Read Online Doc: A Memoir by Dwight Gooden, Ellis Henican - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dwight Gooden, Ellis Henican
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winning the Carolina League. Didn’t they need me?
“That’s not how it works, kid,” Sam said. “You’ll be one step away from the majors. You should be excited.”
I didn’t feel excited at all. Partly, I guess, it was anxiety about what I might be facing in Tidewater. How well would I play there? And partly, it was—I wouldn’t call it homesickness, but I was well aware that Lynchburg’s season ended a couple weeks earlier than Tidewater’s would, no matter how well we did. Part of me really wanted to go be with my family back in Tampa.
“When do I have to leave?” I asked Sam.
“They want you there tomorrow, Doc,” he said.
I drove to Norfolk, where the AAA Tidewater Tides played at Metropolitan Memorial Park. At Tidewater, I pitched just as well as I did back in Lynchburg. We won the playoffs, then went out to Louisville to play in the AAA World Series, a round-robin event between the winner of the International League (us), the American Association (the Denver Bears), and the Pacific Coast League (Portland Beavers).
I dominated the final game against Denver, the White Sox farm team, and we won the AAA World Series. I flew back to Tidewater the next day, jumped in my car, and drove home to Tampa.
Meanwhile in New York, 1983 had been a flop of a season for the big-league Mets. They’d gone through two managers, George Bamberger and Frank Howard. Their 68–94 finish was only enough for sixth place in the National League East. Rumors were flying that Davey Johnson would be moving up to Shea from Norfolk for the 1984 season to manage the team. Throughout the playoffs with Tidewater, he’d been telling me, “If I get to manage the Mets, I’m taking you with me.” He got the nod in November.
Just a few days later, I was back in the off-season instructional league in St. Petersburg, playing catch on the side of the field, when Davey walked by. “Davey.” I flashed him a smile. “Remember what you said?”
“Oh yeah,” he assured me as he kept strolling. “You’re in.”
During spring training, I didn’t stay at the team hotel. Since my parents lived just twenty minutes away in Tampa, I drove home every night. And as the end of spring training approached, my dad started asking me if I thought I would make the team. Spring training was coming to a close, and I still didn’t have an answer for him.
I woke up extra early the last day, after tossing and turning all night. I was on the road early and got to the ballpark before almost anyone. I was hoping Davey would notice and tell me one way or another rightaway, before everyone else came in. After the game that day, I knew, the team would be flying out to Cincinnati to begin the regular season. I hated the idea of bringing my luggage with me in the morning and then being told I hadn’t made the team. That would be mortifying.
I told my dad to put my bags in his trunk before he drove over for the game. If I made the team, someone could run out to the parking lot, grab the bags, and load them onto the bus.
If I didn’t, no one would have to know they were there.
During pitching drills and warm-ups, I heard nothing. In the dugout, I saw a chart listing who was pitching that day. My name wasn’t on it. Mel Stottlemyre, the pitching coach, walked by and said, “We might use you today, Doc. I’m just not sure yet.”
That made me think they were still undecided. Normally when a game started, the other pitchers hung out in the bullpen. But there was no way I was leaving the dugout.
The innings crawled by. I still had no clue. During spring training, the managers sometimes sat outside the dugout. Midway through the game, I saw the Mets’ general manager, Frank Cashen, approach Davey. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they whispered back and forth. Not long after that, Davey walked over to me. He had his hand out.
“Congratulations, Doc,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t I tell you? You made the team. Now get out to the bullpen.
“That’s not how it works, kid,” Sam said. “You’ll be one step away from the majors. You should be excited.”
I didn’t feel excited at all. Partly, I guess, it was anxiety about what I might be facing in Tidewater. How well would I play there? And partly, it was—I wouldn’t call it homesickness, but I was well aware that Lynchburg’s season ended a couple weeks earlier than Tidewater’s would, no matter how well we did. Part of me really wanted to go be with my family back in Tampa.
“When do I have to leave?” I asked Sam.
“They want you there tomorrow, Doc,” he said.
I drove to Norfolk, where the AAA Tidewater Tides played at Metropolitan Memorial Park. At Tidewater, I pitched just as well as I did back in Lynchburg. We won the playoffs, then went out to Louisville to play in the AAA World Series, a round-robin event between the winner of the International League (us), the American Association (the Denver Bears), and the Pacific Coast League (Portland Beavers).
I dominated the final game against Denver, the White Sox farm team, and we won the AAA World Series. I flew back to Tidewater the next day, jumped in my car, and drove home to Tampa.
Meanwhile in New York, 1983 had been a flop of a season for the big-league Mets. They’d gone through two managers, George Bamberger and Frank Howard. Their 68–94 finish was only enough for sixth place in the National League East. Rumors were flying that Davey Johnson would be moving up to Shea from Norfolk for the 1984 season to manage the team. Throughout the playoffs with Tidewater, he’d been telling me, “If I get to manage the Mets, I’m taking you with me.” He got the nod in November.
Just a few days later, I was back in the off-season instructional league in St. Petersburg, playing catch on the side of the field, when Davey walked by. “Davey.” I flashed him a smile. “Remember what you said?”
“Oh yeah,” he assured me as he kept strolling. “You’re in.”
During spring training, I didn’t stay at the team hotel. Since my parents lived just twenty minutes away in Tampa, I drove home every night. And as the end of spring training approached, my dad started asking me if I thought I would make the team. Spring training was coming to a close, and I still didn’t have an answer for him.
I woke up extra early the last day, after tossing and turning all night. I was on the road early and got to the ballpark before almost anyone. I was hoping Davey would notice and tell me one way or another rightaway, before everyone else came in. After the game that day, I knew, the team would be flying out to Cincinnati to begin the regular season. I hated the idea of bringing my luggage with me in the morning and then being told I hadn’t made the team. That would be mortifying.
I told my dad to put my bags in his trunk before he drove over for the game. If I made the team, someone could run out to the parking lot, grab the bags, and load them onto the bus.
If I didn’t, no one would have to know they were there.
During pitching drills and warm-ups, I heard nothing. In the dugout, I saw a chart listing who was pitching that day. My name wasn’t on it. Mel Stottlemyre, the pitching coach, walked by and said, “We might use you today, Doc. I’m just not sure yet.”
That made me think they were still undecided. Normally when a game started, the other pitchers hung out in the bullpen. But there was no way I was leaving the dugout.
The innings crawled by. I still had no clue. During spring training, the managers sometimes sat outside the dugout. Midway through the game, I saw the Mets’ general manager, Frank Cashen, approach Davey. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they whispered back and forth. Not long after that, Davey walked over to me. He had his hand out.
“Congratulations, Doc,” he said, smiling. “Didn’t I tell you? You made the team. Now get out to the bullpen.
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