It was spring training 1998, a time when the New York Yankees were ascendant and the New York Mets were a dull portrait of mediocrity. Todd Hundley, the Mets’ biggest star, was out with an injury, and three little-known catchers — Todd Pratt, Vance Wilson and Tim Spehr — were competing to replace him.
On a particularly quiet day in March (they all seemed quiet that spring), a Mets official mentioned that the team yearned to grab Mike Piazza from the Los Angeles Dodgers. Nelson Doubleday Jr., one of the team’s owners, was said to want “someone with pizazz.”
Piazza would not join the Mets for another three months, finally coming in a trade with the Florida Marlins, but during the next seven years in New York, he burnished his legend as perhaps the best-hitting catcher ever. On Wednesday came the announcement that he had been elected to the Hall of Fame.
During his years in New York, there were times when Piazza was the best player on the planet and the occasional weeks when he struggled to get the ball out of the infield. But in terms of the pizazz that Doubleday coveted, Piazza never disappointed.
He was a baseball pinup, a dashing crosstown counterpoint to the Yankees’ corporatism. As careful and staid as they often seemed to be, Piazza was outgoing and unafraid to be different.
Yes, he could be grouchy, aloof and selfish at times, but he was never dull.
Piazza’s arrival at Shea Stadium was a boon for the Mets and their fans, and certainly for the reporters covering the team, who gradually came to appreciate one of baseball’s more intelligent players.
A casual encounter with Piazza at his locker before a game might include a discussion of politics, tax codes or heavy metal music. He always had opinions, and he was not afraid to share them with people he trusted, and he genuinely enjoyed conversing with many writers.
He was guarded, to be sure, and there were the days he projected an aura so menacing that everyone — teammates, clubhouse attendants and writers — knew to steer clear. But Piazza’s ability to go deep into that zone and block out a cluttered world also helped him focus at the plate in critical moments of games.
And if he sensed you were not out to sensationalize his private life and were interested in discussing unusual things — like how a folded-steel samurai sword worked — he would explain it. He might drop a quote from “Patton,” one of his favorite films, or do a spot-on imitation of an overexcited Formula One race announcer while walking to the team bus.
I covered the Mets for all but the last of Piazza’s years with the team and still chuckle at some of his funnier lines. He hated clichés and loved to guess what the back-page headlines of the tabloids would be, even when they were at his expense.
If he was in a slump, he would predict, “No Piazza Delivery.”
Of course, he loved baseball, and marveled at its history. But what was the value of discussing batting techniques with people who could never relate to hitting a 93-mph cut fastball in on the hands? If you knew about the Battle of the Bulge, however, he wanted to hear it.
One day in spring training in 2002, Piazza saw me as he drove up in a cobalt blue Audi (a typical car for Piazza; elegant but not flashy). He invited me in and then, to show off his car stereo, blasted “Led Zeppelin II” as we circled the parking lot.
There was no way to talk over the din, and I finally had to insist he let me off to go work. When I got out, my ears were ringing.
He would often seize on a catchphrase and clamp onto it for months, if not years. Team payroll was a big one. He loved chiding the incessant discussion over team budgets. If you asked him how important the coming series with the Braves was, he would say in mock seriousness, “Dude, it’s all about payroll.”
When his brother attended law school, Piazza learned about tort reform. He never tried to explain it or why he was interested. He just loved to say, “Dude, we need tort reform,” and then he was off to the batting cage.
He adored Michael Schumacher, the F1 driver, and invited me to watch a race, showcasing his love for a sport that was all the things he admired: intense, cosmopolitan and glamorous.
Baseball was his path to fame and greatness, but he yearned to be a rock star. During his time with the Mets, he would go to the WNEW-FM radio studio after games and spin records and chat with the disc jockey Eddie Trunk, who considered Piazza as knowledgeable about heavy metal as he was about baseball.
In 1999, Piazza brought me to a back room at Shea Stadium to meet guitarist Zakk Wylde, who shocked fans and team officials with his electrified rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Piazza loved that.
During the 2015 World Series, I saw Piazza in the tunnel at Citi Field after he threw out the first pitch. He said, “Doooood,” in that exaggerated way of his, and made reference to an inside joke. I almost expected him to go out and hit a home run.
