by Mike Piazza
“Don’t tell me,” my dad replied. “Tell them son of a bitches.”
But he wasn’t finished. At the hotel that night, one of our roving instructors approached my father and remarked that my throwing performance had been embarrassing for the people who didn’t want me catching. Dad’s response: “Look, if you guys aren’t going to catch him, why don’t you release him?”
The instructor said, “If we catch him a hundred games next year, will you leave us alone?”
“Hey, you got a deal. That’s all I want.”
If my dad was making a nuisance of himself with the Dodger people—and there’s no doubt that he was—he had his reasons. He knew full well that my only chance to make it to the big leagues would be as a catcher. And he also knew that it wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen, until I got a lot more games under my belt. At one point, he asked Joe Ferguson how many games he thought it took for a young catcher to ready himself for the major leagues. Fergy’s answer was five hundred.
“Five hundred games!” my father blurted out. “He can’t get fifty a year! This kid’ll be thirty years old before he catches five hundred games!”
• • •
When we were eliminated, the Dodgers asked me to fly to Florida along with a couple of pitchers—Jody Treadwell and Gordon Tipton—to help Vero Beach in the playoffs. There was no issue to consider between me and Joe Alvarez, because the organization had let him go after my season there. Charlie Blaney later told the Los Angeles Times that the situation with me played a part in that decision. At any rate, it was common for the Dodgers to shuffle players around to make the strongest possible playoff rosters. They placed an unusual emphasis on winning minor-league championships. The rule was that you couldn’t move down a level to play with another team in the postseason, but since Bakersfield and Vero Beach were both in Class A ball, Blaney figured it was okay. As it turned out, I wasn’t allowed to play. The Dodgers were one of the first organizations to get flagged for doing that.
I wasn’t finished for the year, however. Raul Cano, the general manager of the Mexicali Aguilas (Eagles) of the Mexican Winter League, had come to scout us during the California League playoffs because the Dodgers had just entered into an agreement with Mexicali to provide some players. Cano watched one game and decided that I would be provided.
I signed for eleven hundred dollars a month and played with guys making three to five times as much. Most of them were higher-level minor leaguers. Some were washed-up major leaguers whose wives followed them around, pulling U-Hauls, with two kids in the backseat. It made me think, man, I never want to be that guy. That was something I actually feared. I was dead set on being established financially before I started on a family.
For that reason, I welcomed the advice given me by Warren (“the Deacon”) Newson, an outfielder who joined us from the White Sox. He said, “You owe it to yourself, if you ever get to the big leagues, to be single for at least one year while you’re up there.” (In fact, that ranked with the wisdom conferred upon me later by Lenny Harris, the great pinch hitter and very funny man. Lenny told me, “When I was younger, you didn’t worry about nothing. Now you gotta wrap that thing up. You go out tonight, something can jump into your system and kill your ass.”) I acknowledged the Deacon’s counsel in spades, and only wished that he had shared it with the very nice Mexican girl who followed me home one night, then another, and wrote me—in English—the most heartfelt love letters I’ve ever read. That girl was serious.
Mexicali is tucked right against California, and three of us—Jim Tatum and Jason Brosnan were my roommates—rented an apartment across the border in El Centro, California. Right off, we had a scrimmage against a semipro team called Joe’s Car Wash, I think it was—somebody’s car wash, or maybe it was a diner—from the border town of Calexico, California, which sort of bleeds together with Mexicali. Joe’s Car Wash had this little pitcher throwing from all different angles; slider, slider, slider, then an eighty-mile-an-hour fastball, up and in, that blew right past me. I couldn’t believe I’d struck out on an eighty-mile-an-hour fastball. The guy embarrassed the hell out of me. But that’s what playing in Mexico was all about: deception, finesse, speed changes, arm slots, whatever. We used to say that a Mexican pitcher will shoot the ball out of his ass if he thinks he can sneak it by you.
The Aguilas had two capable catchers and a good first baseman from Mexicali named Guillermo Velazquez, whose nickname was Memo. Later in the season, I filled in for Memo when he was hurt. Early on, though, before we hit the road for the first time, the manager, Frank Estrada—everybody called him Paquin—said to me, “I need you to play right field.”
