Read Online Doc: A Memoir by Dwight Gooden, Ellis Henican - Free Book Online
Authors: Dwight Gooden, Ellis Henican
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minor-league bucks. I can honestly say I kept my drinking mostly under control. I told myself that drinking was just a part of growing up, like meeting girls and making money. Weren’t other kids my age off at college, going to parties, and exploring their independence? I’d skipped my chance to go to Miami, but these were my college days. Still, I knew enough not to let my mom and dad know I’d started drinking regularly—especially malt liquor. My dad, the Bud man, would definitely have frowned on me hitting the hard-core stuff.
One night before a road trip, three or four girls were at our apartment until three a.m., laughing and drinking. None of the ladies stayedover, but Darryl and I definitely lost track of the time. Across the street, our team bus was leaving at eight a.m. sharp for Maryland and a game with the Hagerstown Suns, a Baltimore Orioles affiliate. Darryl and I knew all along that we’d be tired. But we were having fun, and we figured we could get some rest on the bus. The malt liquor was flowing, and I guess you could say we were negotiating with ourselves.
Bad idea.
We didn’t wake up until 8:40. I looked out the window at the stadium parking lot. The bus was gone. I jumped out of bed and started throwing pieces of my uniform into a duffel bag.
“Darryl!” I yelled down the hall. “We fucked up!”
From his room, all I heard was a groan. Then, “What the hell?” as his senses kicked in. “Why didn’t the Dominicans wake us up?”
We jumped into the Camaro and raced to Hagerstown, getting lost in our panic on the way. Three hours later, we arrived at Municipal Stadium. The game was in the fourth inning. And there was no way to sneak in quietly. The only way to get to our team was to enter the field near third base and trot to the visitors’ dugout on the first base side. We waited in the stands for just the right moment, a couple of sheepish guys in full Mets uniforms. At the break in the inning, hoping no one would notice, we jogged right across the field. I’ve done some embarrassing things since then, things worse than that. But at that point in my life, this took the cake. Even Sam, our even-keeled manager, blew up at that.
Joe McIlvaine called from New York. He was fairly calm under the circumstances. “We need to be sure that you know why you’re there, okay?” Joe said when he got me on the phone.
“It won’t happen again,” I said, and I meant it. That was another one I never mentioned to my dad.
That was the first time I ever remember alcohol interfering with me doing my job. I was sure it was a onetime slip-up, and for a while it was.
Sam came up to me at least once a week and said, “One more startand you’re going up to double-A.” Then it wouldn’t happen. Week after week, he said that, and I didn’t get called up.
Lynchburg won the A-ball division with a record of 96–43, and we were headed to the playoffs. After my shaky start, I finished the 1983 season with a kick-butt record of 19–4. I had 300 strikeouts in 191 innings and 10 complete games. This was the pitcher the Mets believed in enough to draft me in round one. These numbers definitely got me noticed in New York. To celebrate, we had a team party at a pizza shop. Sam approached me again that night.
“You’re going to—” he started to say. I cut him off.
“I know, Coach,” I said. “I know.”
“It’s not what you think,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re going to Tidewater, triple-A.” He didn’t have to tell me that Davey Johnson was managing the Mets AAA club in Tidewater, Virginia. “Davey wants you for their playoffs.”
All of a sudden, an old, familiar feeling swept over me. “I want to stay here,” I said immediately.
I knew it was an honor, Davey Johnson wanting me to leap entirely over AA ball and help his AAA team. It was flattering too. But I was doing well in Lynchburg. I felt loyal to my teammates there. I was having fun. The Lynchburg team was on its way to
One night before a road trip, three or four girls were at our apartment until three a.m., laughing and drinking. None of the ladies stayedover, but Darryl and I definitely lost track of the time. Across the street, our team bus was leaving at eight a.m. sharp for Maryland and a game with the Hagerstown Suns, a Baltimore Orioles affiliate. Darryl and I knew all along that we’d be tired. But we were having fun, and we figured we could get some rest on the bus. The malt liquor was flowing, and I guess you could say we were negotiating with ourselves.
Bad idea.
We didn’t wake up until 8:40. I looked out the window at the stadium parking lot. The bus was gone. I jumped out of bed and started throwing pieces of my uniform into a duffel bag.
“Darryl!” I yelled down the hall. “We fucked up!”
From his room, all I heard was a groan. Then, “What the hell?” as his senses kicked in. “Why didn’t the Dominicans wake us up?”
We jumped into the Camaro and raced to Hagerstown, getting lost in our panic on the way. Three hours later, we arrived at Municipal Stadium. The game was in the fourth inning. And there was no way to sneak in quietly. The only way to get to our team was to enter the field near third base and trot to the visitors’ dugout on the first base side. We waited in the stands for just the right moment, a couple of sheepish guys in full Mets uniforms. At the break in the inning, hoping no one would notice, we jogged right across the field. I’ve done some embarrassing things since then, things worse than that. But at that point in my life, this took the cake. Even Sam, our even-keeled manager, blew up at that.
Joe McIlvaine called from New York. He was fairly calm under the circumstances. “We need to be sure that you know why you’re there, okay?” Joe said when he got me on the phone.
“It won’t happen again,” I said, and I meant it. That was another one I never mentioned to my dad.
That was the first time I ever remember alcohol interfering with me doing my job. I was sure it was a onetime slip-up, and for a while it was.
Sam came up to me at least once a week and said, “One more startand you’re going up to double-A.” Then it wouldn’t happen. Week after week, he said that, and I didn’t get called up.
Lynchburg won the A-ball division with a record of 96–43, and we were headed to the playoffs. After my shaky start, I finished the 1983 season with a kick-butt record of 19–4. I had 300 strikeouts in 191 innings and 10 complete games. This was the pitcher the Mets believed in enough to draft me in round one. These numbers definitely got me noticed in New York. To celebrate, we had a team party at a pizza shop. Sam approached me again that night.
“You’re going to—” he started to say. I cut him off.
“I know, Coach,” I said. “I know.”
“It’s not what you think,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re going to Tidewater, triple-A.” He didn’t have to tell me that Davey Johnson was managing the Mets AAA club in Tidewater, Virginia. “Davey wants you for their playoffs.”
All of a sudden, an old, familiar feeling swept over me. “I want to stay here,” I said immediately.
I knew it was an honor, Davey Johnson wanting me to leap entirely over AA ball and help his AAA team. It was flattering too. But I was doing well in Lynchburg. I felt loyal to my teammates there. I was having fun. The Lynchburg team was on its way to
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