by Mike Piazza
The matchup suggested that our game-one prospects were not especially brilliant. They improved a bit, however, when Alfonzo went deep in the first inning. Olerud did the same, with a runner on, in the third—no small feat for a left-handed hitter against Randy Johnson. But Luis Gonzalez tied the game, 4–4, with a two-run homer in the sixth, and the score hadn’t changed when we loaded the bases with one out in the top of the ninth. At that point, the Diamondbacks’ manager, Buck Showalter, took out Johnson—who had eleven strikeouts, including me twice—in favor of reliever Bobby Chouinard. The first batter Chouinard faced was Rickey Henderson, who grounded into a force at home. That brought up Alfonzo, and I’ll be damned if Fonzi didn’t hit it out. Benitez got the save, and afterward, speaking to reporters, I said that we were now assured of going back to New York at least even in the series at one to one and if anybody had offered us that three days before we’d have been ecstatic. For my trouble, I was ripped by a columnist for my lack of leadership skills.
I was on the right track, however. Game two was forgettable except for the pain it inflicted upon my thumb. My thirty-three-ounce bat was feeling like thirty-three rods of rebar.
On the off day before game three in New York, I showed the thumb to Fred Hina. He dragged me to the doctor for a cortisone shot. A big cortisone shot. That night, I woke up with my whole left hand throbbing. I’d had an allergic reaction that led to an infection. They put me on antibiotics and told me there was a slight chance that I’d lose the thumb.
The Mets didn’t miss me much in the two games I sat out. Henderson and Olerud—two great ballplayers whose personalities couldn’t have been more different—had big nights in the first of them, and we closed out the series the next day. Specifically, my replacement, Todd Pratt, closed it out with a walk-off home run against Matt Mantei—who threw really hard, by the way—in the bottom of the tenth.
With that, we’d earned ourselves the dubious privilege of playing the Braves in the National League Championship Series. But at least my thumb would have three days to get itself in working order, which it did.
Not that it mattered in game one. Maddux—who, unlike another great right-hander from our generation, was a credit to the game every time he took the mound—had no sympathy for me or us. Kevin Millwood then proceeded to beat us in game two, 4–3, when the Braves got to Kenny Rogers for four runs in the sixth on two-run homers from Brian Jordan and Eddie Perez. They brought in Smoltz to pitch the ninth, the first time he had ever relieved. He set us down in order and struck out Bobby Bonilla, who was pinch-hitting, to end the game.
Coming home to Shea, we got Glavine in game three. Leiter started for us but fell a run behind in the first inning on errors by him and me. He threw a ball wide of first base and I threw one away on a double steal. The inning ended when Bret Boone tagged up at third on a fly ball to center field and Melvin Mora gunned him out. At the plate, Boone led with his shoulder and knocked me backward, onto my head, which was all recorded from the tumbling view of my helmet cam. I got a mild concussion out of it. I also got two singles in that game, and Leiter pitched seven innings of three-hit ball, but we couldn’t score against Glavine or Mike Remlinger. It was still 1–0 when Bobby Cox turned over the ninth inning to the man whom Shea Stadium had been impatiently waiting for. John Rocker took the mound to a downpour of boos and thundering chants of “Asshole! Asshole!”
It was his first appearance in New York since he had called out our fans in September. To the Mets crowd, Rocker was a more compelling target than Chipper Jones, who had actually fired the first shot. Naturally, the folks didn’t take kindly to Chipper’s remark, either, but he’d never been the villainous type in their eyes; just a good rival they could have some fun with. They called him Larry, which they got from me. The media had found out that I always used his real name when he came to bat: “Hey, Larry, how’s it goin’?” I wasn’t trying to be a jerk; I just couldn’t call a grown man Chipper. The fans expanded that to a Three Stooges theme, but Larry took it well. In fact, I think he enjoyed it. When his third son was born, he actually named him Shea. Chipper’s even-keeled temperament was part of what made him such a poised player, one who seemed to save his best for the big situations. He almost single-handedly beat us down the stretch that year. He earned your admiration.