I said, “Right field? I haven’t played right field since ninth grade.”
He said, “Well, that’s all I can do right now. You can either play right field or I’m gonna have to put you on the bench. I have no choice. I have two good catchers.”
I said, “Well, I’m not playing right field.”
So we get on the bus, and I see there are nine bunks in addition to the straight-back seats. And the shortest trip we had in that league was about eight hours. I looked at the bunks and I looked at the bus driver and I looked around at my teammates and I said, “What’s the deal with the bunks?”
Somebody said, “If you’re starting the game, you get a bunk. If not, you get a seat.”
With that, I walked right up to Paquin and said, “Here’s your right fielder, right here. No problem.” Suddenly, I’m a team guy.
Opening night, I’m out in right field, runner on third, I get a fly ball, come up throwing, and damn near gun the guy out at the plate. He thought he was going to cruise in, and it was a bang-bang play. So I get back to the dugout and everybody’s like, whoa, where’d that come from? I mean, I wasn’t Vladimir Guerrero, but I could throw a little. Around that time, I’m thinking, hmm, this might not be so bad. Then they started hitting long flies over my head, and the truth came out. I couldn’t go back on a ball. And if the play happened to be out there along the wall, forget it. Those suckers were concrete and steel, no padding, and I didn’t think it was in my best interest to break my wrist or neck in the Mexican Winter League.
As you might imagine, conditions in general were interesting down there, and so was the way the Mexican players dealt with them. The bus, for example. There was one very long trip, in particular, for which Cano told us we’d bus to Hermosillo, leaving around midnight, and then fly to Mazatlán. I was a little skeptical about the flying part, and sure enough, when we arrived at the airport in Hermosillo the next morning, there was no flight for us. As soon as we found out we’d be driving the rest of the way, which would add up to about a twenty-six-hour bus ride, one of the Mexican guys said, “Let’s go to the store.” I figured I’d pick up some chips and maybe a big bag of M&M’s. What they had in mind was a few cases of Modelo, Tecate, and Dos Equis, which they wheeled to the bus in a hand truck. We drank the whole way down there. I have to say, the Mexican players could drink and smoke at a high level, and then go out and play a damn good game of baseball.
There was another American on our team, a left-handed pitcher from Louisiana named Dave Lynch, who was pretty entertaining, and both of us were amazed at the changes in temperature that could clobber you in just one December bus ride. From Hermosillo to Mazatlán, driving through the desert, I went from being the coldest I’d ever felt to the hottest. There was no heat or air-conditioning on that bus. The windows were open as the sun went down, and an hour later my teeth were chattering. After a while, I either fell asleep or passed out, not sure which, and around the time we got to the Los Mochis area, I woke up drenched in sweat. Lynch had finagled a bottom bunk because the guy who had it was off somewhere playing cards, and just as I leaned over to talk to him, he rolled out and said, “Dude, I’m fucking boiling!” The next day it rained, so they poured gas on the field and burned it dry. That might have been the game we won in some controversial manner and the locals—I mean, lots of them—ran after us throwi
ng mud balls at our bus as we pulled away.
In one particular respect, however, the experience closely resembled the minor leagues: I didn’t catch much. To be honest, that probably bothered my dad a little more than it did me. He urged me to talk to Paquin about it. A little reluctantly, I did. I explained that if I wasn’t going to catch, I preferred to move on. Paquin told me that, since he already had two good catchers and would have to let one of them go to accommodate me, I should give him some time to think about it. A few days later, he came to me with his answer: he was going to release the backup, who was the younger of the two. I happened to know that the kid’s wife had just had a baby, so I said, thanks, but no, I can’t take that guy’s job; he needs the money. Paquin was only about five foot eight, at the most, but he had been an excellent catcher who played one game for the Mets in 1971. He could throw out anybody at second base. The ball would just parachute down there, but he’d get rid of it so quickly, and his arm was so accurate—kind of like Bob Boone—that nobody would run on him. Knowing that, I pondered the situation for a minute and asked him, “How about this? If you’ll work with me before and after the games on my catching, I’ll stick around and try to help you win.” Paquin was happy to do it, and he taught me a lot.
