Long Shot

by Mike Piazza

  Generally, though, I didn’t have a lot of trouble catching Candiotti . . . until June 12, when we beat the Padres, 6–4, in spite of my four—yes, four—passed balls. His knuckleball was the devil itself on that night. I tried calling for curveballs, but there was no way he’d go for that. The way he saw it, if I couldn’t knock down his knuckler with a special mitt the size of a sofa cushion, what chance did the batter have to square it up with a twig of ash? There was another occasion, though, when we had a big lead and just for the hell of it—or maybe it was for my sake—Candiotti decided to throw nothing but his lackluster fastball for a while. It worked for a couple of batters, and then they started lighting him up. So he called me out to the mound and we kicked at the dirt and let the wind blow a little bit, as Johnny Roseboro would put it, and then Candiotti looked at me and said, “Forget Plan B.”

  There were fewer complications on the batting end of it. Later in June, in Cincinnati, I clobbered a ball that the Los Angeles Times reported might have gone five hundred feet, maybe even 550, if it hadn’t been stopped by the upper deck. Eric Davis said, “That guy is from another planet.” When we returned to Chavez Ravine and I was introduced with the lineups, I was greeted by a rousing reception that was something new for me. Then I hit a three-run homer and caught Ramon Martinez’s shutout.

  “It’s kind of cool, and it’s a little flattering,” I was quoted saying in the Times, concerning the cheers. “In my last at-bat, they were really charged up. I think it’s neat.” Yeah, I said “neat.” I wasn’t always a badass.

  That was the series in which Sports Illustrated came out to do a cover story on me. It was a heady time, and I’m afraid I fell into the trap of getting too full of myself, which led to a regrettable error in judgment the following week. Roy Campanella died on June 26 and I didn’t show up for his funeral in Hollywood Hills on the morning of the thirtieth.

  McDowell and Gott made it, and without a doubt I should have, too. Ross Newhan of the Times let me have it at the bottom of a notes column, under the heading of “Where’s Piazza?”:

  John Roseboro, Joe Ferguson, Steve Yeager, and Mike Scioscia—an impressive string of Dodger catchers who were all helped and influenced by Roy Campanella—attended Wednesday morning’s memorial service for the Hall of Famer, but Piazza, the new Dodger catcher and another visitor to Campy’s Corner in Vero Beach, was conspicuous by his absence. Of course, Piazza had a night game Tuesday and another Wednesday, a pretty tiring schedule for a 24-year-old who noted the other day that he’s getting sick of all the media questions and attention regarding his rookie-of-the-year chances . . . . Piazza has come a long way from the 62nd round of the 1988 draft, but it can be a short trip back.

  Newhan’s item came out on the Fourth of July, and the SI story—“Blue Plate Special”—was dated the fifth. I was playing defense in the cover photo and swinging the bat in the two-page spread inside, accompanied by the headline, “A Piazza With Everything.” The article quoted Greg Maddux—Greg Maddux!—saying, “He’s one of the better hitters in the game right now . . . . A lot of people have trouble in their second or third year after a really good first season, but I would be really surprised if he did.” Among the pictures was one of Tommy pinching me on the cheek.

  I have to say, the photo made me cringe a bit. It was more ammunition for well-informed, opportunistic fans like the ones at Shea Stadium. I was walking out to the bullpen to warm up the pitcher before a game there one night, and the loudest people in the house—God love ’em—are yelling stuff like, “It’s not who you know, is it, Mike?”

  Honestly, I was bitter about that subject. Wherever we went, I kept hearing it over and over, in all forms—the godson (which I wasn’t), nepotism, the silver spoon, growing up as a dilettante, all of that. People assumed I spent my childhood taking violin lessons; that somehow my family bought my way to the major leagues. Nobody would give me credit for, one, being a pretty good ballplayer, and two, working like hell to get there. I know that credit shouldn’t matter, really. But it did. In my experience, it would always be the hardest thing to get.

  • • •

  Otherwise, there wasn’t much to gripe about in my rookie year. That didn’t stop me, however. I was committed to the art.

