dedication to his music career. He has talent and charm and people like him. We did a TV show together. He met Jay-Z, who told him, “Gimme your stuff.” That could be an opportunity. “Lil Doc” is a big deal in Tampa. Of course, I wish he’d spend more time in New York. It’s fun to see a Gooden putting on a show again.
Ashley, the next in line, recently moved up to New York, where she’s studying to be a medical technician. She and I have similar personalities. She likes to have fun. Nothing really bothers her unless she’s pushed to the limit. She’s the oldest daughter, but she’s also like the youngest daughter. She’s definitely Daddy’s little girl. My mom and my ex-wife Monica are constantly on me for spoiling her. But everyone in the family does. She throws that smile on you, and she’s got you.
Doc: A Memoir Page 27
