There have been many great players who lived in the shadow of an even greater teammate. Lou Gehrig had Babe Ruth. Don Drysdale had Sandy Koufax. Jeff Kent had Barry Bonds. Jerry Koosman had Tom Seaver.

Along with Seaver, Koosman played in a time when pitching dominated the game. It seemed like every team had a legitimate ace. However, no team had a 1-2 righty-lefty punch like the Mets. While Tom Seaver turned the Mets into a legitimate team, it was with Koosman pitching the next game that turned the Mets into a pitching powerhouse.

In the mid 1960’s, a young man stationed at Fort Bliss, TX saw one of his fellow soldiers pitching. The man wrote a letter to his father who worked as an usher at Shea Stadium and told his dad about this ‘guy who looks pretty good.’ The usher told some people in the Mets brass about this young kid named Jerry Koosman. Eventually, the Mets gambled and signed the young lefty after being discharged from the Army.

The relationship between Jerry and the Mets got off to a rocky start. En route to his first spring training his car broke down. Standing on the side of the road, broke and broken down, Koosman called the Mets who regrettably wired money to this kid.

The always frugal Mets were already disenchanted with having to shell out a few bucks to a nobody. They were ready to give up on him when Joe McDonald had a different idea. He suggested to keep Koosman until he got his first paycheck so they could at least see him pitch. After his first paycheck, they planned to dock him the money they forked over for a tow truck.

In 1968, Koosman burst onto the scene. The Mets won 73 games that season and Koosman won 19 of them. He also whiffed 178 and posted a 2.08 ERA to go along with seven shut-outs. The wins, shutouts and ERA were Mets records, set the previous season by teammate Tom Seaver. The seven shut-outs stood as the team record until 1985. On July 9th of that season, the rookie southpaw appeared in his first of two consecutive All-Star games. In the only 1-0 game in All-Star history, Koosman struck out Carl Yastrzemski to record the save.

At the end of the year, Koosman was in the shadows again. He finished second in Rookie of the Year voting, losing out to Reds catcher and future Hall of Famer Johnny Bench.

As the Mets found themselves in their first pennant race ever the following season, Jerry was struggling. On August 12, 1969, the Mets lost to Houston 9-8. Kooz gave up 6 ER in 6 1/3 IP. He dropped to 9-8 and with six weeks left the Mets dropped to 9.0 games back.

Koosman then turned it up a notch. He displayed for the first time that he was a ‘Big Game Pitcher.’ As the Miracle took form and the Mets chased down the heavily favored Cubs, Jerry went 8-1. He finished the season 17-9 with 180 strikeouts and a 2.28 ERA.

In Game 1 of the World Series, the Orioles showed why they were heavily favored over the Amazins. Mets ace and 25 game winner Tom Seaver didn’t make it past the 5th inning. He allowed 4 ER’s and 6 hits. Mets faithful began wondering if reality was setting in.

Under the brightest spotlight in Baseball, Jerry yet again shone. In Game 2, Koosman took the mound. And took control. When the Mets NEEDED a victory, he stepped up. The big bats like Frank and Brooks Robinson, Paul Blair and Boog Powell went silent. Koosman conjured up images of Don Larsen as he took a no-hitter into the 6th. Jerry got the win, allowing just 2 hits in 8 2/3. The series was now tied 1-1 and went back to Shea.

A few days later, Koosman took the mound again. With the Mets up 3-1 and just 27 outs shy of a championship, knowing a loss would send the series back to Baltimore, Koosman struggled early, allowing a couple of homeruns. But with the Mets trailing 3-0 early, he didn’t crack. He settled down and took control of the game. The Mets won 5-3 and The Miracle came to fruition. Koosman pitched a complete game, allowing 5 hits and 3 ER.

The Mets won the World Series four games to one and Koosman was the winning pitcher in two of them.

In 1971 and 1972, Koosman struggled. He battled arm problems in 71 and went just 6-11. He struggled again in 72, posting a record of 11-12 and his ERA of 4.14 was over a run higher than his career average.

1973 saw the Mets in the midst of one of the tightest pennant races ever. On August 17th, the Mets were only 7 ½ back, but were in last place and 13 games under 500. As he did four years earlier, Koosman performed brilliantly down the stretch. As the Mets ended up eking out a division title, Jerry did not lose. He went 5-0 and when the Mets needed him the most, he tossed 31 2/3 consecutive scoreless innings, a record that stood for almost 40 years until RA Dickey broke it in 2012.

In the 73 NLCS, it was Koosman who was on the mound for Game 3, a game better remembered for the altercation between Buddy Harrelson and Pete Rose.

In Game 5 of the Fall Classic, he outpitched another great LHP, Vida Blue. He allowed just 3 hits and no earned runs through 6 1/3 innings pitched. The Mets won the game and with Koosman’s victory, the Mets were just 1 win away from their 2nd championship. As Koosman walked off the mound, there would not be another World Series game played at Shea for 13 years.