  For starters, I couldn’t tolerate anything that distracted me from playing baseball. I mean, anything. Like kids in the clubhouse. I’m ashamed to admit that, now that I have two daughters of my own, but the fact is, I had a hard time drawing the line between focus and selfishness. I was so single-minded about my job that it was all about me—my meals, my sleep, my privacy, my rights—and I hated it when teammates allowed their kids to run around when we were putting on our game faces, or taking them off. Cory Snyder was Mormon, and he had a gang of them. At one point, we actually held a team meeting to talk about day care. I think Orel, Jim Gott, and Tom Candiotti organized it. The discussion was that there were going to be new babysitters in the wives’ room, and they were going to supply toys and coloring books. This went on and on until finally Tommy couldn’t stand it anymore and blurted out, “What the fuck? A fucking day care? Let’s get some fucking runs!” Best meeting ever.

  Of course, I don’t mean for that to reflect poorly on good fathers in general or Cory Snyder in particular. Cory was a good teammate, and, in fact, one worth fighting for. Especially if it meant fighting the Rockies. I hated them about as much as kids in the clubhouse.

  We had some battles with those guys. Literally. Once, at Mile High Stadium, Ramon Martinez buzzed Andres Galarraga, who led the league that year with a .370 batting average. Galarraga ended up singling for his fourth hit of the game. Then Ramon tried to pick him off first base and hit Galarraga in the neck. On the next pitch, Galarraga took off for second, and I threw him out by twenty feet. But while he was being tagged, Galarraga kicked Jody Reed in the elbow and put him on the DL. The next batter was Charlie Hayes, and Ramon, doing his duty, drilled him in the back. Hayes just erupted, screaming, “I’m gonna kill him! I’m gonna kill him!” He tore out for Ramon before I had a chance to even slow him down. On one hand, it’s the catcher’s job to protect his pitcher whether or not he agrees or gets along with him. On the other hand, we’re not the speediest class of athletes. The system works best when it’s another catcher we’re trying to get our hands on. Anyway, Ramon runs off the mound like a gazelle and Tim Wallach dashes in from third base and takes down Charlie Hayes with a sliding tackle. We all jumped into it, and then suddenly I felt like a little kid being picked off the pile. It was big ol’ Don Baylor, the Rockies’ manager, telling me, “That’s enough, that’s enough.”

  The next inning, I caught hold of a fastball from Keith Shepherd—I was on time for that one—and crushed it way the hell out to center field for my second home run of the game. The next batter was Cory Snyder, and Shepherd hit him. Shepherd was a boxer, and after he nailed Snyder he stood out on the mound staring into our dugout going, “Come on! Come on!” We all looked at one another, nodded, then charged out there at the same time and kicked his ass. Bloodied his lip, at least.

  That brings me to pitchers. Since it’s so vital for a battery to be of the same mind in the course of a ball game, I wish I could say that I got along famously with every pitcher I ever worked with; that they were my best friends on the ball club and my special guests for Thanksgiving dinner. Not the case. Right from my rookie year, I picked up on a pattern in the clubhouse: pitchers on one side, everyday players on the other. Or, more to the point, pitchers on one side, me on the other. And among the pitchers, Ramon and Pedro Martinez tended to be front and center. That was why, privately, I was so pleased with Eric one day when he blew up Ramon.

  Ramon had gotten knocked around a couple times and simply left the ballpark after he was taken out of the game. So Karros calls a meeting and he stands up, looks at Ramon, and goes, “I just want to ask this: Why the fuck are you leaving, dude? We’re out there busting our asses trying to get you to spit the fucking hook and you’re walking out the tu
nnel in the fucking fifth inning and getting in your fucking Ferrari and driving home?” Poor Ramon was shaking, almost crying. Then Orel got up, and it turned into a pitchers-against-hitters thing. He was really just trying to be the peacemaker, but I didn’t want to hear it. That day, I was proud to be the friend of Eric Karros.

  Needless to say, however, I was always on my pitcher’s side in any dispute with an umpire. Most of it was general principle, but now and then a particular ump—Paul Runge, for example—would afford me another reason.

  We were playing the Florida Marlins, and early in the game there was a play at the plate. I put the tag down but Runge called the runner safe, which I disagreed with. I said something like, “Aw, come on.” He didn’t answer—just stared at me with cold, penetrating, Charlie Manson eyes. I thought, oh shit. Later, I was batting against Ryan Bowen, three-two count, and I just sort of twitched a little bit toward a ball in the dirt. I trotted off to first base, and before I could take two steps Paul Runge’s yelling, “Yeahhhh! Ouuuttt!”

