Long Shot by Mike Piazza, Lonnie Wheeler Page A

well, then took me out to the field for some defensive drills at first base, which didn’t.
    But the key stop was Dodgertown in Vero Beach, Tommy’s personal playground. This was 1988, the year the Dodgers would beat Oakland in the World Series with Kirk Gibson limping up to pinch-hit and somehow coming through with the walk-off home run against Dennis Eckersley to win game one. The Dodgers had signed Gibson as a free agent that winter, and he asserted his will immediately. When I visited Vero Beach, it was just a few days after a teammate had put eye-black in Gibson’s hat and Gibson had gone off, screaming at everybody that this wasn’t how it was going to be, that he wasn’t there to screw around but to work like hell and win a World Series. Or something like that. He backed it up by earning the National League MVP award. Anyway, I took some batting practice and people seemed to be impressed.
    Then Tommy walked over and brought up the notion of me becoming a catcher. He had discussed it with my dad and Joe Ferguson, who had caught for Tommy and was now coaching for him. They were all gathered around and Joe said, “Well, let’s see him throw.” So I went behind home plate and Ferguson told me not to bother crouching, let’s just play catch. He kept backing up until he was at second base, at which point I let it rip a few times. I think I was seeing the results from throwing the football so much. Afterward, Joe walked up to my dad and said, “Hey, he’s got a great arm!”
    At Miami-Dade, though, I was still a first baseman, and hit well enough to justify it. Midway through the season, I was rolling along—batting around .360 with a few home runs, including a walk-off against Indian River Junior College—and positioned to attract some attention heading into the main scouting weeks. Then, on a play at first base, a runner bashed his knee into my left hand and split my knuckles apart. Tore a ligament. The doctor put me in a cast for three weeks or so. I wanted to get back on the field so badly that I threw batting practice with my cast on. There wasn’t much rehab involved after it came off, and I was hitting again by the end of the season. I finished at .364.
    Miami-Dade was only a two-year program, which meant that I was done there. I didn’t see myself heading back to the University of Miami—I suspect that when Fraser had brought up the idea to my father, he was just beingpolite—so Doc said he’d help me get into another four-year school. Then he told me he wasn’t having any luck. It so happened, though, that he had a backup plan. He suggested I go to St. Thomas, a Catholic university in Miami that had a strong NAIA baseball program, to play for his son, Paul.
    Of course, my dad was involved with these discussions, and he had two things to say about it. One, he still wanted to see if I could get drafted. And two, if I went back to school, he wanted me to catch. Honestly, I had worked hard on my defense at first base and thought I was halfway decent at the college level, but I guess nobody was confusing me with Keith Hernandez. My dad thought I might be more appealing to the scouts if I projected as a catcher. Doc said, okay, if I went to St. Thomas, I could catch. They wanted my bat. As it turned out, Paul Mainieri got a job to coach at the U.S. Air Force Academy the next year and Al Avila took over as the St. Thomas coach. His dad, Ralph Avila, was the Latin America scout for the Dodgers, so—through Tommy, of course—there was still a connection. Ralph called my dad to suggest that their sons get together.
    I liked the idea of staying in Miami and figured that was probably what I’d do. My dad, however, had already checked out the Phillies’ schedule to see when the Dodgers were coming to town.
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    To my knowledge, the first time the concept of a courtesy draft pick came to public attention was in Kevin Kerrane’s book, Dollar Sign on the Muscle , published in 1984 as an inside look