Free Doc: A Memoir by Dwight Gooden, Ellis Henican

over how the equipment managers and clubhouse kids made life so easy for us major-leaguers. Carrying our gear and our luggage. Straightening our lockers. Laundering our uniforms. After every game, a spread of chicken, steak, cold cuts, cheese, bread, vegetables, beer, and soda was waiting for us, even when we were the visiting team. If you wanted gum, it was right there. Sunflower seeds, right there. Chewing tobacco, right there.
    Rookies had a few special chores to perform, our own little hazing ritual. Before we stepped onto the field, we were expected to fetch coffee for older stars like George Foster and Keith Hernandez. No one cared if I was a first-round pick. The rookie pitchers Ron Darling, Sid Fernandez, and I were responsible for lugging the balls out for batting practice.
    After two games in Cincinnati—we won one, we lost one—we flew to Houston, where we won all three. I made my first major-league start on Saturday, April 7, in the Astrodome, four games into the season. The team flew my mom and dad to Houston to watch me pitch, laying on the full star treatment. The whole experience was exciting—for me and my folks. Someone gave Dad a hat and a satin Mets jacket, which I don’t think he took off until he got back to Tampa—and maybe not even then.
    I made it five innings and picked up the win. I pitched—not great but okay. I was nervous the whole time. But I guess I made an impression on the Astros’ Ray Knight, who told reporters after the game: “His fastball explodes just like Nolan Ryan’s.” All in all, it was a fairly gentle initiation to major-league baseball.
    “So what did you think?” my dad asked after the game. “Can you make it in the majors?”
    “Without a doubt,” I said confidently. “I should win a lot of games.”
    My second start, on Friday the thirteenth, was against the Chicago Cubs. Thirty-three thousand fans came out to Wrigley Field, wondering if all my advance billing was even close to true. I didn’t make it past the fourth inning. We got stomped 11–2. This time, when I talked to my dad on the phone, all my old insecurities were back. I told him, “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
    Chicago certainly didn’t think I was. After the game, I told a local reporter I was a little irritated at the way the fans cheered so loudly as I jogged off the mound when I was yanked. I also said I didn’t like the way the Cubs had run up the score. It was a dumb thing to say. The paper came out, quoting me calling the Cubs “hot dogs.” The next day before the game, their shortstop, Larry Bowa, came over to me.
    “Look,” he said. “We weren’t trying to show you up because you’re a rookie or anything. It’s just the way our fans are. They get excited when we start scoring runs.” And he told me I should be more careful what I say to the writers. “Keep it boring and unemotional,” he said. “Otherwise, you’re just giving material to the other team.”
    Caution around the media wasn’t a lesson I ever learned very well. Over the years, the reporters would get plenty of mileage out of me. But the experience in Chicago did make me want to shut down the Cubs every time I ever faced them again. I’m proud to say I almost did. My career record against the Cubs was 28–4. That was no accident.
    When we finally got back to New York, I moved into the Marriott hotel across from LaGuardia Airport. Now planes were overheard during home games—and while I was trying to sleep. But not for long. A veteran pitcher, Ed Lynch, showed me around and helped me find a place to live. I landed in a quiet basement apartment in a small building in Port Washington, Long Island. It was about a twenty-minute drive to Shea Stadium, and lots of other players lived and partiednearby. Darryl Strawberry and his wife, Lisa, were a couple of blocks away.
    On April 25 in Montreal, my fourth start of my rookie season, I felt I hit my stride. I was on the mound for seven innings