These Days, Mets Are All Stirred Up

The New York tabloids call him “Straw.” That means you’ve made it on Broadway. You’re theirs. As the song goes, if you can make it there, you make it anywhere.

When they chop down your name to sell papers, you’ve arrived. Reggie Jackson was “Jax” in the half-page headlines. Mantle was “Mick.”

“DiMag” was enough for Jolting Joe. “Duke” was all you needed for Snider. “Willie” meant only one person. “Robbie” was Jackie Robinson. Brevity was the soul of affection. But Ruth they elongated. “The Bambino” identified him.

Gotham needs its heroes. This is the town that invented the ticker-tape parade and the keys-to-the-city ceremony on City Hall steps.

Darryl Strawberry seemed born for the mold. New York could hardly contain its excitement when it got its first look at him.

Darryl Strawberry had New York hero written all over him. Rising 6 feet 6 inches, as thin and hard as a one-iron, he had the beautiful, supple swing of Duke Snider, the style and grace of Mays.

You couldn’t order from room service a more perfectly contoured baseball idol. Pitchers perspired when they saw him step into the box. Outfielders and infielders instinctively moved back five steps, the catchers looked over to the dugout to see if the manager wanted to walk him on purpose.

It looked like a long, steady ticker-tape parade to Cooperstown.

He struck out a little bit? Hey, so did Ruth. He was just a kid. He made kids’ mistakes. New York could deal with that. The pennants would come. So would the World Series championships. New York had seen this act before.

Then, there was that great name, Darryl Strawberry. Hollywood couldn’t have come up with a better one. All he needed was someone to write a song about him--and his own nickname for the headlines.

No one expected miracles of Strawberry. He was, after all, a mere baby. But he progressed steadily, the curve ball became less of a mystery to him, and when in 1987 he hit .284 with 39 home runs, 104 runs batted in and 106 scored, and 29 stolen bases, they were ready to put him in the song lyrics with Mickey, Willie and the Duke.

But no place turns on you like New York. It wasn’t long before Strawberry’s halo began to slip, people began reminding themselves a hero is just a sandwich. New York will forgive you a lot of things--but not popping up with the bases loaded and the pennant on the line.

Darryl began to get a reputation as one of the singular underachievers of all time. When he got in the World Series, the Boston fans began to taunt him with “D-a-a-r-y-l!” chanted derisively as though he were the spoiled rich kid in the neighborhood allowed to play only because he owned the ball.

When Strawberry slipped all the way to .225 in 1989, the fans were convinced that was not his name but a description. He was miscast as a folk hero. He couldn’t cope with the big leagues, was the consensus. Trade talks emerged. On-field flare-ups occurred.

But it turned out it wasn’t the major league fastball Strawberry couldn’t handle, it was the all-league highball. Darryl was getting the wrong alcohol rub. He was giving the pitchers an unfair advantage. He was taking a hangover to the plate with him.

Babe Ruth was supposed to have gotten away with it. Some other players have been known to combine career with beer. But anybody who knows the etiology of alcoholism knows it is a longshot. Hack Wilson, who could hit 56 home runs and drive in 190 runs--both league records--one year and be out of the game two years later is a more normal example of the folly of trying to hit a curve through a haze. Alcohol not only plays havoc with the liver but with the batting average, as well.

A domestic argument that resulted in some ugly headlines actually proved a saving point for Strawberry--a mid-inning rally in time to save not only a home but a career. It opened his eyes to the destructive capacity of bonded booze. Getting in combat with teammates on the field is one thing. Teammates at home is another.

Darryl was shocked into seeking help. He is not the kind of guy to be gotten out with the same pitches over and over again. He joined a higher league--double-A, for Alcoholics Anonymous.

Now he’s “Straw” again in the black, blaring headlines. A New York icon. The toast of Broadway.

He’s batting .291. He has 15 home runs, 41 RBIs. He leads the Mets in both categories. He appears to be leading the team toward the National League East title. He is exactly what New York ordered.

He stood, clear-eyed, glowing with health, in a locker room at Shea Stadium Sunday and evaluated the picture from the Strawberry field--right.

“I’m having fun--the game is fun for the first time in a while,” he said. “My confidence level is rising. I come out without a hangover and I get into the game in a good frame of mind. I’m starting to come around to real happiness.

“Bud (Manager Bud Harrelson) told me, ‘You put fear in the pitchers’ hearts. You’re the most dangerous hitter in the league.’ So, I feel my confidence. They have to deal with me, not the other way around. I don’t give in to the pitchers on any level now.”

It is a measure of New York’s heroes that individual achievements are secondary. New York measures its idols’ prowess in pennants won. Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Robinson, Snider and Mays put their teams in annual World Series. New York expects no less. This is how your name becomes the recognizable short form.

The Straw Mets made one World Series, two playoffs. But they are on a title course with a seven-game streak that has brought them within two games of the NL East lead. That seems to augur a Strawberry-with-cream finale.

“I haven’t had to change the friends I keep; these are still my friends,” Strawberry said, sweeping a hand around the locker room. “I have had to change the places I go.”

One of the places he hopes to go this year is the World Series. Reggie Jackson once asserted he was “the straw that mixed the drinks” for the old Yankees. There is very little doubt this is the Straw that stirs the Mets. Because it’s not the Straw that mixes the drinks anymore.