Doc: A Memoir (20 page)

In the car ride back to St. Petersburg, I let Ray have it. “What the hell were we doing there?” I asked him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ray said.

“He has no interest in signing me,” I scoffed. “You just wanted to meet with him, right?”

“No, that’s BS,” Ray countered. “Give it time. He just wanted to feel you out. I have no doubt they’ll call back.”

Sure enough, the next day Ray got a call from George, asking us to meet at his hotel in Tampa, the Bay Harbor Inn. This time, my dad came along too, almost an echo of our very first contract talks with the New York Mets. Two hours later, George offered me a deal: one year guaranteed with options for a second and a third year. He wanted me to play winter ball before the 1996 season.

Right there at the table, I agreed.

George looked at me and said, “I know you’ve had a great career so far. I think you’ll also have a great career with us.”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “Yes, sir.”

No-Hitter

I
WENT TO NEW YORK WITH
my head on straight. I moved back into my place in Roslyn, which was a long commute to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. But I felt comfortable on Long Island. I had a purpose again. I was playing major-league baseball and lucky to have the chance. I was staying out of nightclubs. I wasn’t using cocaine. I was happy being drug tested two or three times a week. I wanted no gray area when it came to people’s opinions or curiosity about me. My attitude was, “Don’t take my word for it. Just check the test.”

As soon as school got out for the summer, Monica and the kids joined me in New York. If the Yankees had a day game, we’d all go out to dinner at Pizza Hut or Chuck E. Cheese’s. Being together like that without so much chaos was a huge relief for all of us. I felt like a dad as much as a ballplayer.

Too bad I got off to such a lousy pitching start.

By the time I won my first game for the Yankees, on May 8 against Detroit, I’d already lost three and collected two no-decisions. The reporters were wondering when I’d be bounced to AAA ball. Mel Stottlemyre, the old Mets pitching coach who’d come over to the Yankees, was working hard with me. Even George was feeling some pressure. After my third straight loss, he wouldn’t even stop when I tried to introduce him to Monica in the players’ parking lot. “When are you going to win a fucking game?” he grumbled as he breezed by. He did approach me the next day with a heartfelt apology. “Sorry, Doc,” he said. “I was just caught up in the game.” And he sent a huge bouquet of roses to Monica.

I was really getting jumpy. I had this second chance. Slowly, steadily, then quite dramatically, my pitching improved. It didn’t come a minute too soon. David Cone, who’d come to pitch for the Yankees the year before I did, was out with an aneurysm in his right armpit. I was in the rotation to stay.

Back in Florida, my dad’s health was falling apart. He was on dialysis three times a week for four hours a pop. But his kidney ailments were aggravating his hip replacement. His diabetes and gout were off the charts. As doctors prepped for another hip operation, they discovered he’d need open-heart surgery.

“I’m so scared, son,” my mother said on the phone. “They’re telling me he has two weeks to live if they don’t do the surgery. If he has the surgery, there’s no guarantee he’ll make it through.”

My father had at times been a challenging husband. From my early days sitting outside his girlfriend’s apartment, I’d witnessed some of that firsthand. But he and my mom had been together so long—and shared so much—she could barely imagine life without him.

“When do they want to do it, Mom?”

“They could decide on a moment’s notice,” she explained. “As soon as they think he’s ready, they’ll wheel him in.”

“I’ll come home if you need me,” I said, my eyes filling with tears.

“Your father needs you more than I do,” my mom said. “It may be your last chance to see each other.”

A few days later, my mom was on the phone again. “Dwight,” she said, “your father’s having surgery on Wednesday morning.”

On Tuesday night, I was scheduled to start against the Seattle Mariners. I discussed my dad’s condition with Joe Torre, the Yankees’ manager. Seeing my dad, Joe said, was bigger than baseball. George told me to do whatever I felt was right. I made afternoon reservations to fly to Tampa and skip the start.

But when I woke up on May 14 and started brushing my teeth, I didn’t see myself in the mirror. I saw my dad playing catch with me. Teaching Gary how to swing. Showing both of us how to run the bases. I saw him in the stands at my Little League games, smiling next to his friend who first called me “Doc.” Then, my dad was on the front steps bluffing Joe McIlvaine.