  I knew he was baiting me, so I didn’t utter a word. I sat down in the dugout, strapped on my shin guards, went back out there, and Runge said, “You know, Mikey, Johnny Bench used to try to steal pitches from me all the time, and I told him, ‘Johnny, just catch the fucking ball. Don’t try to pull it back and snatch it back and frame it and all that bullshit.’ ” I think he was passing that along in a friendly, helpful sort of way, as if to say, okay, I tested you and you passed, so I’ll give you a little tip. Yeah, thanks, pal.

  Frankly, though, it was out of character for me to respond so placidly. Playing angry had become a basic part of my game, and I didn’t feel compelled to change. After my Vero Beach drama, when I’d been driven to the brink of quitting and came back with my teeth bared, I was self-indulgent about my anger. As often as not, if I didn’t get a hit, I’d pitch a fit. I mean, I’d go off.

  I know it rubbed a lot of guys the wrong way. My temper made me look immature, which I was, and all about me, which I also was, but with a purpose. I truly believed, and still do, that a ballplayer can be selfish and still be a team player. Joe Morgan once shared with me his philosophy on how a team wins: by having a bunch of players who produce career years at the same time. I wanted every year I had to be a career year, and for that to happen, I felt like I needed every at-bat to be successful. If it wasn’t, I was incensed. It was as if something was always chasing me and I had to just keep going, keep going, no failures, no stopping, keep going, gotta have a hit.

  I’m sure a lot of players hate it when they squander at-bats, but they don’t destroy the dugout; so, yeah, I confess to pushing it too far. I’d throw bats and helmets. I’d scream and cuss and make a scene all-around. When I’d see a great player like Fred McGriff strike out with the bases loaded, walk back to the dugout, lay his bat down, put away his helmet, and trot back out to play defense, I’d think, hmm, maybe I need to control myself. The idea never lasted long. That just wasn’t how I was wired. Like it or not—and frankly, I liked it—a baseball game brought out in me what Al Leiter, my future teammate, describes as “that controlled rage that practically everybody who’s worth anything plays with.”

  On one level, most of my teammates understood; on another, they just shook their heads; and on another, they thought—some, if not most of them—that I was just a total, self-absorbed, narcissistic, red-assed jerk. A few of them called me Snapper, in reference to my temper. Tommy would ream me out over the stunts I pulled in fits of rage. He was afraid I’d hurt myself, because I’d kick and punch things as hard as I could. He told me that Frank Howard had once banged his elbow on the bench after making an out, and it really set him back. Eventually, I stopped kicking stuff because I’d screwed up my toe by trying to punt the dugout; but I had better technique with punching.

  When I was a kid, I was a Bruce Lee guy and always watched Kung Fu Theater on Saturday mornings. I also read a book in which he talked about disciplines called “kungs.” There was a speed-running kung, an eyesight kung, and an “iron-fist kung,” in which a guy broke his knuckles on a big rock, then allowed the knuckles to heal and proceeded to punch and punch the rock until ultimately it would move. The principle is that you have to clench your fist as tightly as you can and be committed to the punch—drive straight through it, even if you’re hitting a concrete wall. When I punched the wall of the dugout, it was an iron-fist kung. I’d never catch it at an angle or off center. Never with a haymaker. Always short and flush.

  I may have actually broken my knuckles a few times doing that, but I never said anything. I just varied my routine a little. Once, I messed up a shopping cart in the clubhouse. In Atlanta, I threw a water jug. In Montreal, I slammed my helmet against the wall and it bounced into the stands, where a fan grabbed it and wouldn’t give it back. At Dodger Stadium, I struck out and tried to fire my helmet into the little slot in the dugout by the bat rack. I missed the slot and the helmet ricocheted and nicked the head of one of our trainers, Dr. Bill Buhler. I rushed up and apologized to him, and he said he was okay, not to worry about it; but that incident made me less dangerous with a helmet in my hand. Still, my anger didn’t fade. Maryann Hudson, the beat reporter for the Los Angeles Times, wrote of me, “He likes to play baseball as if he is tearing somebody’s head off.” She had it right.

