Citizen K

[Times photos: Bill Serne] On a recent carpool run, Gooden checks on his young passengers: son Darren, 5, center, and nephew Devon Pedro, 7.

By DAVE SCHEIBER

© St. Petersburg Times,
published October 7, 2001

As a big league pitcher he was "Dr. K,'' known for his blazing fastball. With his baseball career and a serious drug problem in the past, Dwight Gooden is playing a new position: family man.

ST. PETERSBURG -- The pressure is on the old pitching ace this day, but he has battled through tough outings before. Dwight Gooden glances at the packed crowd, picks his spot, then starts into his motion -- deftly steering his Lexus SUV around the after-school traffic and into an ideal parking space to get his kids.

Impressive fundamentals. The rookie carpool dad has potential.

Gooden has already picked up his youngest child, 5-year-old Darren, from Bay Point Elementary. And now -- with wife Monica coaching at his side -- he hops out to find his two children at the lower campus of the Canterbury School of Florida.

[Photo: AP] Dwight Gooden’s most memorable moment in baseball came the night of May 14, 1996, when he pitched the first and only no-hitter of his career, in a 2-0 win over the Seattle Mariners at Yankee Stadium.

Ariel, 10, and Devin, 6, beam at their father as he greets them. Then he whisks everyone off to the upper campus to get older daughter Ashley, 11, then drops the family at home across town, calls oldest son Dwight Jr., 15, to see how school went in Tampa, and still gets Devin to the dentist on time.

It's another strong delivery by the former strikeout king dubbed Doctor K, who only recently began striking out into the world off the field.

Now, he is Citizen K. His story as a player has already been sold to Hollywood. His story as a St. Petersburg family guy adjusting to retirement since April, and as a new baseball exec for the New York Yankees, is just beginning.

And the biggest story -- Gooden's successful fight in overcoming a cocaine and alcohol addiction that undercut his career and nearly killed him -- goes on, one day at a time.

"Overall, retirement has been great," Gooden, 36, says inside his large and lavish home. "I still can be involved with baseball in my job with the Yankees, but I get to spend more time here, do more things with the kids and Monica.

"I tell her, we got married in 1987, but we didn't really get married until 1995, because before that, I was so out of control."

Magic touch

Storm clouds are rolling in on a September evening at the New York Yankees' Legends Field in Tampa. It's the playoff opener of the Class A Yanks, but there is a special attraction: Dwight Gooden.

He sits at a table on the upper level concourse, on hand to meet a steady flow of fans -- from young children to grandparents -- before the game. They get snapshots, signatures, conversation, and they touch his gold rock of a '96 World Series ring.

"When I was a kid, my dad would take me to see the Reds in spring training, and I was always too scared to go talk to the players or ask for any autographs," Gooden says later, sipping a lemonade. "I want to give these kids what I know I would have wanted when I was their age. I just try to be myself and let them know I'm no different than they are."

That down-to-earth style -- in an era when so many pro athletes project arrogance or disinterest -- is undeniably part of his appeal.

But there is something else at work. He was once a young pitcher with a magic touch, who let it slip away through years of self-destructive behavior, then became determined to rebuild his life. He talks openly about his mistakes now and says he hopes others might learn from them. That is his new magic touch, and the public seems to embrace it as warmly as any of his pitching feats.

The rain holds off, and a huge ovation greets Gooden as he takes to the mound to throw out the first pitch of the playoffs. Minutes later, he heads for the stands, getting a hot dog and a seat near the man who helped change everything.

Working for the Boss

At a Class A Yankees playoff game last month, Gooden and his boss, Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, left, watch the action at Legends Field.

George Steinbrenner has just arrived at the park. He grabs Gooden's arm playfully and kiddingly asks the rusty right-hander if he had one-hopped the ceremonial pitch. Joking aside, the Boss has been Gooden's lifeline for the past six years.

Impressed by the pitcher's efforts to change his ways, Steinbrenner took a chance on Gooden after his drug use got him suspended for the last four weeks of the '94 season and all of 1995. Gooden responded by pitching a no-hitter, the only one of his career, and helping the Yankees win the '96 Series.

When Gooden was released by the Tampa Bay Devil Rays in 2000 and was out of work for a month, Steinbrenner again brought him into the Yankee fold, and Gooden was part of another Yankees championship. And when he announced his retirement in late March, Steinbrenner was waiting with a job offer.

He made Gooden his special assistant for baseball operations. As part of his duties, he coaches Yankee minor leaguers and counsels them on dealing with pressure and on the risks of drugs.

But Gooden is also learning the business side of baseball from Steinbrenner. He travels with him, attends meetings and is in training as a front-office executive who can gauge talent for the club and provide valuable insights as an ex-player. This week, Steinbrenner and Gooden fly together to New York as the Yankees prepare to defend their title.

"I hear these reports that people who have been through what Doc Gooden went through can't make the turn," Steinbrenner says. "He not only has made the turn, he's on the Indianapolis 500 raceway."