My dad wasn’t a great communicator, not in the usual sense. But he always had his own ways of letting me know what he thought. He loved me. I never doubted that. And he loved baseball.

“If you want to be great,” he told me, more times than I could possibly count, “everything else comes after baseball.”

So what did that mean? Should I stay and pitch against Seattle and have my dad die before I got home? Should I fly down to Tampa immediately? What was my father telling me?

I thought about that for just a few seconds, then the answer was perfectly clear to me.

“Take the baseball and pitch,” my father would say.

I couldn’t perform the surgery that would save his life. What I could do was honor him in the only way I knew how to, playing the game he had taught me, living the dream I had learned from him.

“I think I’m staying,” I called and told Monica.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” she gasped. “Your mother is beside herself. Your family needs you.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” I told her. “But Dad wants me here. Even if he only sees one inning on television. He’ll know why I’m on the mound.”

We hung up the phone, agreeing to disagree.

My mom called approximately forty-five seconds later. I wasn’t budging. We hung up simply disagreeing. But part of me started doubting myself. There was still plenty of time to change my mind. I could get right out to LaGuardia Airport and hop on a plane. I called Joe.

“It’s totally unnecessary to stay, Dwight,” he said. “Listen, you go to Tampa. Take as much time as you need. Your job with the Yankees doesn’t depend on this start. We do this one hundred and sixty-two times a year. You only get one dad.”

“It’s okay, Joe,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

The hours flew by. I packed some clothes because I knew I’d be traveling to Tampa, one way or another. The next time I looked at the clock, I saw I had twenty minutes if I wanted to catch the two p.m. flight. I drove to Yankee Stadium instead.

If I could get the thoughts of my dad out of my head, I figured, I’d be okay on the mound. If I couldn’t, I’d be cooked. I really needed to focus my attention on the Mariners’ lineup.

Once I got to the stadium, I tried to put my dad totally out of my head. I put on my uniform and went out to the bullpen to warm up. Mel came out to watch me.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m good,” I said, not knowing if I was or not. But there was no turning back now. Mel, Joe, and even George were in my corner. I knew I couldn’t exactly dress, warm up, and then announce that I’d decided not to pitch. No other starting pitcher would be loose or warm. I’d gotten back some confidence after my past few starts. But this was a whole new kind of pressure, the kind that barely a year ago would have
had me thinking, “I can’t wait to get out of here and go get high.” But I’d been changing. I was going to withstand that pressure and give this game my all. I didn’t stay behind to get rocked for four lousy innings. I was here to pitch the absolute best I could.

That thought came back to me when I took the mound and walked the Mariners’ first batter, Darren Bragg. The count went to 3–2, and I threw a curve to him that looked good to me but not to the ump. The first batter of the game was now on base, and the Mariners’ young superstar Alex Rodriguez was at the plate.

Three years into his pro career and only twenty, A-Rod would have a breakout season in 1996, hitting .358 and crushing thirty-six home runs. For any pitcher, this kid was trouble. His line shot to dead center sent Gerald Williams sprinting toward the wall and my heart sinking.

At the last possible second, Gerald stabbed his glove skyward and hauled the ball in like he was scooping ice cream out of the sky. I could barely believe it, I was that unnerved. If Gerald’s Willie Mays act didn’t happen, I’d have no one out in the first and a runner on second or third. Nothing that followed would have happened without that catch.

Gerald wasn’t done. After he caught the ball, he pivoted and threw a laser beam to Derek Jeter at shortstop. Jeter turned and fired the ball to Tino Martinez at first base to double-up Bragg, who by then was confidently approaching third base. Lifted by 31,000 cheering fans, I thought of my dad in Tampa in his hospital bed. I hoped he was watching. I knew he’d be smiling if he was.

When the Yankees were at bat, I didn’t even watch for the first three innings. I walked halfway down the tunnel to the clubhouse and just stood there by myself. I thought about my dad and got teary-eyed. Did I make the right decision? I thought I had.

