Where have you gone, Darryl Strawberry?

As his old team takes a 3-1 Series lead over his other old team, a former hero takes another classic fall.

By Allen St. John

Oct 26, 2000 | The wire story was short and to the point. "Troubled slugger Darryl Strawberry, already on probation for a drug charge, was jailed Wednesday after he was arrested for allegedly testing positive for cocaine."

So as I arrived at Shea Stadium, Darryl's old haunt, for Game 4 of the World Series, this news was little more than prompt for a trivia question -- who is the only player to win a World Series with both the Mets and the Yankees? But strange as it seems to admit it on this side of the millennium, Darryl Strawberry is my favorite baseball player. There, I said it.

One doesn't choose a favorite ballplayer. It's a lot more like falling in love than, say, picking a mutual fund. And 17 years ago, Darryl was easy to fall for. Four weeks younger than I, this skinny 21-year-old was, according to the scouts, the next Ted Williams. For me he was a crucial missing link in my baseball education, the opportunity to watch a real live Hall of Famer from his very first at-bat. My father had Willie, Mickey and the Duke. I would have Darryl.

It seemed like karma, and it started out promisingly enough. Strawberry won the Rookie of the Year award and started hitting home runs in bunches as the Mets began their own renaissance. And with every moon shot hit to the beat of "Purple Rain," I believed that Darryl's success was foreshadowing my own. He was the sweet swinger for my generation, a Big Bopper for the Baby Busters.

Of course, it didn't go as either of us planned. What should have been a mid-'80s Mets dynasty produced only a single World Series, and Darryl chalked up only the first half of a Cooperstown career. He hit homers, but never quite enough. A bad back ruined his sweet swing. Bad decisions -- drugs, guns, the IRS -- ruined his life off the field.

But while many of his one-time fans turned on him, disappointed by the things he did, the things he didn't do, and by the fact that, in the end, he was more fallible than the rest of us, I stuck by him. It wasn't easy but I still found myself searching for his line in the out-of-town box scores every morning during his years with Los Angeles and San Francisco. "It's a good thing he'll be able to play DH," e-mailed one friend, "because he hits his wife more often than he hits the cut off man." Ouch.

A peek at Shea's tauntingly large right-center field scoreboard this week reminded me about why I care, bringing back memories of moon shots and batting practice barrages. Even in his final, fragile seasons with the Yankees, the Strawberry Rule still applied: Never go to the fridge or the john when Darryl's up at the plate because you might miss something you'll never see again.

Next Page: Act II: Standing just outside the celebration

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