Doc: A Memoir by Dwight Gooden, Ellis Henican Read Free Book Online Page A

sports. His column, The Morning After, ran in the
Trib
six days a week. When people didn’t think that was enough, he added a Sunday version, Hey, Tom, where he gave snappy responses to reader mail. No one did more than Tom McEwen to build Tampa into a first-rate sports town. He was one of the few white guys who dared to venture into the ’hood for games—even Little League games. “Bring your sleeping bags,” he’d write, making a pint-size playoff game sound like the World Series.
    This time, he invited me and a couple of prospects from Tampa Catholic—Richard Monteleone and Lance McCullers—to the newspaper office to watch the major-league draft. Back then, we didn’t have wall-to-wall coverage on ESPN. The
Trib
was the one place in townthat had a live feed of the draft. In the middle of the newsroom was a TV screen that looked like it might be announcing arrivals and departures at the airport. They laid out some donuts and oranges for us to eat.
    There were rumors about my prospects.
    Coach Reed had been gathering intelligence from his scout friends. “You might go as early as the fifth round,” Coach said.
    Others were making what sounded like crazy predictions. Scouts for the Reds and the Cubs had even called my house, saying if they picked a high schooler in the first round, it might be me. And the Cubs had the first pick overall.
    As Eddie and I stared up at the screen, the first pick of the draft came and went. The Cubs picked a high schooler all right—but it wasn’t me. They chose Shawon Dunston, a shortstop from Thomas Jefferson High School in Brooklyn.
    McEwen was sitting next to me, and I leaned over and told him about the phone call from the Cubs scout. “Shake it off,” he said with a laugh. “Everything changes on the fly, Doc. It’s gonna be a long night, but good things are gonna happen.”
    As the next couple of picks went by without any mention of Dwight Gooden, Coach Reed’s theory was starting to sound about right. I wouldn’t get drafted early, but I was formulating a plan. I’d work hard and show everyone what a later-round steal I was.
    Now it was the Mets’ turn. They had the fifth pick of the first round. But I was daydreaming, busy convincing myself that ultimately the draft order didn’t mean much.
    Then I glanced at the board and saw something strange:
    5 TH PICK. NY METS. DWIGHT GOODEN. HILLSBOROUGH HIGH. TAMPA, FL .
    Eddie’s eyes popped open, but nothing came out of his mouth. Frantically, he was pointing at the board.
    “Doc!” McEwen shouted. “You just went to the Mets!”
    Monteleone and McCullers, both forecast to go well ahead of me, looked as shocked as I was.
    “I don’t think that’s right, Mr. McEwen,” I said, shaking my head.
    “Whaddaya mean?” he asked me.
    “I can’t be the fifth pick,” I told him. “Coach Reed didn’t expect me to go until the fifth round. He talked to a lot of scouts.”
    “Things change,” McEwen said. “I doubt there’s any mistake.”
    “Well, why don’t you call them?”
    “Call the Mets?” McEwen asked. Clearly he thought I was crazy. But he picked up the phone.
    “No mistake,” he said when he hung up. “Dwight Gooden. First Round. New York Mets.”
    He shot me a huge smile.
    “Great job, Doc,” the dean of Tampa sportswriting said, shaking my hand.
    I couldn’t believe it. I knew I had ability. I didn’t feel like I was undeserving. But there were some very talented players who were drafted after me that year: Barry Bonds, Randy Johnson, Will Clark, David Wells, Roger McDowell, Jimmy Key, Bo Jackson, Mitch Williams, Terry Pendleton, Rafael Palmeiro, Todd Worrell, Barry Larkin, and my high school teammate, Floyd Youmans. The list went on and on.
    I was too excited to drive the Duster home. I gave Eddie the keys. I couldn’t wait to see the look on my dad’s face.
    “We did it!” I yelled as Eddie parked the car and we ran up the sidewalk, as my dad was stepping onto the porch. “Fifth pick! First