Long Shot (37 page)

We trailed them by only one game when we met in Atlanta in late September. I’d homered in the previous game, a victory over the Phillies, but was dealing with a sore and swollen left thumb, banged up two nights before
that
on a foul tip off the bat of Ron Gant. Since the X-rays were negative and the Braves were next, the thumb would just have to hurt. And I don’t say that to sound valiant. That’s just the way it is, for everybody, in a 162-game baseball season. But especially for catchers. And
most
especially for catchers in closely contested pennant races.

For all the hype surrounding the Subway Series, our chief rival was Atlanta. As a rule, the Braves worked us over pretty good. Hell, they owned us. At one point, I stated publicly that we always seemed to play tight against the Braves, as though they had a psychological advantage going in. The follow-up was a report that one Met said I should take a look at myself instead of trying to psychoanalyze the whole ball club. Over the years, in fact, there was a lot of stuff in the New York papers that the mysterious “one Met said.” At any rate, my remark certainly didn’t imply an insufficient respect for the Braves’ incredible pitching. The fundamental problem, for us, was Maddux, Glavine, and Smoltz. Also Chipper Jones, the great third baseman.

This time around, it was more of the same. Smoltz handled us 2–1. Then Glavine took care of us 5–2. I hit my thirty-seventh homer that night, and got another the next day against Maddux, but Chipper Jones—the very guy we weren’t supposed to let beat us—topped me with a three-run blast against Leiter, his forty-fifth of the season, and they did it again, 6–3. They got us nine times that year out of twelve, the same as the year before. The series sweep pretty much wrapped up another division title for the Braves, their fifth in a row and eighth in nine seasons.

When we hobbled out of Atlanta, we were no longer competing expressly with the Braves. It was now between us and the Reds for the wild card; and in spite of our beaten asses, we were looking good, still ahead by a couple games. The trouble was, the Atlanta series shoved us into a seven-game losing streak, which lasted until the Braves came to New York a few days later and we managed to win the middle game of three. But they went
on to take the rubber match in eleven innings, after which Chipper Jones said something to the press about the good people at Shea being able to go home now and change into their Yankees jerseys. Atlanta’s loose-cannon closer, John Rocker, chimed in that he hated the Mets, adding, “How many times do we have to beat them before their fans will shut up?”

We’d fallen two games behind Cincinnati by the time the Pirates arrived for the last series of the season. In the opener on Friday night, I was intentionally walked to load the bases in the bottom of the eleventh and Ventura delivered a two-out single for the win. On Saturday night, one of my heavy-metal heroes, Zakk Wylde of Black Label Society—I actually grunted a couple of backup words when “Stronger than Death” was recorded, and I’m the godfather of his son, Hendrix—ripped off a cool, controversial national anthem and presented me with an electric guitar. Then, in a 7–0 shutout by Rick Reed, I hit my fortieth home run. Ironically, the forty homers for the season went with 124 RBIs, numbers that happened to precisely match the totals of my last full year in Los Angeles.

The Saturday victory sent us into the regular season’s final day in a wildcard tie with the Reds, who, thank you very much, lost the first two games of their series in Milwaukee. On that suspenseful Sunday, Hershiser turned in a clutch performance and I was at the plate in the bottom of the ninth, with one out and the bases loaded in a 1–1 game, when Brad Clontz relieved my old roommate, Greg Hansell. On his first pitch, Clontz fired up a wild one to hand us our ninety-sixth victory. But we didn’t know what it meant because the Reds hadn’t played yet. They were scheduled for a late-afternoon game in Milwaukee. So we all meandered up to the Stadium Club to have dinner and watch nervously, not knowing whether we were headed to Arizona for the first round of the playoffs or to Cincinnati for a sudden-death game.

The answer turned out to be Cincinnati, and I’d never seen it so wired. The crowd on Monday night was insane. But Al Leiter subdued it slowly, methodically, inning by inning, as he sliced through the likes of Barry Larkin, Sean Casey, Greg Vaughn, and Aaron Boone with a two-hit shutout. The final was 5–0, and it was, in effect, our fourth straight sudden-death victory; a loss in any of one of those games would have left us out of the playoffs.

Under the circumstances, it was maybe the best-pitched game I ever caught. Catching it was certainly the best thing I did that night—better, by far, than walking three times (and finishing the season at .303)—and also the most painful. After that foul tip from Ron Gant, my thumb had never healed. Leiter just pulverized it with that cutter of his. He made me sore and proud in roughly the same proportions.

• • •

With Leiter unavailable for the playoff opener in Arizona, we had to throw Masato Yoshii up against the best pitcher in the National League that year. Randy Johnson had led the league in ERA, complete games, and strikeouts, which brought him his first of an amazing four straight NL Cy Young awards, on top of the one he’d already earned in the American League. At six foot ten, left-handed, side-wheeling, mullet-haired, with ferocious stuff and just the right amount of wildness, Johnson scared the shit out of a lot of hitters. He might have done the same to me if he’d been right-handed. I can’t say that I lit him up over the years, but I had my hits against him—mostly singles, except for one home run. Personality-wise, Randy was considered kind of inscrutable and “out there,” which only added to his mystique. That didn’t faze me, though, because we had something very much in common. Like me, he was, and is, a hard-rock freak. On the occasions when we bumped into each other, the conversation was more likely to be about Twisted Sister than Sammy Sosa. Randy’s also an amateur photographer, and goes from concert to concert taking pictures. I mean, the man is seriously into it. I hooked him up with my friend Eddie Trunk, the radio and TV personality and all-around guru of heavy metal, and now the two of them talk a lot.

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 double 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.