living room. My dad would tell stories about me playing with the grown-ups when he managed the sandlot Tampa Dodgers. “Even as a boy,” my father said, “he never lost his cool.”
They’d ask Mom how she felt seeing me pitch now. “I’ll be watching him and my stomach is turning,” she told one writer. “But he’s so calm. He’s always been like that.”
“You know,” my sister Betty said in one interview. “He’s so quiet, he’ll say there’s nothing wrong no matter what. The only way we knowhow good he’s doing, if he’s homesick or worried or whatever, is watching his face and how he pitches.”
Despite it all, I was still just a twenty-year-old kid. I was old enough to be the best pitcher in baseball. But I still wasn’t old enough to order a drink or even organize much of a social life.
That year, when we were on the road, Keith Hernandez would often find me and ask, “Doc, you pitching tomorrow?”
If the answer was no, that was all he needed to hear.
“Okay, you’re coming out with us,” he’d say.
We’d go out for dinner, then hit a couple of bars. At that time I was still basically just drinking beer. One night in Chicago, we were in a bar off of Rush Street and my Pepsi commercial came on the TV. The bartender looked at me, looked at the TV, then looked at me again.
“Hey, you’re Doc Gooden!” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“You know, you’re not old enough to be in here,” he said, turning suddenly serious.
I looked at him. Then I looked at Keith. Just as Keith was about to make a case for me, the bartender started laughing and said, “Go ahead. The drinks are on me. Get wasted. I hope the Cubs pound you.”
They didn’t of course. Not many teams did. I was aiming to win twenty-five games that season. By August 25, I was the youngest player ever to win twenty. That’s what I cared about most.
By the time the season was over, I threw sixteen complete games, won twenty-four and lost four. It was the best pitching record in either the National or American Leagues. Attendance at Shea jumped by nearly one million from the previous year. It would keep on growing throughout the rest of the ’80s, until we were the number one draw in the National League.
I won the Cy Young Award, declaring me the number one pitcher in the National League. I earned baseball’s pitching Triple Crown, whichis only given if a single player has the most wins and strikeouts and the lowest ERA. Maybe someone wins it every decade, if that.
I would never perform quite so well again.
But who was Dwight Gooden?
My mom and my sister put their fingers on something true, I believe. While my heat was terrorizing batters and making them jump back from the plate, I was still very much the shy boy from Tampa, awkward, lanky, sheltered, still unsure of myself. It just so happened I was burning up the National League. That didn’t change who I was, who I had always been. It was almost like I was two people in one. That both those people could inhabit the same body was a conflict that wouldn’t end quickly or well.
7
Party Time
W ANNA PARTY?” THE WOMAN in the black negligee asked me, the taller of the two.
She and her friend—I never learned either of their names—were lounging in my older cousin’s bedroom on his mammoth king-size bed. The bedroom door was halfway open. I was sitting on a couch in the living room, peeking through the door. Bo, my cousin, had gone out to fetch me some pot.
My mother had always warned me about the “occasion of sin.” My dad had a more colorful way of making the same point. “Lie down with dogs,” he liked to say, “you might get fleas.”
This was January 1986, between my second and third seasons with the Mets. I had plenty to feel good about. I was making excellent money. My $475,000 baseball package was about to jump to $1.3 million. The endorsement deals were still pouring in. After I won the Rookie of the Year and Cy Young Awards, and all the TV ads,
They’d ask Mom how she felt seeing me pitch now. “I’ll be watching him and my stomach is turning,” she told one writer. “But he’s so calm. He’s always been like that.”
“You know,” my sister Betty said in one interview. “He’s so quiet, he’ll say there’s nothing wrong no matter what. The only way we knowhow good he’s doing, if he’s homesick or worried or whatever, is watching his face and how he pitches.”
Despite it all, I was still just a twenty-year-old kid. I was old enough to be the best pitcher in baseball. But I still wasn’t old enough to order a drink or even organize much of a social life.
That year, when we were on the road, Keith Hernandez would often find me and ask, “Doc, you pitching tomorrow?”
If the answer was no, that was all he needed to hear.
“Okay, you’re coming out with us,” he’d say.
We’d go out for dinner, then hit a couple of bars. At that time I was still basically just drinking beer. One night in Chicago, we were in a bar off of Rush Street and my Pepsi commercial came on the TV. The bartender looked at me, looked at the TV, then looked at me again.
“Hey, you’re Doc Gooden!” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“You know, you’re not old enough to be in here,” he said, turning suddenly serious.
I looked at him. Then I looked at Keith. Just as Keith was about to make a case for me, the bartender started laughing and said, “Go ahead. The drinks are on me. Get wasted. I hope the Cubs pound you.”
They didn’t of course. Not many teams did. I was aiming to win twenty-five games that season. By August 25, I was the youngest player ever to win twenty. That’s what I cared about most.
By the time the season was over, I threw sixteen complete games, won twenty-four and lost four. It was the best pitching record in either the National or American Leagues. Attendance at Shea jumped by nearly one million from the previous year. It would keep on growing throughout the rest of the ’80s, until we were the number one draw in the National League.
I won the Cy Young Award, declaring me the number one pitcher in the National League. I earned baseball’s pitching Triple Crown, whichis only given if a single player has the most wins and strikeouts and the lowest ERA. Maybe someone wins it every decade, if that.
I would never perform quite so well again.
But who was Dwight Gooden?
My mom and my sister put their fingers on something true, I believe. While my heat was terrorizing batters and making them jump back from the plate, I was still very much the shy boy from Tampa, awkward, lanky, sheltered, still unsure of myself. It just so happened I was burning up the National League. That didn’t change who I was, who I had always been. It was almost like I was two people in one. That both those people could inhabit the same body was a conflict that wouldn’t end quickly or well.
7
Party Time
W ANNA PARTY?” THE WOMAN in the black negligee asked me, the taller of the two.
She and her friend—I never learned either of their names—were lounging in my older cousin’s bedroom on his mammoth king-size bed. The bedroom door was halfway open. I was sitting on a couch in the living room, peeking through the door. Bo, my cousin, had gone out to fetch me some pot.
My mother had always warned me about the “occasion of sin.” My dad had a more colorful way of making the same point. “Lie down with dogs,” he liked to say, “you might get fleas.”
This was January 1986, between my second and third seasons with the Mets. I had plenty to feel good about. I was making excellent money. My $475,000 baseball package was about to jump to $1.3 million. The endorsement deals were still pouring in. After I won the Rookie of the Year and Cy Young Awards, and all the TV ads,
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