In the end, going to Mexico was absolutely the best thing I could have done that winter. It was the time of my life. But more important, it was when I started to become a polished hitter.
In fact, I can almost pin it down to a moment. I struggled badly for a while, barely hitting .100, and one day some veteran reliever was working me over pretty good. It was three and two and I fouled off about six pitches. Then something clicked and I got hold of a slider for a home run that won the game. It just seemed like I’d finally figured it out. I ended up with about sixteen homers—had a great season—and in the process kept my end of the bargain with Paquin: we made the playoffs. Meanwhile, I came away knowing that I could hit in the big leagues; knowing, in fact, that I would. I felt like I’d seen everything a pitcher could throw or do, and there wasn’t much I couldn’t handle. Bring it on.
Eventually, Paquin let me strap on the gear now and then. Looking back on that winter, it was probably a blessing that I didn’t spend too much time behind the plate and put more wear and tear on my body—an aspect of catching with which I would become well acquainted later on, when I was back there for 140 games a year in the National League.
CHAPTER NINE
Tommy was like a little kid sometimes, which was probably one of the reasons I enjoyed him so much and a lot of the organizational people didn’t. And I liked him best in spring training, when he was at his youngest. Like the night in 1992 when Burt Hooton challenged him to a ball game.
This was at the end of the day, after the regular Grapefruit League game had been played. Even at that hour, Burt knew there was no way Tommy would turn down the challenge. So they chose up sides, with the two of them pitching, of course—Tommy tossing up his big lefty roundhouse and Burt countering with his famous knuckle-curve. The only concession was that they moved the pitching rubber a few feet closer and threw from behind the protective screen. Otherwise, it was the real deal—three strikes, four balls, run it out, everything. Tommy took me as his catcher, but I don’t recall the rest of the teams, except that Burt chose Eric Young, who had stolen 146 bases over the previous two minor-league seasons. Naturally, Eric made it to second base somehow—probably stole it—then took off for third. I nailed him, and Tommy was beside himself. He’s out there on the mound, screaming, “Attaboy, Michael! Attaway to throw him out!” He was into it. After three or four innings, Burt and Tommy were sucking the oxygen out of the stadium. This was during the period when Tommy was making his Slim-Fast commercials (“If I can do it, you can do it”), but he was sixty-four years old, for Pete’s sake, and he was sweating his ass off. Finally, Peter O’Malley shut off the lights to make them quit.
It wasn’t the only time that Tommy got himself worked up on my behalf that spring. Hitting-wise, I was able to build on my experiences in Bakersfield and Mexico and capitalize on some opportunities to play with the big-league club. I homered three times. One of them was on a big breaking ball from Jose DeLeon, a pitch I couldn’t possibly have done anything with before I went to Mexicali. And one—the big one—was a pinch-hit grand slam to right-center against Paul Gibson of the Mets. On that occasion, it was like a flash of light exploded in Tommy’s head; as if he had seen the future and been startled by the speed at which it was approaching. As soon as the ball landed, he ran up to Mark Cresse and shouted, “Get him down to the bullpen! Get him to start blocking some balls! Work with him!”
That game was in Port St. Lucie, and my dad was taking it all in next to a Cubs scout named Ed Lyons. When I came up to bat with the bases loaded, Lyons asked him, “Is that your kid? Who the hell scouted him?” My dad turned halfway around and pointed to Tim Thompson, a Cardinals scout from Pennsylvania who was sitting a couple of rows behind them. Thompson was one of the scouts who had advised me to get an education instead of worrying about being drafted.
“Tim Thompson? He’s a hell of a scout,” Lyons said.
“I know. He’s a friend of mine. Please don’t say anything.”
“Oh hell no, I wouldn’t say a word.”
