by Mike Piazza
Cresse’s big contribution was the Catcher Olympics. He set it up for competitions in things like blocking balls, fielding bunts, and throwing to second base—you’d get points for hitting a bull’s-eye affixed to a screen in front of the bag—and the grand finale was always the pop-up-catching contest. It would go six rounds and involve all kinds of circus catches. To make it more interesting, Cresse would sometimes toss your mitt on the ground so you’d have to find and grab it before chasing after the pop-up. The all-time best performance was put on by a guy named Ken Huckaby, who eventually reached the big leagues in his thirties. Huckaby came out wearing a tie and carrying a briefcase. While the ball was in the air, he slipped into a suit jacket and pulled his mitt out of the case. He called it “the executive catch.” All the major-league and minor-league catchers were involved, and the judges gave the scores by holding up playing cards. Tommy was always a judge, of course. One day, when it was extremely windy, I ran about forty yards and slid another five to snag a really high pop-up, and Tommy erupted: “Jesus Christ, what a great catch! That was one of the best fucking catches I’ve ever seen!” I never won the Catcher Olympics, but the most important thing was not to finish last. For the guy with the lowest score, Cresse would paint the top of a swim cap like a certain part of the anatomy. The prize was called the Dickhead Award, and the winner had to wear that swim cap for an entire day of practice.
What a blast it all was. At Dodgertown, I was completely, blissfully, wholeheartedly in my element. Especially that first year. In the spring of 1989, there was only one small thing that might have spoiled the mood for me—if my dad had actually told me about it.
He and Burt Hooton had a pretty good relationship. Hooton came from Texas and he liked to talk to Dad in a Philly accent. He’d go, “Yo, Vince!” My father would answer, “Yo, Burt!”
So Hooton meant well, I’m sure, when he approached my dad a few days before we broke camp and said, “Vince, I don’t know what he’s doing here. He’s not ready for this. He should be in school.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
My first club assignment was Salem, Oregon, of the Northwest League, which didn’t begin until June. So I reported to extended spring training in Port St. Lucie, Florida, living at the Holiday Inn on U.S. 1. Even that seemed romantic to me.
I was working hard to progress as a catcher, and no doubt making progress, but, by all accounts, Ted Williams had been right when he told my father that “hitting’s going to be his big suit.” That much was pretty obvious when, at the age of twenty, I arrived in Salem. Our manager, Tom Beyers, got tired of watching me chase balls to the backstop, so I split the catching duties with a guy from Puerto Rico named Hector Ortiz, who eventually spent some time in the major leagues but put in eighteen seasons at the minor-league level.
My batting average was nothing special, but my power attracted a bit of attention. The Dodgers’ owner, Peter O’Malley, flew up to Oregon to watch us (I had the feeling that he came to watch me, but more likely, it was to check on our top draft choice, Bill Bene), and with him looking on, I hit one of the longest home runs they’d seen at Chemeketa Community College, where we played our home games. One of our pitchers, Larry Gonzalez—we called him Lar—had become a good friend, and I can still hear him saying, “Man, that was a bomb!” Before long, I actually developed a little fan following. Made the all-star team.
My father came out for some games late in the season, and he was sitting along the third-base line one night when Burt Hooton—he was our pitching coach—walked over to shoot the breeze with him.
“Yo, Vince!”
“Yo, Burt!”
Dad had been stung by Hooton’s remark back in March—more specifically, by the friendly, professional opinion that I didn’t belong—but he didn’t let on. He just said, “Well, Burt, I’ve been sitting here for six innings, and I’ve got to say, I don’t see too many prospects out there.”
As my dad remembers it, Hooton’s reply was “You know, Vince, I’ve got to apologize for what I said during spring training. If there’s anybody here who’s got a chance, it’s your son. He works longer and harder than any player we’ve got.”
My dad said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad it’s working out.”
• • •
I was still on my baseball honeymoon when I arrived in Vero Beach for my second spring training. And this time, I reported as an all-star. Not as the last guy taken. Not as the courtesy pick. Not as the kid who never caught before. An all-star. It was a powerful feeling.
