On the morning of October 28, 1986, Darryl Strawberry knocked on
his friend’s door. No answer. “Doc, c’mon.” Then he started
pounding on it. Still no response. He shouted. Nothing.
Later that day, Jay Horwitz, the team’s media relations man gave
the official word, “Dwight Gooden wasn’t feeling very well…
that’s why he was absent.” On the day of the biggest victory parade
in New York history, Bobby Ojeda and Keith Hernandez hadn’t shaved,
or changed clothes and they reeked of booze — yet they made it.
Dr. K never did. Team officials believed his “fatigue” was a coke
hangover. He would be arrested that winter. Over the next few
years, players from my team, the Mets, would not only be caught
brawling, boozing, and snorting coke but even throwing lit
fireworks in the direction of children. But every night they
played, I watched them with my grandmother and we cheered. Scandal
made the Mets hard to like sometimes, but it was harder to leave
them altogether.
In the past two weeks, it seems every major sport (and several
minor ones) has been hit with a scandal. In football, there is
Michael Vick — a star quarterback who has been indicted by a
federal grand jury on charges related to dog-fighting. The Tour de
France brought us several cyclists who dropped out or were forced
out as drug-cheats, including the one-time leader, Michael
Rasmussen. Speaking of chemical impropriety, Barry Bond’s current
chase of Hank Aaron’s all time home run record is widely considered
the exclamation point at the end of baseball’s “steroid era.” Most
troubling of all, an NBA referee, Tim Donaghy, plans on turning
himself over to authorities investigating him for point shaving
scandal that involves the Gambino crime family. In short, these are
overpaid, sadistic criminals, and chemically-enhanced thugs playing
in rigged games. And that’s just the last two weeks.
Reactions have been swift and ferocious. Adidas and Reebok
stopped selling Michel Vick jerseys. NBA fans are posting their own
edited videos of games Donaghy reffed, demonstrating malfeasance
that may have changed the outcome of a playoff series. Bud Selig,
the commissioner of baseball, now issues chilly statements, almost
apologizing for the fact that he may be in the stands when Bonds
breaks the record, saying he’ll attend “out of respect for the
tradition of the game, the magnitude of the record, and the fact
that all citizens of this country are innocent until proven
guilty.” There’s a ringing endorsement.
But this isn’t the beginning of the end of professional sports.
Though the 1980s Mets were terrible role models for me, my
grandmother made each of their games her nightly appointment. We
will do the same today. Why?
Sports thrive not only because they are a multi-billion dollar
industry with gigantic financial and media institutions depending
on their success, but also because we love them. Sports are more
than simple entertainment. As spectators we vicariously participate
in the contest. While we reward mediocrity in popular music and in
our politics, sports remain the last cultural redoubt of
excellence. Every segment of “Web Gems” on ESPN’s Baseball tonight
testifies to our love of great feats, great effort, great physical
prowess. We, the spectators, then compare achievements in sports
with statistics. And we can give the numbers life through
stories.
The bad characters and the criminals will be immortalized in
their stats — no doubt. But no sports writer fails to mention that
Ty Cobb was a tremendous jerk, that Dennis Rodman was a decadent
and sad figure, or that Pete Rose was a degenerate gambler. If
guilty, Michael Vick’s criminal reputation will last as long as his
athletic accomplishments endure.
Bonds will likely break the home run record in the next week.
Giants fans, having reconciled themselves to Bonds in some way,
will rejoice. But when, God willing, I watch Mets games with my
grandchildren, if his name comes up in the course of conversation,
I will tell them about the “steroid era” — how baseball ignored
the juice while McGuire and Sosa helped the game recover from a
player strike; how Bonds likely joined them and how many of the
stats from this era should be considered inflated. There are no
stats without stories.
But Bonds is not the only attraction this summer. In the next
week I expect to watch Tom Glavine record his 300th career victory,
and Alex Rodriguez knock a ball over the fence for the 500th time.
I’ll watch baseball games that have no obvious import because I can
never guess when some young hurler will toss a no-hitter, or when a
time-worn veteran will grit his teeth through incredible pain and
make an extraordinary catch. I’ll watch because I never know when
the game will be just an enjoyable diversion, or an incredible
event that I’ll recall decades hence. The 1986 Mets were a rowdy,
decadent, drug-stained mess. They were also one of the best
baseball teams ever fielded. And that’s a story I’ll keep
telling.
