Doc: A Memoir by Dwight Gooden, Ellis Henican Page A

peopleseemed to know me everywhere—not just in Tampa and New York, and not just sports fans. Mets fans were still talking about the dominant season I’d had. Even I felt like I’d pitched well. And the team was only getting stronger. In November, we’d traded with the Red Sox for lefty pitcher Bob Ojeda, a veteran starter who could bring new leadership to our rotation. We were slowly assembling a truly lethal lineup. It wasn’t out of the question that we could go all the way.
    So why was I feeling so bored?
    My previous off-seasons, I’d been happy to sit around the house with my parents and have a few beers with my friends. Just waking up in the morning felt new and exciting to me. But now, for reasons I wasn’t exactly sure of, I was having trouble getting used to the off-season pace. Had I finally begun to think of myself as a real big-leaguer? Had I been enjoying the faster New York lifestyle a little more than I thought? One hundred and sixty-two games a year, even if you’re not an everyday player, is a frantic rhythm for anyone. During the season, I could work off my excess energy on the mound, then decompress on the off-days with my teammates. I had focus and purpose and regular demands on me. Now, not so much.
    Tampa in the winter felt like a floating void. My high-school buddies weren’t doing much of anything. Being around my parents’ house just felt like more of the same. I was a big star now, a bigger star than I’d ever imagined I’d be. But that wasn’t a job title with actual duties. It wasn’t enough to fill all my days. I didn’t have hobbies like a lot of ballplayers did. They’d play golf with business guys or fly around the world on hunting and fishing trips. None of that was part of my off-season routine. My dad would occasionally put together a team for a charity softball game. I played some neighborhood pickup ball. Other than that, my major form of distraction was drinking beers with my friends and driving around in cars, often with a six-pack in my lap.
    Idle hands, idle minds: I can see now I was ripe for trouble. I had just turned twenty-one.
    While I’d spent the spring, summer, and early fall playing and practicing baseball, my friends had been polishing their screwing-off skills. They could turn doing nothing into a full-time job. Me, I needed a schedule. I needed a focus. I still do today. When I was a kid I had my dad filling hours with drills and practice. Then, I had Mel Stottlemyre and Davey Johnson in my ear, reeling me in and pushing me along. If not them, Keith Hernandez and Gary Carter. But sitting down in Tampa, I was mostly on my own. I needed to be told I’d be pitching in two days in San Diego. All I had back home was time and my aimless friends. I hung out some with my dad. But mostly, I drove to the projects, picked up my friends, then cruised around. By January, even that was tiresome. I couldn’t wait for spring training to begin.
    I had tried smoking weed before. It only made me hungry and sleepy. But I thought I might give marijuana another chance. Maybe this time, it would ease the restlessness I was feeling, or at least mellow me out. So I drove to my cousin Bo’s house. I knew that he would have some.
    He was a cousin from my mom’s side of the family. He traded in pot, cocaine, and women. It was a little strange, my relative being a pimp and drug dealer. But that’s what Bo was. When I got to his house, he said he was totally out of weed—but, no problem, he’d be right back.
    “Yeah, great,” I told him half distractedly.
    Looking past Bo’s shoulder, I could see two of his ladies fooling around with each other on the bed.
    From what I could tell, they were probably ten years older than me, and they looked like they could be the backup dancers at a Prince concert. The taller one was dark-skinned, trim, and small-breasted. The other one was lighter and shorter, all tits and butt. Bo caught me staring into the bedroom.
    “Don’t pay any