Doc appealed to the athletic director on the basis that they were a safety issue, because an outfielder could crash into one or turn an ankle stepping on a root, and they were cut down. That opened up some airspace, and I was able to land a few shots onto the street beyond the fence and into the yards beyond the street, even though opposing teams made it a point to move their left fielders way back and pitch me in tight so I’d pull the ball that way. One of the home runs that cleared the street (City Line Avenue) landed on the driveway of a friend, Rob Thompson, and bounced into his backyard. Rob’s dad, who was watching the game from a folding chair, strolled back, picked up the ball, and gave it to me later.
But I wouldn’t describe my senior year as smooth sailing. For one thing, a lot of teams wouldn’t throw me strikes, so I finished with eleven home runs and a batting average that wasn’t quite as glittery as the season before. The other little issue was that I totally slacked off in school—even more than usual, which was quite a feat. I mean, I was a bad, bad student. I think I did one hour of homework my entire high school career. I was completely unmotivated. By the time I was a senior, I had my heart so set on being drafted out of high school, and was so cocksure that I would be, that academics just didn’t mean anything to me. The truth is, I’m not certain if I was genuinely eligible or not. I suspect that the principal might have pulled some strings so I could play.
Other than baseball, there was simply nothing about high school thatinterested me. Not even dating, such as it was. I wouldn’t say that I was antisocial; just aloof, ambivalent, cynical—totally disengaged from all the structure and sis-boom-bah, as if it were a language I didn’t speak. It was my rebellious stage, and I was tenacious about it, with a defiant attitude that showed even on my face: my senior year, I played ball with a goatee and Sparky Lyle chops, just to look intimidating. I was so disagreeable that I didn’t even want to hang out with the family. My dad had bought a home in Boynton Beach, Florida, and we’d stay down there for a little while around Christmas. I don’t know what it was that I did—just being the typical jackass, I guess—but that year my dad kept threatening me that I wasn’t going. So I said, “All right, fine, I’ll just stay here and party with Joe and those guys and drink beer and have fun.” He said, “Oh no, you’re going.”
I’m not making excuses, but I suspect that my attitude was related to the pressure I placed on myself to get drafted. In my heart, I was positive that I was good enough, and felt certain—especially after what Tommy said at the assembly, although I knew better than to pin all my hopes on the Dodgers—that somebody would notice that and pick me. I just wasn’t seeing the hard evidence of it. Eddie Liberatore would come to a game occasionally, but he never talked about drafting me out of high school. I got calls from scouts for the Giants and Blue Jays, and they’d ask me where I was playing that week, but it was never anything like “You think you’ll get drafted?” or “If you get drafted, are you going to sign?” Jocko Collins, the scout who originally signed Tommy Lasorda for the Phillies, came to one of my games and watched me hit a fly ball to center, and then it rained. He left and never came back. He told somebody I looked clumsy around first base. Tim Thompson was a Cardinals scout who was in our area quite a bit and ate at the Lasordas’ restaurant. My dad knew him pretty well. He told Dad that he’d give me the same advice he gave his own son: get an education.
Every time I heard from a scout, or saw one in the stands, the pressure turned up a notch. I played nervous. It started to screw ever so slightly with my confidence, which made me think about looking into college ball. So I did. It was my way of acknowledging, as a sort of formality,
But I wouldn’t describe my senior year as smooth sailing. For one thing, a lot of teams wouldn’t throw me strikes, so I finished with eleven home runs and a batting average that wasn’t quite as glittery as the season before. The other little issue was that I totally slacked off in school—even more than usual, which was quite a feat. I mean, I was a bad, bad student. I think I did one hour of homework my entire high school career. I was completely unmotivated. By the time I was a senior, I had my heart so set on being drafted out of high school, and was so cocksure that I would be, that academics just didn’t mean anything to me. The truth is, I’m not certain if I was genuinely eligible or not. I suspect that the principal might have pulled some strings so I could play.
Other than baseball, there was simply nothing about high school thatinterested me. Not even dating, such as it was. I wouldn’t say that I was antisocial; just aloof, ambivalent, cynical—totally disengaged from all the structure and sis-boom-bah, as if it were a language I didn’t speak. It was my rebellious stage, and I was tenacious about it, with a defiant attitude that showed even on my face: my senior year, I played ball with a goatee and Sparky Lyle chops, just to look intimidating. I was so disagreeable that I didn’t even want to hang out with the family. My dad had bought a home in Boynton Beach, Florida, and we’d stay down there for a little while around Christmas. I don’t know what it was that I did—just being the typical jackass, I guess—but that year my dad kept threatening me that I wasn’t going. So I said, “All right, fine, I’ll just stay here and party with Joe and those guys and drink beer and have fun.” He said, “Oh no, you’re going.”
I’m not making excuses, but I suspect that my attitude was related to the pressure I placed on myself to get drafted. In my heart, I was positive that I was good enough, and felt certain—especially after what Tommy said at the assembly, although I knew better than to pin all my hopes on the Dodgers—that somebody would notice that and pick me. I just wasn’t seeing the hard evidence of it. Eddie Liberatore would come to a game occasionally, but he never talked about drafting me out of high school. I got calls from scouts for the Giants and Blue Jays, and they’d ask me where I was playing that week, but it was never anything like “You think you’ll get drafted?” or “If you get drafted, are you going to sign?” Jocko Collins, the scout who originally signed Tommy Lasorda for the Phillies, came to one of my games and watched me hit a fly ball to center, and then it rained. He left and never came back. He told somebody I looked clumsy around first base. Tim Thompson was a Cardinals scout who was in our area quite a bit and ate at the Lasordas’ restaurant. My dad knew him pretty well. He told Dad that he’d give me the same advice he gave his own son: get an education.
Every time I heard from a scout, or saw one in the stands, the pressure turned up a notch. I played nervous. It started to screw ever so slightly with my confidence, which made me think about looking into college ball. So I did. It was my way of acknowledging, as a sort of formality,
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