That was followed by a painfully unpowerful feeling. Before our noses had a chance to peel, about a dozen of us got sick with the flu—so sick, cafeteria workers delivered Jell-O and chicken soup to our rooms for nearly two weeks. It ate me up to be back in Dodgertown, the place that brought out my best, and spend beautiful day after beautiful day in bed.
But I’d get my fill of Dodgertown that summer. My assignment was the Vero Beach Dodgers, the organization’s Class A affiliate of the Florida State League. Unfortunately, the Florida State League was known, and still is, for being merciless on hitters. I didn’t find it particularly kind to catchers, either.
My defensive difficulties were not lost on our manager, Joe Alvarez, a Cuba native and former minor-league infielder who made his home in Miami. He found a convenient solution when I got sick again—this time, mono. I was only out of action for about a week, but when I was ready to play again, Alvarez informed me that I’d be putting in some time at first base because I’d lost my starting catcher’s job to Pete Gonzalez, who had been the catcher when I played first at Miami-Dade. Pete was also from Miami, of Cuban ancestry, and Alvarez was sort of incestuously tied to him—knew the family and whatnot, sort of like Tommy and me, I suppose. Pete was definitely more advanced defensively than I was at the time, and seeing as how we had some pretty good pitching prospects on the club, I’m sure Alvarez wanted a good receiver back there handling them. On the other hand, Gonzalez wasn’t such a wonderful hitter, and I didn’t see how I could lose my job by getting sick for a week.
Neither could my dad, who hadn’t suddenly gotten shy about making his opinions known. His grumbling got back to Alvarez, who gave me a message to pass along: come on down to Vero so we can get all this shit behind us.
I went down there and we talked it out and I said, “Okay, we’ve got an understanding here, but you’ve got to promise me you’ll catch him.”
He said, “Oh yeah, I’ll catch him.”
So now he’s still catching Gonzalez and I’m really pissed. He and the dad are buddies from Cuba. I was just finding all this out, and I realized there was no way Mike’s gonna catch. This guy is trying to bury Mike, trying to get him out of the organization. And he knew I was pissed. I was staring at him and he’s looking the other way.
The politics were playing a part, too. The manager didn’t like Mike’s relationship with Tommy. That was really starting to pop. I think the minor-league people resented Tommy’s involvement. Between me and Tommy, they felt like there was too much going on. My friend Al LaMacchia, the scout with Toronto, told me, “Vince, you got to slow down. Some of these guys are saying the father is a little bit of a pain in the ass.”
I said, “Yeah, I can understand that. I’ve been making a lot of noise and maybe I shouldn’t, but it pisses me off that he’s not catching. He’s a catcher; he’s not a goddamn first baseman.”
—Vince Piazza
One night, when we were in Baseball City playing the Kansas City Royals, I was batting, man on first, and Joe gave me the bunt sign. I bunted and fouled it off. He gave me the bunt sign again and I think I fouled it off again. Then I look down and he’s giving me the bunt sign with two strikes. I’m like, what the hell, nobody gives the bunt sign with two strikes. I didn’t know if he made a mistake or if he thought I was trying to show him up by not giving an honest effort on the bunts or what; so I said to myself, fuck this, and hit away. Grounded out, I think. He pulled me from the game and aired me out. The whole
thing just seemed weird.
Dave Wallace was our roving pitching coach and a person I could talk to, so I said to Dave, “I don’t know what it is with this guy. We definitely don’t mix. He doesn’t like me and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s political, because of Tommy. Maybe he’s just very partial to Pete Gonzalez. I have no idea. The guy gave me a two-strike bunt. What the fuck is that?”
“Please, Mike, just be patient,” he told me. “Hang in there.”
I was willing to do that, hard as it was. Through the whole scouting and drafting drama, I’d developed some calluses on my pride. I was realistic. Paul Mainieri’s pep talk had stuck with me; helped me understand that it wasn’t all going to unfold according to a preconceived script. Considering the skepticism I was up against, my script, in particular, would have to be shopped around for a while before it found a producer. I got that. I wasn’t bringing an attitude. I just didn’t see the sense of bunting with two damn strikes. I was pretty sure Mike Schmidt never did that.
