Free Long Shot by Mike Piazza, Lonnie Wheeler

the record, the batting cage made the move, too, more or less. Dad actually changed the design of the house to stretch the basement, so he could put the cage down there. He also painted the back wall—the hitting background—white instead of green, so it would train my eyes to pick out the ball.
    That summer, through my father’s arrangements with Tommy, I also spent a few charmed weeks as a junior counselor at Mark Cresse’s baseball camp in California. Cresse was kind enough to put me up at his house, and to take me with him to the stadium every day around one thirty so I could work out on the field before serving as the Dodgers’ batboy that night. As usual, I don’t think I impressed anybody with my footwork around first base; but Lasorda took note of my power. Even batting left-handed, I’d muscle the ball high in the air, and Tommy would nod like he knew something. Through the good graces of him and my dad, I had now, at the age of seventeen, batted in three major-league ballparks.
    I was in my element during those weeks with Cresse. Mark’s son, Brad, was around ten and loved professional wrestling as much as I did. Naturally, we went at it. Brad would try to put the pretzel hold on me, and I’d respond in the spirit of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, who, as Randy Poffo, had actually played minor-league ball with Cresse in the Cardinals’ system. It was all good until one day I thought I’d really hurt Brad with a pile driver. I guess he wasn’t damaged too badly, though, because, as a catcher, he went on tobecome a two-time All-American at LSU, leading the nation in home runs. I’d like to think he took after me a little bit, hitting-wise. He certainly had me down pat when he mimicked my routine at the plate, which involved tugging on my shirt and holding up my hand for time until I was good and ready—trying, you know, to put the confrontation on my terms. I got it all from watching Juan Samuel with the Phillies.
    While I was in Los Angeles, I had a very welcome visitor. Fraser had sent one of his assistants, Dave Scott, to take a look at me. The tryout was at Dodger Stadium, which was a nice advantage in itself but not the biggest one. I also had the good fortune of getting to take my cuts against one of the best batting-practice pitchers in the big leagues. Cresse was laying them right in there for me, and I was crushing the ball with a wooden bat. I thought I did okay at first base, too, but Scott didn’t give a hoot about my glove. He was actually kind of freaking out about the way I hit. Knowing I didn’t have the grades to get into Miami, he said, “Okay, this is what we’re going to have to do. First, you have to go to this freshman seminar . . .”
    It amounted to a couple of classes I was required to take before the semester started, in order to qualify. So I went home, got my stuff, and headed down the coast to be a freshman All-American.
    • • •
    Yeah, right.
    There was no big scholarship waiting for me. And not much playing time. Miami had been to the College World Series the previous spring and had won it the year before. I needed to be pretty damn impressive to turn the heads of the coaching staff and earn a spot in the lineup, even for the exhibition schedule we played in the fall. I wasn’t. Fraser asked my dad, “Didn’t you ever put a glove on his hand?”
    In one of the fall scrimmages, I was relishing the rare chance to play first base when a batter hit me a high chopper off the turf. The sun was setting directly behind home plate and I botched the play when the ball was momentarily caught in it. As I reached the dugout after the inning, the bench coach, Brad Kelley, asked me what happened. I told him. He thought I was being a smartass. He said, “You lost a ground ball in the sun ?”
    That set the tone. Kelley knew his baseball—he later became the head coach—but he and I saw eye to eye on practically nothing. The Miami style called for everybody to sprint to their