Release Is the Last Straw for Darryl and Dodgers

Wednesday morning at 10:30, Darryl Strawberry strode into the law offices of Latham & Watkins, 633 West 5th Street, downtown Los Angeles, in a baseball cap, neatly pressed T-shirt and shorts to be formally divorced from the Dodgers. He came in from his present dwelling near Palm Springs looking rested and fit, Fred Claire thought, finally getting to observe Strawberry face to face. Not once had the Dodger general manager seen or spoken to Strawberry since the player confessed his drug habit April 4.

Tom Lasorda was not in the room. Not once had the Dodger manager seen or spoken to Strawberry since the player went absent without leave April 3.

“They wouldn’t put my calls through, but I left messages,” Claire said.

Lasorda said, “I would have, but I didn’t even know where he was.”

Around a conference table, five men sat. Claire brought along the baseball club’s general counsel, Sam Fernandez. Strawberry had his own lawyer, Robert Shapiro, whose practice in Century City is situated on the ironically named Avenue of the Stars. Dapper in his double-breasted gray suit, Shapiro presented a stark contrast in style to his client and to the fifth party present, the players’ union representative, Eugene Orza, dressed in argyle socks and tan suede shoes.

Details already had been hammered out. Final points were discussed. Papers were drawn. Strawberry would relinquish the Dodgers from any contractual obligation they had in return for a financial settlement. The player’s services would become available to any other organization willing to pay a price. Should no one stake a claim, Strawberry would be free to strike any deal with any team, any time he felt able.

Strawberry spoke and got emotional. He said, “I’m sorry that I let everybody down.” He wept.

Then he signed the divorce papers.

Claire extended a hand and said, “Keep in touch.”

“You too, Fred,” Strawberry said.

And then he left L.A. for good. Out at home.

On his way back to Chavez Ravine to announce the news, Claire was conscious of everything that had transpired. After one fine 1991 season, he and the Dodgers had gotten next to nothing from Strawberry as a ballplayer and now would get nothing for him. And yet, at least something possibly had been saved in the process. Possibly Darryl Strawberry himself had been saved. He had gotten some help. He had checked into the Betty Ford clinic. Betty Ford herself had checked on him. To save his baseball career was one thing. Actual salvation meant more.

Claire had a vivid flashback.

“I’ll never forget going to Maury Wills’ place in the Marina when we knew for sure he had a problem. Don Newcombe goes with me. Maury’s denying, denying, denying. We go over there and bang on his door and we tell him he’s going with us to an Orange County treatment center if Don has to drag him there. All the while, he’s telling us to get the hell away from him, leave him alone.

“He’s ashamed. He doesn’t want to be there. Remember, this is one of the most famous players in Dodger history. Maury’s so nervous, he doesn’t even register under his own name. He checks into the clinic as ‘Don Claire.’

“Eventually, he gets better, thank God. And one morning Maury finally gets up in front of everybody and says, ‘You know, my name’s not really Don.’ And the people there, they smile at him and say, you know, ‘No kidding.’

“And now, all these years later, I’ll be down in Vero Beach taking a jog around the grounds, and I’ll look up and see Maury Wills out on the golf course. And he gives a little wave, and I give a little wave, and we don’t have to speak. We know , we just know. Maury saved his life. Maury’s my friend.”

The allegory is unmistakable.

Darryl Strawberry is in the same boat. It’s a lifeboat. He has to save himself, even if he feels all alone. For 52 days now, he has been on his own, maybe feeling humiliated, maybe feeling betrayed. Claire can hear those last conversations with Darryl as though they happened an hour ago. He had waited, then panicked, then even prayed for the player’s safekeeping April 3 when the phone finally rang, late that night.

“Darryl calls and says, ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine, everything’s all right.’

“And I tell him, ‘Like hell it is.’ I tell him, ‘You get your butt into my office first thing tomorrow morning and you bring your agent and bring your attorney and bring anybody you need to bring.’ And that’s when, next day, Darryl finally acknowledged that he had a serious, serious problem.”

An illness?

Many would call it that. Some would not. Lasorda did not. He deliberately called Strawberry’s downfall a weakness, not a disease. People called the manager insensitive, ill-informed, but Lasorda remains adamant, saying Wednesday, “I’ve read probably 400 letters since I said that and I’ve kept them, and let me tell you, all but about three agreed with me 100%. I got letters from doctors, letters from former addicts, letters from preachers. I had a 12-year-old kid in Philadelphia tell me, ‘Tommy, I’m happy you said what you said about Darryl. He ain’t sick. He’s weak. I got friends like him who are weak.’ Twelve damn years old! Scares the hell out of you.

“People got to understand something. This is something kids have got to fight, this urge to use drugs. I ain’t knocking Darryl. I’m praying for the guy. He’s got a heart as big as his whole body. Now that he’s on the right road, I’ll call him and tell him that. But first he had to save himself.”

Maybe he has.

Fred Claire hopes so. He thinks about Strawberry a lot, thinks about why he came here in the first place. Clenching a fist, pounding the air, Claire stands inside the belly of Dodger Stadium and says, “This was where Darryl Strawberry wanted to be more than anyplace in the whole world. Darryl didn’t go out and talk to 20 different teams. Darryl could have walked into those winter meetings as a free agent and people would have been tripping over themselves to get at him. Being a Dodger meant everything to him.

“Darryl thinks he let his whole hometown down. Can you imagine how that must feel?

“Let me tell you my dream about Darryl. It’s 15 years from now and we’re at an old-timers’ game. I wave to him down on the field and say, ‘Darryl, how you doing?’ And Darryl takes my hand and says, ‘Fred, I’m doing great.’ ”