Doc: A Memoir (28 page)

WFAN radio announcer Howie Rose, who was master of ceremonies, called us “truly iconic figures” in Mets history. That was nice to hear. When each of our names was called, we entered the field through a gate in the outfield as though we were coming out of the bullpen to pitch, making the long walk to the podium. Davey, looking sharp in khakis and a blazer, jogged a few steps before reconsidering and slowing to his usual choppy stomp. Frank, who was about to turn ninety, doing fine on his aluminum cane. Me in a boxy three-piece gray suit hiding at least some of my suddenly famous gut.

Each of us got a video tribute on the outfield Jumbotron. Then we each had a chance to say a few words. “There was nothing greater than showing up to Shea every night to perform,” I heard Darryl say. There was no denying that. When Davey spoke, he mentioned me and how much I loved being on the mound and watching the crowd put up all those famous Ks. Cashen said how special it was to be inducted with two of the greatest players the city had ever known. That was especially gracious, I thought, given some the grief I had caused him personally.

As I waited to speak, I still wasn’t sure how the fans at the ballpark
would react to me. They’d been great at the Shea Goodbye. But that wasn’t about me. That was about the team and the stadium. It had been so long since I truly was a Met. When I ran across Mets fans out in the world, they were almost always friendly and encouraging to me. But this was a little different. I was standing out on the field again. I was being honored, I who had thrilled and then deeply disappointed everyone. New Yorkers are the most loyal fans anywhere, but also the toughest and most vocal. Who knew what memories, happy and sad, that might dredge up in a crowd as large as this one.

They knew about my promise as a pitcher and how imperfectly I’d lived up to it. They could imagine some of the deep, dark holes I had fallen into. No one at Citi Field needed to be reminded. The stadium was new, but the fans were not.

Then I heard Howie’s voice again, and I approached the podium. I swear it was 1984 again, and Davey had just told me that I’d made the team.

“The youngest pitcher in All-Star history,” Howie’s baritone boomed, “and ranks among the franchise leaders in nearly every pitching category including one hundred and fifty-seven victories, twenty-three shutouts, one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five strikeouts. The Mets ace, we call him ‘the Doctor,’ Dr. K, pitcher Dwight Eugene Gooden.”

I might have been the Prodigal Met returning at last to his family. But the cheers were so loud and so lasting, I knew without a doubt that I was home.

“Thank you,” I said, looking across this gorgeous new stadium, trying to pick out the faces of my mom, my nephew Gary, and all my kids. “This is really amazing. It feels so good to be home.”

The way my own voice echoed across the stadium, it reminded me just how big the big leagues are. This wasn’t just a ballpark. It was also a monument to baseball.

I listened carefully to the crowd reaction. I didn’t hear a single boo.
The applause from the stands was like a long, warm embrace pulling me in and holding me. These were the people who had always stood by me. They were standing by me still.

“The success I’ve had here in New York wouldn’t have been possible without the support of you, all of you,” I said. “The fans always supported me on and off the field.”

That was true. They had. Even when I didn’t deserve it.

“There was no better feeling when I took the mound and I had two strikes on the batter, and all you guys were standing and clapping, wanting that third strike,” I said.

They were there when I needed them most.

“A lot of times, when I took the mound, if I didn’t have my best stuff, you guys gave me the extra adrenaline to bring the best out of me that particular day,” I said. “You are going to the Mets Hall of Fame with me.”

I had a few special thank-yous that could not go unsaid.

“I have to say to my mom, I love you very much for all the support, for always being there and putting me in the best situation to fulfill my dream, and that’s playing major-league baseball. Thank you, and I love you.”

She had put up with so much over the years from me. I could never thank her adequately. So had my kids.

I started naming them. “Dwight Junior, Ashley, Ariel, Devin—” and then I took a breath. I could hear some laughter in the crowd, but I didn’t want to forget anybody. “I have a lot of kids, stay with me,” I said. “Darren, Dylan, Milan, and my grandson, Emiere. I love you guys very much. Thanks for all your support, and thank you for just allowing me to be Dad and Granddad.”

I couldn’t have asked for a better homecoming or a better family reunion. Now all I had to do was try to live a life that deserved it.

