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

round. I was the Mets’ first player.”
    The look on my dad’s face, right then and there, might have been the happiest I had ever seen on him. That was it. All our time on the diamond. All those Saturdays in the den. The promise I had made to my mother. His dream and my dream, finally mushed into one.
    Normally, Dad didn’t show much emotion. Once or twice in my entire life, he said he loved me. But standing out on the porch that evening, he gave me a giant hug. He laughed long and loud. Then he went inside and got on the phone, calling what seemed like everyone he knew, making sure they understood how big this was.
    Within a few minutes, news trucks from Channel 8 and Channel 13 were pulling up on our block. Other reporters were calling on the phone. Neighbors came out to see what all the excitement was. Soon, moms in housecoats and dads in Bermuda shorts were giving interviews about what a nice, decent kid I was. My mom was happy too. But she remained pragmatic.
    “Will the Mets let you go to college first?” she asked.
    Dad and I both laughed. “No, Ella,” Dad said, “It doesn’t work like that. The deal is for now.”
    Joe McIlvaine was a tall, geeky-looking fellow who had a short minor-league career as a pitcher in the early 1970s. By 1982, he was director of scouting for the Mets. Even though I’d been the team’s first pick, the fifth in the entire draft, and Joe was the team’s top scout, he confessed to me that he’d never seen me pitch. Every time he’d been in Tampa, he said, I was playing third base or outfield. He’d relied on scouting reports that local guys sent in.
    But now his job was to sign me.
    The night I was drafted, he called my house to congratulate me. He said he’d be flying down to Tampa, contract in hand.
    Throughout the spring, quite a few agents had called the house, offering to represent me. Dad had met with several, but we didn’t hire any of them. He got on the phone and told Joe: “I look forward to meeting with you.” Then he looked at me and said, “I’ll handle this.”
    Joe showed up in Tampa a couple of days later. Dad banished Mom and me from the living room. Through my closed bedroom door, Icould hear Dad and Joe murmuring for what seemed like hours. But I couldn’t make out anything they were saying. Finally, Dad called me in.
    “Son,” he said soberly, “we’ve still got some work to do on this contract. We’re a long way apart.” Looking at the Mets’ top scout, he added, “Forty thousand is not right for a fifth pick.”
    “It’s okay,” Joe said, smiling weakly. His words were optimistic, but he looked worn-out.
    Here was my dad, driving a relentless bargain with the head of scouting for the New York Mets. He was either making me rich or blowing the deal for me. I wasn’t sure which. But he was definitely putting the screws to Joe.
    “I’ll go back to New York and see what I can do,” Joe said. “Then we’ll take it from there.”
    “Good,” Dad told him. “We appreciate it.”
    That was that. After the Mets man was gone, Dad motioned Mom and me into the kitchen. We all sat at the table. “Their offer is nowhere near where it needs to be,” Dad said.
    “Everything else in the contract is fine,” he continued, suddenly sounding like a lawyer or an agent. “Except the money.”
    I was confused. How did my father, who had a third-grade education and had worked his whole life at a chemical plant, know what should be in a major-league baseball contract? It was the same as the way I wondered how he learned all those pitching drills he put me through. Dad just knew stuff. I had my concerns, but I didn’t say anything.
    My mother spoke up. “Dan,” she said, sounding slightly panicked, “did Dwight just lose his chance?”
    “Oh, it’s all a game,” Dad said, not seeming at all concerned. “It’s just a game they play with everybody.”
    A few days later, Joe was back in town. He took my mom, my dad,my sister Betty, and her