Twelve steps

Shimmering plaques and trophies fill the shelves in his upstairs study, dominated by his biggest, the 1985 Cy Young Award as best pitcher in the National League. Yet perhaps none of the career keepsakes in the room matches the significance of one small framed photo reflecting no sports glory at all.

It is a closeup of two men in a deep discussion. One is Gooden, the other a man named Ron Dock. That picture reflects a major moment in the redemption and renaissance of Dwight Gooden.

It was snapped in 1995, a year after the lowest point in Gooden's life, when he sat on a bed with a gun and contemplated suicide.

His cocaine addiction -- he had first tried the drug as an 18-year-old at Hillsborough High School in Tampa -- was raging out of control. He had run-ins with police. He did two rehabs, one at the Smithers Institute in 1987 and the other at the Betty Ford Center in 1994, but he relapsed. Then, after failing another drug test, he got the letter of suspension from baseball.

"I thought, "What's the use of me going on? I've just been making everybody's life miserable, maybe I'm better off dead,' " he says. "But then I heard this voice in my head, which I believe was from God, that said, "Hey, you can take this day and get better.' "

Soon after, Gooden met Ray Negron, who become his representative and a constant presence. Negron took him to no-frills 12-step meetings at St. Petersburg's Freedom House. There was no one to coddle Gooden, no one asking for his autograph.

At the Freedom House, Gooden listened to a talk by the group leader. He was a tough Vietnam veteran from New York who got hooked on cocaine and booze in the war and came to St. Petersburg looking for drugs. One day in 1992, high on crack, he tried to kill himself by jumping in front of a car.

The speaker, Ron Dock, wound up in rehab, turned his life around with the help of Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, and became an addiction counselor. When Dock finished talking, Gooden asked if Dock if he would be his sponsor and help him stay clean. Dock declined at first, intimidated by Gooden's celebrity status, but then agreed.

They quickly became like brothers. Dock knew that things were going well in '95 when Gooden called from a party where everyone was drinking. "I told him he needed to get out of that situation right away and asked where he wanted to meet me," Dock recalls. "He told me "Thank you,' but I said, "Hey, you're the one who called.' "

As Gooden's suspension came to an end, Negron -- a former batboy for the Yankees -- paved the way to a deal with Steinbrenner in October 1995.

One week later, Negron devised a test.

Negron, who is Puerto Rican, arranged for a monthlong trip to the island. He knew drugs were easily accessible there. Negron and Dock accompanied Gooden, but each day, they let him walk the city alone more freely. "I was scared to death," Negron says, "but if we let him walk around by himself, we'd know if he could fight the temptations."

Gooden saw drugs and just kept walking. He also had several deep, tearful talks with Dock about their addictions, about life, about hopes for the future. And Negron was there to take a picture of a turning point.

"That trip," he says, "was a huge step for Dwight, in his career and his life."

The Doctor is in -- town, that is. And his five kids love having him around more often these days. On the family room sofa in his spacious Pinellas Point home, from left, Ariel, 10, Darren, 5, Dwight Sr., Devin, 6, Ashley, 11, and Dwight Jr., 15.

Daddy's home

The kids have just come home from school at the Gooden house. Darren and Devin are howling at a Disney cartoon on the big-screen TV, while Ashley and Ariel sit at a table doing homework.

Dwight Jr. is over for the afternoon from Tampa, where he attends his father's alma mater, Hillsborough High, and lives weekdays with his mother, a woman with whom Gooden had a relationship, though they did not marry.

A few feet away, Dwight Sr. sits at the kitchen counter having a bowl of Cocoa Puffs before heading off to a Tampa Yanks playoff game.

Working for Steinbrenner keeps him on the run -- "I think I'm busier than I ever was as a player," he says, laughing. But Gooden is also home with his family more than ever. Little by little, he is learning to find his place in a house of constant motion.

Monica Gooden kept the family running during her husband’s baseball career and his struggle with drugs and alcohol. She says of him today, “I’m very, very proud of how he talks to people about his situation. His message is, ‘This happened to me, and this is what I’ve become from it.’ ”

Until now, Monica Gooden has been its anchor. For years, when her husband was away playing, she kept the family going. She likes having her husband home, admires the way he has confronted his problems, but she has had to make some adjustments.

"I guess I was the man of the house, trying to fix things and run things, for so long, I'm still getting used to seeing him around," she says with a smile. "He'll come in and say, "What's this?' and I'm like, "Are you supposed to even be here?' "

On one of the first mornings of his retirement, Gooden wandered sleepily downstairs as Monica was rushing to get the children ready for school -- serving breakfast, slapping together sandwiches, herding the children toward the front door.

"At 7:30, I tell Darren to turn off the TV, and we turn off the lights and head down the hallway," she says. "And there's Dwight, reading the paper, missing all of it. Suddenly, it dawns on him that we had just left him in the dark, and he says, "Well, I guess I might as well just get up and go too.' And I said, "Hey, this is what we do, what we do every day.' "

Monica soon began delegating chores to her husband, though she quickly crossed grocery shopping off the list. "Never again," she says. Supervising homework? "Ha! No way," she says.