Then we went to Fort Lauderdale to play the New York Yankees and the same thing happened all over again. Alvarez gave me a two-strike bunt sign. I tried to bunt and fouled out or something. I really don’t recall the details, but he yanked me out of the game for the second time.
A short while later, we were playing the West Palm Beach Expos in Vero Beach and they had a left-handed pitcher going. We’d faced the guy before and I had something like three hits. I got to the park, dressed, looked at the lineup, saw I wasn’t in it, went berserk, changed again, got in the car, and drove back to the house I shared with a couple other players. It was spontaneous combustion. I didn’t stop long enough to think about my dream or my dad or all the winter nights in the batting cage.
As soon as I walked in the door, the phone was ringing.
“Mike Piazza?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Charlie Blaney. It’s a terrible thing you did, leaving the team . . .”
I said, “Charlie, save it. I’m done. I’m quitting. I’m not having any fun. Do you think I want to fucking bunt with two strikes? What is that? I gave it a shot and I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Can you stay at this number for a few hours?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll be here. I’m just packing.”
I was still puttering around, waiting for the phone to ring, when my roommates, Mike Wismer and Scott Marabell, got back from the game. Wismer was from Philly—I actually played against him in high school—and he was all fired up. He said, “I can’t believe you did that. You gotta be shittin’ me. That was the ballsiest thing ever. You should have seen the look on his fucking face!”
I was like, “Why was it so ballsy? Fuck you, I’m leaving. I’ll go home and sell cars or something.”
I really felt like it was the end of the line—at least with the Dodgers. I’d been sick twice, benched, reamed out, embarrassed in front of my team; I didn’t give a shit anymore. I wasn’t feeling slighted or bitter or anything like that. Just, fuck it. You know, take your job and shove it. Let Pete Gonzalez have it. The game had beaten me. I was done.
In the meantime, Blaney was talking to Alvarez, Tom Beyers, Reggie Smith, my dad, and I didn’t know who else. The way my dad understood it, Alvarez wanted me gone, Beyers told him I wasn’t a bad guy but was playing out of position, and Reggie Smith, who was the roving hitting instructor, said something like “I’ve never had a problem with the kid. But I gotta tell you one thing. I’ve watched him hit, and he’s the kind of kid to me that, if you let him go, he’ll turn around and bite you in the ass. I wouldn’t let him go.”
After Blaney talked to Reggie, he called me again and said, “Okay, we’ve decided to let you come back.”
Let me come back? Like I’d been begging to. I assumed he meant they’d move me up to Bakersfield or even back down to rookie league for a little punishment. No. He was returning me to Vero Beach and Joe Alvarez.
I really don’t know why, but I agreed. I think I just had nothing better to do. Baseball had monopolized my ambitions. Pure and simple, life as I knew it revolved around the game. Playing ball was my default position. My identity.
I did know, however, that when I rejoined the team, it would be different. I would be different. The whole episode had driven the romance right out of me. It was like I had lost my virginity.
• • •
Actually, I did lose my virginity that summer, which was probably no coincidence. I won’t embarrass her by using her name, but she was a Greek girl from Chicago—a blond Greek, a little older than I was, far more mature, and extremely sweet.
My sexual inexperience went a little deeper than just the sheltering and social awkwardness that I alluded to earlier. I wouldn’t say that I’d been a prude, but I was directed by a moral compass that pointed me away from things that might be frowned upon by Catholicism. Even when I started in pro baseball, I always found a church to go to. Girls were around in those days, and I sometimes did the bar scene, but I wasn’t running around with my choke out.
When I met the Chicago girl—we were in Clearwater, playing the Phillies—not much happened, but we kept in touch. Then she flew down and rented a car, which made an impression. I thought, wow, she’s got it going on—her own job, her own money, her own life. I also admired the fact that she cooked for her father, who had a heart condition, and made sure he ate right. Altogether, she was so domestic, caring, and responsible that I think it broke down my moral barriers a little bit. Plus I was now twenty-one, and feeling the urge to be adult. On top of everything else, it definitely aided the cause that this thoughtful, attractive girl was also very patient. Bear in mind, I didn’t even date in high school. I was nervous as hell, and when we were ready to go, I said, “All right, well, you know . . . I’m a virgin.” She was floored.
