He turned the page for good at precisely 12:02 p.m., unleashing a fastball that popped Mike Piazza’s glove, a fine baseball sound that filled the cloudless sky above Tradition Field. Piazza nodded his head, admiring both velocity and location.
Pedro Martinez nodded back.
“It was all pretty natural to me,” he would say later.
Martinez was able to settle into this fresh baseball incarnation in relative obscurity, the few hundred curious onlookers kept at a safe remove from the bank of mounds planted in the rear of the Mets’ training complex.
Omar Minaya was there, looking like a car collector admiring his newly purchased Ferrari. Willie Randolph was there, following Martinez’ every move like a jeweler studying the Hope Diamond. Mike Piazza, squatting 60 feet, 6 inches away, was remembering a hundred anonymous nights in the minor leagues, when the two of them were on the way up with the Dodgers. “It’s great,” Piazza said. “It’s like a reunification.”
It was a peaceful, easy afternoon in St. Lucie County, far away from the bustle of Shea Stadium, farther still removed from the bubbling, boisterous banter running up and down I-75, the road that connects the Yankees’ headquarters in Tampa and the Red Sox’ camp in Fort Myers.
Not so long ago, Martinez would have been square in the middle of all the nastiness. He was the eye of baseball’s perfect storm, the one man capable of riling passions on both side of the Great Divide. He set the agenda, with his words, with his deeds, with his personality. Now it’s Alex Rodriguez who fulfills that role.
Now Pedro Martinez, the lion in winter, gets to go about his business on back baseball fields, far away from the madness, throwing fastballs and changeups to Piazza, flanked on one side by a fellow Boston exile named Tim Hamulack and on the other by Victor Zambrano.
“It’s none of my business anymore,” he said. “I’m going to stay out of it. I’m going to wish those guys well. There are a lot of good athletes on either team, and I just wish they keep the game clean and play the game they know how to play. I have nothing to say about the Yankees and the Red Sox or the rivalry. I wish both teams well.”
If he sounded wistful, he insisted he doesn’t miss the inferno. He says he has nothing but fond wishes for Curt Schilling, the man who replaced him as Boston’s baseball icon. He says he has nothing but high regard for Larry Lucchino and Theo Epstein, the men who allowed him to be wooed away by the Mets. And he says he has nothing but affection for Randolph, the man who visited him in the Dominican a few months ago to share a few beers and a little baseball talk while Martinez was pondering his future.
“It’s something we do in the Dominican,” he said. “We’re a very cultural country, and the first thing we do when you get to the Dominican is give you a Presidente and make you feel at home. That’s what I did with Willie.”
There was little of that conviviality yesterday. Martinez was strictly business, keeping his fastball low, snapping off a few changes, giving Piazza a brief look at the cutter he’s developed since the last time he caught him, back in the ’96 All-Star Game, when Piazza was a Dodger and Martinez an Expo.
He popped Piazza’s mitt for 10 minutes straight, a solo percussion performance that captured everyone’s attention.
“He threw great today,” Piazza would say later. “Great command, on both sides of the plate. He’s amazing, really.”
When he was done, Martinez flipped the ball to pitching coach Rick Peterson, yelled, “Thanks, Mike!” at his catcher and disappeared to another back field for a little more conditioning and a lot more privacy. Baseball’s passion play rages on the other side of the state without him.
“I don’t miss it,” Pedro Martinez said.
And you almost believe him.