But Gooden has his duties, such as buying school supplies for the kids, shuttling them around to give his wife a break and waking up at 5:30 each weekday morning to help with the off-to-school rush. Every Monday he drives Dwight Jr. to school in Tampa, and he trains the prep pitcher several days a week.

And, of course, he's mastering the art of carpool driving. "I'm teaching him," she says. "Basically, it's "Why are you in this line? We've been here forever. You could have parked, jumped out, gotten your child and been gone by now!' But he's learning."

These days, you see Gooden around town like any regular dad. At a softball game over the summer, he sat quietly in the bleachers of a girls' softball game, watching Ashley's team play, signing autographs for young fans who approached every so often.

At home, Ariel was ecstatic that her father was finally in town for a September birthday when she turned 10. He took her and her friends to Malibu Raceway and had Darren's party in August at Celebration Station. He recently took his older kids to Destiny's Child and 'N Sync concerts. And he's been joining Monica for the kids' activities and school functions he always had to miss.

"They are such a wonderful, close-knit family," says Jan Herzik, principal at Canterbury's lower campus. "Monica, she's really been like the matriarch. But Dwight is very special, too. I'll never forget he called on his cell phone from the Yankees dugout one night, just to talk to Ashley after her kindergarten Christmas play. That touched me so much."

Herzik was also touched by a prize-winning essay Ashley wrote last year. It was written, with her parents' encouragement, for the school's Drug Abuse Resistance Education program, reading in part:

". . . Drugs are addicting and it's a hard habit to break. My family has battled drugs. I was much younger so I don't remember any of it. My mother and father told me our family history and how it almost destroyed our family. My mom and dad were determined not to let this happen. Our family deals with this every day but chooses never to give up. . . ."

A real job at last

Gooden says he has learned a lot about himself. As a teen, he was a people pleaser who went along with peers who drank and did drugs. As an adult, he went years without accepting he had problems.

"But finally it hit me: If I'm really going to change, I'm going to have to do it for myself before I can do it for my wife, my kids or anyone else," he says. "If you want to stop, you have to make a commitment to the program -- and make it for a lifetime."

Gooden is sad that his friend and former Mets and Yankees teammate, Darryl Strawberry, hasn't reached the same conclusion. He hopes Strawberry, who has a serious drug addiction and colon cancer, will finally get well in a court-ordered rehab program. "He's not a bad guy, he's just a sick guy," he says.

Nobody, on the other hand, appears worried about Gooden. "People used to say when he was finished with baseball, he'd go right back into drugs," says Negron, an adviser for the Cleveland Indians. "But the fact is, he's focused, and he knows where he's going, and he's doing great."

Dock, now an intervention coordinator for the Yankees, visits and talks to Gooden several times a day. They help support each other. "We'll both be recovering addicts for the rest of our lives, but he's what we call a success story," Dock says.

The one thing Gooden has not yet been able to do is watch the video of his dramatic 1996 no-hitter. What happened is right out of a movie -- and might one day be filmed if HBO, which bought the script rights from Warner Bros., acts on the project.

He wasn't even going to be in New York that night. His father, Dan Gooden, was scheduled for open-heart surgery in Tampa the morning after the game. Surgery was risky, and the doctor suggested Gooden should be with his dad the night before.

Gooden and his father shared a close bond. When Gooden and nephew Gary Sheffield of the Los Angeles Dodgers were children in Tampa, it was Dan Gooden who instilled a passion in them for baseball.

So Gooden booked a flight from New York to Tampa the day before his father's operation. "But at 6 a.m., I woke up and called Monica (in St. Petersburg), and said, "I think my dad wants me to pitch tonight,' " he says. "I called (manager) Joe Torre, and he goes, "Are you out of your mind?' But my dad always taught me to be dedicated to the game."

He stayed and pitched, worrying about his father, but blocking out the world when he stepped on the mound. He didn't realize he had a no-hitter until the seventh inning. The next morning, his father read about his son's feat before being wheeled into surgery. The operation was successful, and Gooden arrived at the hospital with a gift. "I gave him the ball," he says.

He still has a hard time talking about it without choking up. His father died eight months later, before they ever had a chance to watch the video together. "One day when it feels right, and I'm ready," he says, "I'll watch it with my kids."

Gooden knows his off-field struggles hurt his father deeply but thinks his dad would be proud of how his life has turned out. His mother, Ella May Gooden, told him, "Can you imagine your dad seeing you now? You finally have a real job, and you're 36."

Gooden does think about his old job still. He admits he wonders about the Hall of Fame, and whether he might still have a shot, despite the problems that derailed the spectacular start of his career. He finished four shy of 200 wins -- regarded as a magic number for Hall of Fame pitchers.

"But you know, I think back to '95, and I honestly believe that if I wasn't out that whole year, I probably wouldn't be sitting here," he says. "My life was so destructive, I don't think I would ever have had another opportunity to straighten it out."

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