Rocker was a different story. Working out of the bullpen, he was accessible to the fans in a way that Chipper wasn’t, for one thing. Beyond that, he was much more detestable. As the series wore on, somebody apparently threw a bottle at him and somebody else dumped beer on his girlfriend. It kept building. Fans taunted him, flipped him the bird, held up nasty signs about him. In response, Rocker spat at them and fired a ball into the screen, then laughed when they ducked. Shagging balls before the game in the outfield, he’d make a motion to toss one to a group of fans, then turn and lob it back to the pitcher with an evil smile. Or he’d flip a ball toward fans standing by the rail as he walked off the field, but leave it a few feet short. He also bad-mouthed the crowd when talking to reporters. “I think the majority of the Mets’ fans are not even human,” he said. Rocker probably watched too much wrestling as a kid. Of course, I did, too, but I think he took it literally. Aside from the stupid things he said and did, though, I had to grudgingly give him credit. He had the kind of persona that I appreciated in a pitcher, that attitude of always coming at you. He put us on our heels. He’d flip the resin bag, take a breath, then come over the top blowing gas, throwing as hard as anybody I’d seen in a long time. For a while, Rocker was unhittable.
In game three, he spotted us an error to start the ninth, then put us away without a problem. We were twenty-seven outs from being swept.
Game four was all about Rick Reed and John Olerud, two players I thought very highly of. As a former scab, Reed had to win the respect of his teammates over time. I, for one, didn’t care for his decision to cross the line, but I would never let that interfere with the integrity of a ball game. And there was no disputing that, on the mound, Reed was an impressive guy who won a lot of important games for us. He could hit any corner anytime; probably had the best control of anyone I ever caught. He walked nobody in the seven innings he pitched that night against the Braves.
Olerud, on the other hand, was a guy I respected from the moment I met him. When I’d first arrived in New York, John had counseled me on what it takes to succeed in the city, and he had the perfect makeup for it. I observed him with considerable interest and admired his unflappable approach to both hitting and the game in general. But that was his style, not mine. I was hoping like hell that he’d re-sign with us as a free agent after the season—he was a joy to hit behind—but he ultimately accepted less money to go back home to Seattle. In the meantime, it seemed as though Olerud was right in the middle of anything we did well as an offense. In game four, he drove in all of our runs, with a solo homer in the first and an enormous two-out, two-run, bouncing single in the bottom of the eighth to bring us from behind—to keep our season alive—and complete the scoring at 3–2. That one victimized Rocker, who, being the good sport and master grammarian that he was, described it to the press as “one of the more cheaper hits I’ve given up my entire life.” The winning rally came half an inning after Gerald Williams cracked me on the knuckle with his backswing. Same hand as the hurting thumb. Even beating the Braves was painful.
The game five matchup was Maddux against Yoshii. Actually, Maddux, Terry Mulholland, Remlinger, Russ Springer, Rocker, and Kevin McGlinchy against Yoshii, Hershiser, Turk Wendell, Cook, Mahomes, Franco, Benitez, Rogers, and Octavio Dotel. Fifteen innings. I lasted thirteen. Olerud gave us a 2–0 lead with a home run in the first. The Braves tied it in the fourth on doubles from Boone and Chipper and a single by Brian Jordan. Somewhere in there, Ryan Klesko nailed me in the left forearm with a backswing. I don’t know what it was with the Braves and backswings, but I was starting to feel like a piñata. It was still 2–2 in the top of the thirteenth when, with two outs, Keith Lockhart tried to score on a dou
ble to right by Chipper and was thrown out by Mora. Naturally, Lockhart pounded into the arm that Klesko had clubbed. I stayed in the game to bat against Rocker in the bottom of the inning and made it worse—it felt like I pulled something—swinging at the pitch that struck me out. Bobby informed me I was done for the day. With my hand tingling and my arm howling, I was in no condition to disagree.
Todd Pratt replaced me again and came to bat against Kevin McGlinchy in the bottom of the fifteenth with one out, the bases loaded, and the Braves leading by a run that Lockhart had tripled in. Pratt worked a walk to tie the game and bring up Robin Ventura. For a long time that year, Robin, in addition to being a good guy to hang around with, had ranked as a leading candidate for the MVP award, which Chipper Jones would win. (With thirty-two homers, 120 RBIs, and a .301 batting average, Robin finished seventh. I was next.) But what Ventura’s 1999 season is best remembered for is the so-called grand-slam single he hit over the wall in right-center field to win game five of the league championship series. When the ball cleared the fence, Pratt was so ecstatic that he ran back and hoisted Robin off the ground between first and second base. Then the rest of us joined the mob. The ultimate ruling was that only Roger Cedeno, the runner on third, actually scored. It didn’t matter. We were back in business.