Candid Camera

I
DIDN’T ASK TO BE PART
of
Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.

I was familiar with the program. I’d seen it on VH1. Each season, the show featured a fresh crew of semifamous people who were having problems with alcohol or drugs. I guess celebrities in need of rehab weren’t too hard to find, especially in California.

Dr. Drew Pinsky and his team led these high-profile addicts through a full-blown treatment program at the Pasadena Recovery Center in Los Angeles while TV cameras recorded everything. There was no shortage of drama among the cast members. The celebrities were constantly acting out in crazy ways.

I had no idea how successful the treatment might be. I didn’t know whether
Celebrity Rehab
had actually helped any of these actors and singers and TV reality stars beat their substance issues or get a new grip on their out-of-control lives. But the back-and-forth could be fascinating in a train wreck sort of way. I remember watching a few
episodes and thinking, “I can’t believe those people are laying out their private business for the whole world to see!”

I’d taken drugs for more than two decades. I’d made half a dozen attempts at getting clean. But I had never thought of going on
Celebrity Rehab.
I was much too private for that. The last thing I wanted to do was confront my innermost demons in front of everyone in America with a basic cable plan.

Why would I do that?

But clearly, someone must have been speaking to someone about me.

On the morning of March 4, 2011, eleven months and two weeks after my wreck with Dylan, I woke up to a headline in the
New York Post.
My picture was in the paper along with the pictures of a couple of other famously messed-up characters with ties to New York’s Long Island.

“
LI DETECTOR,
” the headline said. “
HOW PROUD ARE WE? CELEB REHAB RECRUITS HERE.
”

The story said that the new season of the VH1 recovery show was going to be a “mostly Long Island edition.” One cast member, the paper said, would be Amy Fisher, the “Long Island Lolita” who served seven years in prison for shooting Mary Jo Buttafuoco, the wife of her married lover, Joey. After her release, Amy had gotten married, had three children, and moved to California. She started her own porn site and was reportedly struggling with alcohol. Said the
Post:
“The Bellmore, LI, native joins two other troubled Long Island denizens, Michael Lohan (Merrick) and Dwight Gooden, who lived in Port Washington when he pitched for the New York Mets.”

Dwight Gooden?

“Wow!” I thought. “How did that get in here?”

Lohan, of course, was the father of troubled star Lindsay Lohan, who’d been in and out of rehab at least as many times as I had. The story said he didn’t drink or use drugs anymore but was hoping to improve
his anger-management skills. Given all the Lohan-family blowups, he could obviously use some help with that.

But what was I doing in the story? Even the Long Island connection was a stretch. Back in my New York playing days, I’d had a couple of apartments on the Island. But I came from Tampa and lately I’d been more of a Jersey guy. The bigger question though was this: “What made someone think I was going on
Celebrity Rehab
?”—besides the fact that I’d been battling addiction for more than two decades, and I was, I guess, at least semi–well known? Would have been nice if someone had mentioned it to me!

Before I’d even finished the story, my old Mets teammate Lenny Dykstra was on the phone from California, frantic as usual. It was still the middle of the night out there.

“You going on Dr. Drew?” Lenny wanted to know. “Really?”

“Nah,” I told him. “No way. I don’t need that. I don’t know where that came from.”

Ron called as soon as Lenny hung up. “You see the
Post
?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “How did that get in there?”

Ron didn’t answer.

It was only later—much later—that he confessed to me he had set up the whole thing. Talked to the
Celebrity Rehab
people, leaked the story to the
Post
—all of it. He was so worried about my downward spiral and my upcoming court date, he thought he had to do something dramatic, even if it meant sneaking around with TV producers behind my back. Without telling me, he’d reached out to someone who worked on the program and floated the idea of a coke-using, repeatedly relapsing, nice-guy former baseball pitcher for the
Celeb Rehab
cast. But that morning on the phone, he didn’t let on to any of that.

Still, as we talked about the story and the idea of rehab on television, I started thinking maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea.

“Maybe,” Ron agreed, nudging me in his own way.