I guess you could say that I left my innocence in Vero Beach, all the way around. It would never again be my first time; and I’d never again bleed Dodger blue. Even after talking to Tommy about my situation with Alvarez.
I told Michael, “Okay, you go in tomorrow and apologize, because you should have never done what you did by leaving. I know how frustrated you must have been, but you go in and apologize. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”
When Michael came back and apologized, they fined him two hundred dollars. I never heard of a young kid being fined two hundred dollars with what they’re making. When I talked to Michael, he said the manager had hollered and chewed him out in front of the whole team and said something about him having to go to the big-league manager with his problems. Michael would have never come to me. His dad came to me. That’s an important point. So I told Charlie Blaney what Joe Alvarez said.
Blaney said, “I don’t believe that.”
I said, “Charlie, that boy ain’t lying to me. He never lies to me.”
Leo Posada was right there, and he said, “I was in the clubhouse when Alvarez said it.” Charlie’s jaw dropped.
Michael went through a lot because of his relationship with me. When he was in the minor leagues, they thought he was there just because of me and he didn’t have the ability to play. But they were wrong. I ended up getting into a lot of situations with it. After this happened, I was up having lunch with Peter O’Malley and Charlie Blaney and a couple other guys, and Peter asked about Mike Piazza. Charlie said, “Oh, he jumped the club.”
I didn’t say anything, but after Peter left I said, “Charlie, do you know what ‘jumping the club’ means?”
He said, “Yeah, it’s leaving the club.”
I said, “That’s wrong. When you leave and go home, that’s jumping the club. He did not do that. He walked out because he was mad and embarrassed. That’s not jumping the club. A lot of players have done that.”
Then I said, “Charlie, let me ask you a question. Do you think Pete Gonzalez will catch in the big leagues? The only way he’ll see the big leagues is if he buys a ticket.”
Charlie said,
“Then you think Michael’s a prospect?”
I said, “Yes!”
—Tom Lasorda
An apology was appropriate and necessary—no arguments there—so I stood in front of my teammates and said something like “Look, I let the team down by leaving, and it was unfortunate, it was inexcusable. If you have a problem with a coach or somebody, you’ve got to talk it through. You can’t just walk out. I understand that, and I’m sorry.”
That’s when Alvarez took over and said, in effect, “On the same note, obviously we’re not always going to agree on playing time and everything. If you feel you have to, you can call Charlie Blaney, you can call”— he looked right at me—“Tommy, you can call whoever you want to call. But you need to talk to me first.”
With that, I was back, but wearing an attitude that had been dramatically and permanently adjusted. From then on, I was aloof, detached, a little militant, arriving at the park every day with a fuck-this, who-cares disposition. Contemptuous would be a good word for it. My sense of reverence had been wiped out to the point that I no longer gave a damn who was who. I was going to play hard and do my best and be loyal to my teammates, but I could muster absolutely no affection or affinity for the organization anymore.
Believe it or not, when I got back into a ball game—after a little grace period—Alvarez had me bunting again. I was furious and confused. I talked to Charlie Blaney and he said something on the order of “We wanted to play a mind game on you. That’s why we did that.” I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.
The kooky scene served only to reinforce my new attitude. And you know what? As bad as it was, in the traditional ways, that attitude worked for me. It became my game face. I realized that, if I was going to make it, I had to be a motherfucker. That sounds crude and selfish, I know, but the other way hadn’t worked. It hadn’t protected me from getting benched and screwed with. It seemed to me that the organization had set the terms, and playing by them, for me, meant playing with contempt. Playing angry. And believe me, my anger was real. I’d come into professional baseball with a fairy-tale image of how it was going to be, and for a little while it was actually that way. Or seemed to be. When that idealism was blown up, I got a chronic case of the red-ass, as they say in the clubhouse.