There was a day off before the series resumed in Atlanta, and for twenty-four peaceful hours not a single Brave bruised me with a bat head or lowered shoulder. For that matter, the Atlanta hitters didn’t exactly bash Leiter in game six; but they knocked him out in the first inning, nevertheless. Al hit the first guy and walked the second. Then, following the same old tired script, I made another throwing error on a double steal. Al hit Chipper, Jordan singled, Eddie Perez singled, it was 4–0, and just like that our best pitcher was out of the game. One more run scored after Pat Mahomes replaced Leiter. Millwood was the Braves’ starter, and that’s how it stood until the sixth, when Fonzi doubled, Olerud singled, I hit a sacrifice fly, Ventura doubled, and Darryl Hamilton singled. Suddenly it was 5–3. But in the bottom of the inning, the Braves tacked on two more. And made me very angry.
Turk Wendell hit Brian Jordan leading off, and Jordan was out for blood. He was on third with the bases loaded when Walt Weiss hit a ground ball to Olerud, who brought it home to me. There was no chance for a double play, so I stretched out like a first baseman to receive the throw. Jordan folded me up like a tea table—all but chopped my knees in half. I’d had enough. I snapped. Totally lost it. I screamed at Jordan, “Get your ass off the field! Keep walking, motherfucker!” The whole time, I was hoping desperately that he’d turn back toward me so I could do something stupid. Brian Jordan had played safety in the NFL and was a powerful dude who might have ripped my head off, but at that point, I didn’t give a shit. Thankfully, he kept his cool, and I was still around in the seventh inning when Cox summoned Smoltz for another relief appearance.
This time, we jumped all over him. Double by Matty Franco. Double by Rickey Henderson. Single by Olerud to make it 7–5. And then me. I was squeezing my bat handle so hard that sap was coming out of the other end. Smoltz, in turn, was feeling challenged, and he responded by challenging me. With fastballs, that is. Bear in mind, Smoltz had enough stuff and control that he could throw a good breaking ball for a strike in any count. That had been verified for me when I caught him over the first two innings of the 1996 All-Star Game. I thought at the time, this guy’s good. He was also one of the most intensely competitive pitchers I ever faced. As Olerud took his lead at first and I dug in representing the tying run, that was the reason for all the fastballs that Smoltz kept bringing and I kept fouling off. I knew he wasn’t going to give in and send up a breaking ball, and that was fine with me. In fact, I loved it when pitchers threw down the gauntlet. It was a rush.
I’ve hit longer home runs than that one, but none that felt better, through and through. The game was tied.
In the top of the eighth, Melvin Mora put us ahead, 8–7, with an RBI single. In the bottom, the Braves brought in Otis Nixon, an old pal of mine from the Dodgers, to pinch-run for Eddie Perez against John Franco. As great as Franco was, and as close a friend as he was for a while there—like Olerud, he was a great help in guiding me through the challenges and pressures of New York—I have to say that I didn’t enjoy catching him with a speedy runner on first. Johnny’s best pitch was a kind of fading changeup, and I could never throw anybody out on that damn thing. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have even tried to get Nixon. My throw ended up in center field, Nixon scooted to third, and Brian Hunter drove him in with a single to tie the game. I made the first out in the ninth against Rocker, and then Bobby put me out of my misery. He brought in Pratt to take over for me in a double switch.
Pratt had been uncanny in his reserve role, and once again, he came through, putting us ahead in the top of the tenth with a sacrifice fly that scored Benny Agbayani. In the bottom of the tenth, Ozzie Guillen singled in Andruw Jones to retie it. As Henderson and Bonilla played cards in the clubhouse, our memorable season ended in the eleventh, with Kenny Rogers on the mound. Gerald Williams led off with a double and Rogers intentionally walked both Chipper Jones and Brian Jordan to load the bases. Then he unintentionally walked Andruw Jones, and that was it.