  “People are always telling Mike that he should smile more,” Lasorda told her. “But I say leave him alone. This is how he got here.”

  That was just his nature, and it probably allowed him to achieve the success he achieved. He wasn’t that way off the field. But if that’s all you’re seeing, I could understand how, as a teammate, you may not be feeling like really rooting for this guy. Nobody felt like he’s the underdog, let’s pull for him. It wasn’t jealousy—just, I’m not pulling for this guy; he’s a pain in the ass. He’d sit in the dugout going, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I used to watch and cringe when he’d make an out. He’d say, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!,” then hit his fist on the concrete. It wasn’t with the open palm, just for show. He would literally smoke the concrete top of the dugout with his closed fist. How he didn’t break his hand in fifty different places ten different times, I’ll never know. That was his greatest achievement in baseball.

  —Eric Karros

  • • •

  The baseball life had its effects, as you might expect, and they were magnified by my immediate success. So, for that matter, did the culture of Southern California.

  There’s no disputing that California changed me. I loved growing up in Phoenixville and I give it credit for my drive, work ethic, and value system; but after I’d been in Los Angeles long enough to get the hang of it, I was thinking, well, let’s see, I’ve got the beach, I’ve got Hollywood, I’ve got Sunset Strip . . . I don’t think I’ll be going back to Sal’s or Nardi’s anytime soon. I guess that’s how your mind works when you’re twenty-four and the good life is coming at you in waves.

  I have to say that California style was not something I came by naturally. I had to step it up. One of the girls I dated said I dressed like a redneck. I wouldn’t have minded, except that I was feeling the need to be more like what I thought I was supposed to be like, now that I had sand in my shoes, money in my pocket, and press at my locker. At one point, I was talking to a friend back home about my first season in the big leagues and he said, “I don’t care about that. Have you slept with Pamela Anderson?” That was an epiphany for me. Is this really what guys expect out of me? And yeah, I was influenced by that. Maybe if I’d been more confident outside of baseball, maybe if I’d been more social in high school, maybe if I’d have completed college, maybe if everybody outside my family (or so it seemed) hadn’t doubted me from the time I was seventeen years old, I wouldn’t have cared what people expected of me. But I cared. I cared deeply. A couple of decades later, with the advantage of perspective, my best advice would be to shut out all the noise and make your own personal choices; to seek after what you think is important, not some shallow, superficial, popu
lar concept of status and satisfaction. Young men are being taught and tantalized by the wrong things. I certainly was. I was sold the whole bill of goods. I wanted to be the rock star.

  Thankfully, Eric was there to help me with the particulars, like clothes. Eric actually had a clothes guy. Everybody had a clothes guy—not to mention a car guy and an electronics guy and a pay-my-bills guy. I could hold my own with cars and electronics, but I needed some sartorial expertise in a big way. The Dodgers didn’t allow us to wear jeans on the road; always a suit and tie. Not only that, but the players had this thing going where they’d all try to outdo each other on the plane, as far as looking good. I had no suits and no chance. So Eric introduced me to the clothes guy whom Hershiser had introduced him to, Alex of Best Dressed by Alex. He made me three suits, two sport coats, and some slacks, and I wrote him a check for around thirty-two hundred dollars. My hand was actually shaking as I cut that check. But I knew I had to step it up. I was severely style-challenged. A few people seemed to think I acquired some, soon enough, but that was only because there were professionals around to see to it. Even when I was in New York, playing for the Mets, the famous designer Joseph Abboud told one of my teammates, Robin Ventura, that “we need to get Piazza into some of our clothes. He dresses like a monkey.”

  In that respect, Manhattan Beach was my refuge. I didn’t have to dress up to sit in the sand or have a beer at Harry O’s. And it didn’t take long to become well stocked in casual wear. The president of Quiksilver, Bob McKnight, was a huge sports fan, and he’d invite me, Eric, and Raul Mondesi to his warehouse in Huntington Beach and say, “Pick out what you want. Go crazy.” We’d load up on T-shirts, shorts, sunglasses, flannels, hats, whatever. I once brought along a friend named Eddie Braun who was a stuntman. Eddie called it “the rape-and-pillage store.” We also got a lot of gear from No Fear. I was all set.