Free Long Shot by Mike Piazza, Lonnie Wheeler Page A

positions, sprint off the field, and sprint back to the dugout after an out. My attitude was, I had seen a lot of big leaguers make outs, and they didn’t run back to the dugout. Admittedly, I was a little too big-league for my britches.
    It was especially bad form for a guy as overmatched as I was. I hit bombs in batting practice—my teammates called me the best five o’clock hitter in the country—but still had to learn how to hit. I was totally unprepared, for instance, when, in an intrasquad game, I had to face a senior named Kevin Sheary, a good, polished pitcher who got drafted by the Mariners. It was the first time I’d ever seen a slider. I almost shit my pants. I was like “What was that ?” It was the slider from hell.
    But if I was taken aback by the talent around me on the baseball team, I was almost in awe of Miami’s football team. That was the year the Hurricanes were ranked number one in the country, went to the Fiesta Bowl against Penn State, and got off the plane wearing army fatigues. Vinny Testaverde, Alonzo Highsmith, Michael Irvin, Melvin Bratton, Jerome Brown, Gregg Rakoczy, Brian and Bennie Blades . . . they were monsters. It was impressive just to walk into the cafeteria, down by the athletic department, and see them all at the training table. It was even more impressive to see them in the weight room.
    I kind of clicked with the football mentality and began to embrace it. I went so far as to have a barber buzz my hair, marine-style, and shave grooves into the sides, like Brian Bosworth, the controversial All-American linebacker from Oklahoma. The Boz. When I flew back to Philly for the holidays and Dad picked up me at the airport, he took a look at that haircut, flew into a rage, and threatened to leave me there.
    The baseball season started shortly after I got back to school, and I settled into life on the bench. One day, though, after watching me mash the ball in batting practice before a game against Creighton, the coaches went ahead and let me start—probably out of curiosity. I think I swung at the first pitch I saw. Ended up 0 for 4. I was way too anxious. Had no concept of taking a pitch; no concept of hitting in general. No approach. I was just swinging. If a guy had thrown me a first-pitch meatball, I might have sunk a sailboat on Biscayne Bay; but why would they?
    I didn’t play for weeks after that. I thought, well, there goes my one shot to be an All-American. I just wasn’t ready. I was probably the youngest guy on the team and extremely inexperienced, not to mention immature. In my six games, I had one hit in nine at-bats, a single against Georgetown.
    My single highlight was a tournament at the Superdome in New Orleans. I got to stay at the Hilton, take in Bourbon Street, meet a couple of ballgirls from the University of Florida, and enjoy a few adult beverages because the drinking age there was eighteen. I was quite pleased with myself when I had a hurricane for the first time and didn’t get sick. New Orleans,for me, was not just the coolest trip of the season, but the only trip, unless you count the quick one to DeLand, Florida, to play the Stetson Hatters. The first time they left me behind, I was the only guy who hadn’t made the traveling squad. I called my dad to moan about it, and he said, “That’s not right. That’s not gonna happen next year. We’re gonna talk to Tommy and get you transferred out of there.”
    But while Miami was all wrong for me, baseball-wise, it wasn’t a lost year, by any stretch. I learned humility, among other things. I really thought I was the cat’s meow in high school and figured I’d bust through college with everything going my way. My rude awakening made me think, hmm, maybe I’m not cut out for baseball. Maybe I should actually study. I was getting a little financial aid—maybe a thousand dollars a semester—but twelve credits at the University of Miami cost a lot of money. I realized that, hey, my mom and dad are shelling