Happy Trails, #31

I was waiting for Chuck Wipple to say an ode for Mike Piazza, but I think he’s over at Best Buy replacing his HDTV after it met a violent end during the Mets/Braves double-dip last night. So, allow me to offer a few words instead.

Piazza is a first-ballot HOF-er, and is, without question, the greatest hitting catcher of all time. But it’s not the 427 career home runs, 1,335 RBIs, or .308 life-time batting average that earned my respect. No, it was that walk-off homer against the Braves at Shea in the first game back after 9/11, when Piazza illustrated why it was going to be impossible for a bunch 11th-century-camel-jockey-suicide-bombing terrorists to shake the will of New Yorkers… and that day in Philly a half-season later, when he dispelled the notion that his throwing problems were the byproduct of a floppy wrist. Takes a lot of guts to do that in today’s you’re-the-most-awesomest-person-alive-but-only-if-you’re-gay day in age. (Side note: my girlfriend at the time came to visit me up at BU about a month before Piazza’s denial, and she told me that during her flight she sat next to a guy who, “Was the uncle of some famous baseball player, I think his name is Roberto Alomar” and he proceeded to tell her that his nephew was gay, and that he was worried about it getting out in the press. Gee, I wonder why? I believed my girl for three reasons, at least as far as her account of the story went: 1) tell me one chick you know who has any idea who Roberto Alomar is? Exactly. 2) Alomar played for the Mets that year, which fit the story. And 3) the guy was trying to hit on her, so I gave her points for siphoning that info for me while braving an onslaught of testosterone.)

Goodluck in all that you do, Mike, and thanks for the memories…