In the top of the sixth inning, Gerald came through again, swooping underneath an Edgar Martinez line drive as it was about to hit the grass. That ended another potentially troublesome inning. Due to a Tino bobble that was ruled an error, the Mariners already had a runner
on second base. But I still hadn’t really processed what was happening here.

Going into the top of the seventh, my teammates were all clued in. Joe Girardi, our catcher, had stopped talking to me. Derek, Wade Boggs, even the other pitchers—none of them would say a word. The only guy who would speak to me was the assistant trainer, Steve Donahue. He spent the early part of the game keeping me calm and letting me know the whole club was there for me if I needed anything.

The fans were on their feet, cheering loudly. But I figured that was just because they were psyched we were holding our own. This was the first time we’d faced the Mariners since they’d knocked us out of the playoffs the year before.

That’s the first time I remember looking at the scoreboard. Only zeros up there. My heart really began to pump. For the first time, I allowed myself to focus on the fact. I had a no-hitter going. I was six innings deep. Could it last?

In the seventh and eighth, I retired batters in order. But my pitch count was getting higher. Could I get through the ninth before the Mariners got to me? Would my aching arm hold out?

I locked in and went as hard as I could. I didn’t know when I’d ever be in this position again. Problem was, I was just about on empty. I had one inning to go.

I put A-Rod on with a walk. Then Griffey hit a grounder that sent first baseman Tino Martinez in motion. A-Rod made it safely to second. As Tino went after the ball, I should have covered first base for him. He could have flipped the ball to me for an easy out. For some reason, I was frozen, transfixed, watching Tino make the play.

Griffey motored down the base path. In a split second, I saw my no-hitter going out the window on an infield hit in the ninth inning. Tino fielded the ball and sprinted toward first base to try to make the play himself. Griffey was flying. Tino wasn’t going to make it. At the last
second, ball in glove, Tino dove toward the base. Arm outstretched, he slapped the bag an instant before Griffey’s foot landed.

One out.

You’d think I could breathe a sigh of relief there. No. I walked Edgar Martinez to put runners on first and second. Mel came to visit me.

“Got anything left, Doc?” he asked me. Before I could speak he said, “I know the answer.”

“The answer,” I said, “is no. I don’t have shit left. But I’m not coming out. No chance.”

Mel went back to the dugout, convinced I was either going to throw a no-hitter or cost the Yankees the ball game. We were only winning 2–0. He’d done his part in asking. No one would blame him for leaving a pitcher on the mound eight and one-third innings into a no-hitter. The people were on their feet. They wanted me to stay in.

Jay Buhner came up, and I threw a wild pitch. The runners advanced to second and third. Now I was one mistake from blowing the no-hitter and the game. I took Buhner to a count of 2–2 before he went down swinging.

Two outs.

The Mariners’ first baseman Paul Sorrento came up. At two balls and a strike, I threw him a curve that hung a little too long. Five times out of ten, that’s a home run for a halfway decent hitter. I got lucky. Sorrento was too far underneath it and popped the ball up to Derek Jeter at short. Derek had to step back into the outfield, waving everyone else away. The ball hung up in the nighttime sky for what seemed like forever. Then I heard a small pop when it landed in Derek’s firm glove.

That was three.

I’d thrown my first no-hitter. In my wildest dreams, I’d never dare imagine this. It was beyond sweet.

My teammates hoisted me up on their shoulders, a major-league
first for me. They knew what this one meant to me. All of us together were celebrating the long and difficult journey I had so recently come off. We were celebrating the father who for me had launched it all.

When they put me down, I went straight to the clubhouse and called my dad’s hospital room.

“How’s Daddy?” I asked my mother when she picked up the phone.

“He’s kind of out of it,” she said. “We had the game on the TV, though.”

“Did he see me?” I hoped to God the answer was yes. Mom didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she said. “He was in and out of consciousness for most of the game. But when you got the final out and they carried you off the field, he knew what was happening. He could hardly speak but he said, ‘Our boy did it. A no-hitter, oh my God.’ And he cried.”

I was on the first flight the next morning.

The news of my no-hitter was everywhere. People kept coming up to me—at LaGuardia, on the plane, again when we landed in Tampa—wanting my autograph. At the hospital, people were shaking my hand on the way to my dad’s room.