I couldn’t believe it when Atlanta got swept by the Yankees. It’s often been said that the Braves underachieved by losing four out of five World Series and failing to get that far nine other times (after winning division championships) in their remarkable fifteen-year run (remember, there was no postseason in 1994). And that may be so, I suppose. But I prefer to remember them for all the games and titles they did win. The Braves were the worthiest opponent of my time.
That said, they could sure screw up a good summer. After they got us in game six, I was so disconsolate that I couldn’t even fly back with the team. Instead, I rented a car, cranked up the music, and just started driving west through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, checking out Civil War sites—loved Vicksburg—and fattening up at greasy spoons. I didn’t tell anybody but Danny. I just needed to get the hell away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A baseball team is a social circle. For at least seven months of the year, the players dress in the same rooms as each other, shower in the same showers, fly in the same planes, drink in the same bars, spit in the same dugouts, argue with the same umpires, complain about the same managers, get misquoted by the same writers, celebrate the same victories, and curse the same defeats. As it happened, our Mets clubs—the ones around the turn of the century, in particular—were uncommonly companionable. Groups of eight or ten of us would frequently sit around a table with glasses of wine and shoot the shit about the game, among other things. A carload or two would go out for karaoke, and I’d get it started with “Welcome to the Jungle.” We’d rent out rooms to watch championship fights together; even Bobby would come.
I’ve found it wise, though, not to get too attached. With rare exceptions, baseball relationships are short-lived. Whether it’s by trade, free agency, retirement, jealousy, disagreement, marriage, or no particular reason at all, we inevitably go our separate ways. Eric Karros remains my best friend in the game, but I rarely speak to him anymore; we live on opposite coasts. I enjoy the company of Al Leiter, but our paths seldom intersect. I see Johnny Franco on occasion, but it isn’t the same.
My connection with Rickey Henderson lasted just over a year. The Mets released Rickey in May 2000, which meant that he helped us to the playoffs in his only full season with the ball club. He was instrumental in not only getting us there, but in how the playoff shares—the bonuses earned from MLB for each postseason series—were divided. The shares meeting is always an interesting exercise in human dynamics, sort of a microcosm of democracy. Rickey was the most generous guy I ever played with, and whenever the discussion came around to what we should give one of the fringe people—whether it was a minor leaguer who came up for a few days or the parking lot attendant—Rickey would shout out, “Full
share!” We’d argue for a while and he’d say, “Fuck that! You can change somebody’s life!” I admired Rickey’s heart, but I usually came down somewhere in the middle.
Meanwhile, with Olerud gone, I’d lobbied hard for the Mets to sign my old cohort, Todd Zeile, to play first base, which they did. As an example of the fluid nature of baseball relationships . . . Zeile and I had been good friends in Los Angeles and briefly in Florida. In his absence, in 1999, I’d taken Robin Ventura under my wing. Robin, who had spent ten years with the White Sox, was new to the Mets and funny as hell, a great storyteller. Some of his best gags involved his old hitting coach, Walt Hriniak, who had become a sort of baseball cult hero for his work with Wade Boggs. Robin kept me laughing with Hriniak stories of “Boggsie,” “green cathedrals,” and old-school stuff like telling opposing pitchers, as they walked by the batting cage, that “we’re getting ready for your ass.” Not surprisingly, when Zeile came to New York, he fell in with Robin and me. But Todd and Robin were both married, and they had more in common with each other than they did with me. I was the odd man out.
Generally, I enjoyed hanging around with married guys, because I learned from them; but it always seemed to me that married players were somehow a little less motivated—a little more satisfied, perhaps—than single guys. On the road, for instance, Todd and Robin might lie around by the swimming pool until the early afternoon, something I’d never do and never tell them not to do. In our case, another point of departure emerged when several of us invested in a movie, Dirty Deeds, that Zeile was involved with as a producer. It’s not in my DNA to take my money lightly, and I didn’t get much of a kick out of losing it. I grumbled. Mostly I was angry at myself for investing unwisely and ignoring the time-tested advice about doing business with friends. It was a teaching moment. It also made me a little more savvy, movie-wise, in a way that would later come in handy.