“I’m back in my addiction,” I said. “I’m in a funk right now. I’ve been
hiding so long, it could be time to bring it all out into the open. Make myself accountable. You think they’d put me on there?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “But you’d be pretty exposed out there. For the first time, you’d be admitting to the world, ‘Yes, I’m an addict. I am.’”

People had already seen some evidence. They’d concluded I was pretty messed up. But they’d never seen exactly how deep my problem went or heard me discuss it directly. “I’d also be admitting it to myself,” I told Ron. “Maybe this show can give me the jump-start that I need. Maybe.”

A couple of days later, a man named Ben who booked celebrities for reality shows gave me a call. He said he’d been talking to Ron. “We’d really like to have you for season five of
Celebrity Rehab,
” he said.

I told him I was open to the idea but I wasn’t sure it was right for me. “Listen, Doc,” he said. “You’ll get world-class rehab for free, and we pay you to appear. What do you think?”

I knew I couldn’t afford a facility like the Pasadena Recovery Center. Nothing else was working. I had a serious felony case hanging over my head. I could be on my way to prison for a long time. I was separated from my wife and children. I was living in a small apartment alone. I was hungry for another chance, something different from the things I’d tried before. From what I’d watched on the show, Dr. Drew seemed okay, and I really liked his sidekick, Bob Forrest, a no-bullshit musician who had been a massive heroin addict for years.

But the addict in me was still negotiating. “How long will I have to be there?” I asked Ben.

“It depends on how much time they think you need,” Ben said. “Anywhere from fifteen days to three weeks is ordinary.”

“Let me think about it,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, sounding a little frustrated. “But I gotta have an answer in forty-eight hours or I move on to someone else.”

I called Ron and told him I thought I wanted to do it. “Maybe I can
take the mask off and go on the show and let people see me like I really am now,” I said.

“Makes sense,” Ron said, letting me make my own decision but still not mentioning whose idea it had really been.

“It’s time for me to tell people, ‘This is what I’ve been through,’” I said. “‘This is what it’s been like for me the last twenty years. And this is what I’m doing about it.’ I just gotta talk to my mom first. And my kids. I can’t do it unless they’re on board.”

I called my mother and told her what I was thinking.

“Ooh,” she said with a hint of recognition in her voice. “I know that show. It’s kinda trashy, I think. I’m not a fan. But son, if you think it will help you, Lord knows you could use it.”

“I hear you, Mom,” I said. “If I do it, I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

Dwight Junior and my oldest daughter, Ashley, were both in favor of the idea. “Anything you think will help, I’m okay with,” Ashley said.

“I gotta warn you,” I told the older kids. “A lot of stuff could come out. There’s gonna be things I have to say and deal with, things that are probably going to be uncomfortable for you guys as well as me.”

I didn’t want them being teased by their friends any more than I wanted my mother taking grief from her church ladies. Those who love me have lives too.

“Thank you all,” I told them, so grateful for their support. “I’ll try to make it count this time.”

Before I could give the producers a solid yes, I also needed to talk to my New Jersey lawyer, Neal Frank, who was handling the child endangerment case. He was all for it. “Getting treatment is the best thing you could do for your life—and your case,” he said.

The prosecutor expressed some early reservations about my seeking treatment on a television show. But Judge Donald Venezia, who had been assigned my criminal case, gave his initial approval. He must have figured that if I screwed up, he’d know about it soon enough. My next court appearance wasn’t scheduled until April 2011. By that point,
Ben-the-booker told me, I’d be back from Pasadena and in some kind of follow-up program in New Jersey.

Everyone except the prosecutor seemed thrilled when I finally said yes.

Ben told me who my fellow cast members would be, besides Amy Fischer and Michael Lohan. It was going to be a colorful group: former Guns N’ Roses drummer Steven Adler,
Survivor
contestant Jessica “Sugar” Kiper,
Baywatch
young gun Jeremy Jackson, and troubled actresses Sean Young and Bai Ling. And now me.

The night before I flew to Los Angeles, the addict in me kept saying, “You know, you really don’t have to do this. You could purposely miss the fight. You could fly out there, then give the slip to the people who are waiting at the gate at LAX, hop a plane back east, and figure things out from there.”