My dad claims that he called the grand slam, even the spot where it cleared the fence. The moment it did, Lyons stood up, turned toward Thompson, and bellowed, “Hey, Tim, did you have a chance to sign this kid?”
Thompson just looked at my dad, shook his head, and said, “So, Vince, you finally got even with me, huh?” It was all good-natured, but there might have been more truth in that remark than my father would ever admit.
It was an important Grapefruit season for me, because I was on the Dodgers’ forty-man roster for the first time. That didn’t mean I’d make it to Los Angeles—or even to the Triple-A club in Albuquerque—but it protected me from being taken by another team in the Rule 5 draft, and it indicated, finally, that the organization saw a little value in me. At least, some people in the organization did, although I was never quite sure which.
On that front, I was interested, years later, to read an article in the Hardball Times Baseball Annual 2009 that was written by Craig Wright, an analyst who had been employed by the Dodgers as an advisor to Fred Claire. Wright wrote,
During my 21 years working full-time with the major league teams, I was asked to make evaluations or recommendations involving several future Hall of Famers. It was fun to see their careers fulfill their promise, but I rarely felt like I had done anything to help their careers along. Players with Hall of Fame talent are generally so obvious that they rarely need any help in getting their careers on track. Mike Piazza was a very different case, perhaps the most unusual in the history of great players. Unlike most Hall of Famers, Mike Piazza was far from a scout’s dream. No one drafted him out of high school; no one considered signing him as an undrafted player. He didn’t throw or run well, and he played first base, a position where you had to hit like Ted Williams to get noticed. And there was always something about Piazza’s stance and swing that bothered a lot of visual scouts. He was abnormally upright in his swing with little bend in his knees, and his swing seemed a tad long. His hands were way down on the bottom of the bat with the pinky over the knob, and he would stand a little far off the plate. While other hitters with that stance would dive into the plate to compensate on certain pitches, Piazza seemed to be just reaching out to cover the plate, almost flicking at the outer pitch, though with surprising pop. It was different, and it was easy to be concerned that he might eventually hit a wall—that he would start to be overwhelmed by power pitchers, that against good pitchers he’d have a big hole low and away, and that he wouldn’t be able to generate power on quality pitches away.
. . . I personally started to get excited about Piazza’s big league prospects during his 1991 season in the California League . . . . When I expressed my excitement about Piazza that off-season to general manag
er Fred Claire, I was surprised to hear that the assessments of Piazza by our scouts and player development people were very mixed, and the consensus was, at best, lukewarm about his prospect status. Some felt he would never be more than a “minor league hitter,” and some also thought he would never make it as a catcher and would have to move back to first base . . . . Fred indicated that he was encouraged by Piazza’s 1991 season, but with so many conflicting views, and with the prospects we had in front of Piazza, we could not be making any plans around him. That disappointed me.
At the time, it seemed to me that Tommy had been beating the drum as a one-man band on my behalf. Not that my viewpoint is objective, but I really believe that, in an ironic sort of way, Tommy, unlike most of the nonplaying personnel I’d come across in the organization, considered my prospects without the clutter of bias, without being hung up on draft positions, prototypes, pedigree, politics, jealousy, resentment, or any of the stuff that packed my minor-league years with so much tension.
I was never certain which factor actually hammered me the hardest: the skepticism over my catching skills or the animosity over Tommy’s meddling. It was no secret that he and a lot of the minor-league people weren’t the best of pals. Tommy and the Albuquerque manager, Terry Collins, hated each other, simple as that. At organizational meetings, Tommy would complain that the minor leagues seldom sent him anybody he could work with, and Albuquerque’s general manager, Pat McKernan, would stand up and argue that Tommy didn’t know what to do with the talent he got. What I didn’t realize until later, though, was the size of the rift between Tommy and Fred Claire. Those two couldn’t have been more different in background and style. Fred had started out writing for newspapers, then joined the Dodgers as a public relations assistant and methodically worked his way up to GM. Tommy was all baseball. Fred was slim, buttoned-down, and soft-spoken. Tommy was Tommy. Tommy thought Fred was a pencil-pusher. Fred thought Tommy was a loose cannon.
