Mike Piazza's bio is for the most part an enjoyable read . He spends a surprising amount of time discussing his childhood and his difficult journey to the major leagues. When he finally does hit the big time each year of his career is given its own chapter and baseball fans are treated to richly detailed accounts of on the field and off the field events. While definitely not a tell all expose; a lot of juicy bits of gossip are revealed. Also enjoyable are all the non baseball people Piazza spent time with, which varied from Fabio to Pamela Anderson to Axel Rose and even to Pope John Paul. The one flaw in this book is that Piazza is a bit whiney about defending himself against his detractors. This is especially the case late in the book when Mike's skills and career are fading. Frankly, I'd forgotten about some of the negative things said and written about him and by bringing them up again Mike probably is doing himself a bit of a disservice. Don't worry so much about it Mike, next year you'll get into the Hall of Fame and as the years go by, the bad things will be forgotten and you will be remembered as one of greatest catchers the game has ever seen. ( )

I knew a lot about Mike Piazza the baseball player. I didn’t know much about Mike Piazza the person, and after reading this book, I wish I still didn’t. I’ve never read an autobiography where the person came off looking really bad. I mean, it’s their own words, what was he doing?! I’m not sure Mike ever even wanted to play baseball, it seemed to be all his dads doing, with Tommy’s help. I mean he even quit and only went back after his dad intervened. It seemed like it wasn’t his dream at all but his dads, and maybe that’s why he was such a miserable person. Honestly, I wish I only knew Mike the baseball player not Mike the author…wow. ( )

During Mike Piazza’s years with the Mets (1998-2005), I loved the guy. I was a HUGE Piazza fan, so much so that at one point, I was seriously considering getting a tattoo of his uniform number, 31. The beanball that Roger Clemens threw at him in 2000, which cost Piazza an appearance in the All-Star Game that year, and the Subway Series that year—during which Clemens inexplicably threw a bat shard at Piazza, claiming he thought it was the ball—roused my indignation. I still believe that Clemens is the biggest jerk to ever don a major league uniform.

But I never thought I would consider Piazza to be a kind of a jerk—until I read his autobiography.

He calls the book “Long Shot,” and in the epilogue, he mentions his fervent hope that his story will serve as an inspiration to his readers. He spends much of the book, however, whining and complaining about how unfair he was treated throughout his major league career, and he misses no opportunity to demonize everyone who (in his perception) slighted him in the least. His father loom over Piazza’s story—indeed, he dominates the guy’s life—so comprehensively that it’s impossible to conceive of Piazza’s career if his father hadn’t been there to pave the way (and in some cases bully people) for Piazza’s opportunities. Tommy Lasorda—although he is not literally Piazza’s godfather—played that role for him, negotiating opportunities for Piazza and making sure that he got what he wanted. But Lasorda, along with many other teammates and acquaintances of Piazza’s, didn’t even attend the guy’s wedding. As Piazza admits, despite his seventeen years in the majors, only two of his teammates chose to attend his wedding. He also admits to being a “brat” for almost the entire time he was in the majors. Throughout this book, he asserts that he wasn’t a good teammate and that he was fairly selfish—and he recites his achievements at random moments, citing the length of certain homeruns and rattling off statistics that admittedly put him among the game’s elites.

But Piazza doesn’t seem to understand that the way to make yourself look good in your autobiography is not to simply brag about your numbers and enumerate your various accomplishments—and you certainly don’t impress anyone by repeatedly expressing your bitterness over never being named MVP or claiming that you’re the target of some widespread conspiracy among Latino players.

I learned a lot about Piazza the man—his fondness for heavy metal music, his abstinence during much of his young adulthood, his devotion to his Catholic faith, and his conservative political beliefs (which should not have come as a surprise to me—did I really think that a multi-millionaire who held a press conference to proclaim his heterosexuality would be a liberal?).

Ultimately, Piazza comes across as a disgruntled brat, despite his claim, in the email that announced his retirement, that he was grateful for his amazing journey through the big leagues. Before I read the book, I was a huge Piazza fan. My fanaticism is considerably tempered now. I will be forever grateful that he played the majority of his career with the Mets, and I will cherish all of the great memories he created on the diamond. But Piazza the man? Not so much. ( )