In 1976, Koosman finally became a 20 game winner. He went 21-10 with 200 K’s and a 2.69 ERA. In spite of his stellar numbers, he was again in the shadows. He finished second in the Cy Young Award voting to Randy Jones.

Arguably one of the top lefties in the game, Koosman could have written his own ticket. He could have gone to another team where he’d have been the ace of the staff. And playing for a different club he could have more run support than the light hitting Mets and increased his win total. But Koosman chose to stay with the team he loved…for a while.

By the late 70’s, M. Donald Grant was like a sniper with a rifle in a bell tower, slowly picking out his next victim. As Jerry Koosman stood on the mound he was surrounded by new faces, strange faces. Gone were his friends like Rusty and Cleon and Buddy. When he looked into the bullpen he didn’t see Tug McGraw. His best friend, Tom Seaver, was not in the dugout. When he’d look in at home plate it was not Jerry Grote putting down his fingers.

With the trade of Tom Seaver, Koosman became the de facto ace of the staff. But being the ace of a staff on the worst hitting team in the league is not appealing. In 1977 and 78, Kooz posted a respectable ERA of 3.62 and fanned 352 while walking 165. However, run support was non-existent. In spite of solid stats, Koosman went just 11-35.

Seeing the writing on the wall and realizing the Mets were going nowhere, the 34 year old demanded to be traded. The Appleton, MN native was sent to the Twins for young pitchers Greg Field and Jesse Orosco.

Over the next two seasons, the aging lefty won 36 games.

For a team that is best known for pitching, Koosman remains near the top of every Mets category. He is 3rd wins (140) and strikeouts (1799), 2nd in Shutouts (26), IP (2544), starts (346) and 5th in ERA (3.09).

During his time with Mets he was in the Top 10 in the NL in ERA five times, shutouts four times, and strikeouts six times.

Jerry Koosman was the best #2 in the game. He is the top LHP in Mets history. Buddy Harrelson once stated that in a must-win game, he’d go with Koosman every time. Of the 7 games the Mets won in the 69 and 73 World Series, Koosman won 3 of them posting a 2.39 ERA and allowing just 16 hits in 26 1/3 IP.

Although he pitched in the shadow of Tom Seaver, in spite of the fact that he lost the Rookie of the Year to Johnny Bench, even though he was runner-up for the Cy Young Award in 1976 to Randy Jones, it was in the post-season where Jerry Koosman emerged from the shadows.

Congratulations to lefthander Jerry Koosman, the third Mets player to have his number retired, joining Tom Seaver and Mike Piazza.

The post Out Of The Shadows: Jerry Koosman appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

It was my first baseball game. And it was almost my last.

In the summer of 1972 I was pushing Tonka trucks around the floor in a one bedroom apartment in The Bronx. I noted the wide range of emotions my Dad went through watching a 2 ½ hour baseball game. Happiness, frustration, cheering, despair. I’d casually glance up at the Zenith B&W. Slowly my toys became secondary and I found myself sitting on the sofa next to my father.

There were the multi-colored sport jackets of Lindsey Nelson, the malapropisms of Ralph Kiner and the velvety cadences of gray-haired red-faced Bob Murphy, who my dad said was, “As smooth as a duck’s tuchus.” That made me laugh.

But my dad was the one who taught me baseball. He explained the game to me, the game within the game, the intricacies. And I got hooked. I watched, I listened, I learned

The following season, with some apprehension, he decided to take me to my first game. Watching on TV was one thing, but would this seven year old become distracted and grow restless and impatient? After handing over some change to park our Plymouth Scamp, we got out of the car.

My chin hit the asphalt. I was blown away. The stadium was huge, enormous. It was like the Roman Coliseum and it was right here in Flushing.

Clusters of people–older, younger, boys my age and icky girls–were all walking toward something in unison, moving together as one cohesive unit. For the first time in my life I became a part of something bigger, something that extended far beyond my bedroom and my classmates. I was now one of tens of millions of baseball fans.

With Dad’s hand on my shoulder, he guided me between the throngs of fellow Mets fans, passing blue and orange panels hanging from cables on Shea’s exterior. Dad handed over our tickets to an usher wearing an orange jacket and blue slacks.

“Enjoy the game, son.”

I was too busy gazing around in awe when dad nudged me. “What do you say to the man?”

“Uh…Let’s Go Mets.”

Dad laughed. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yea, thank you.”

Seconds later I was bequeathed something in a wrapper. Whoa, cool! A real authentic plastic Mets helmet. Did they give these out every day? Or maybe just to me since it was my first game. Christmas in April. Little did I realize it was Helmet Day. I tore open the packaging, placed the item on my head…and my lips quivered. It was too big. Dad adjusted the interior settings and now it fit perfectly.

He saved the day.

Before heading to our seats, we walked through the passageway in the Loge level. My eyes bulged out of my head, my heart leapt in my chest. Watching on WOR didn’t do it justice. I couldn’t grasp how gigantic the field was. It went on forever. The scoreboard was colossal. I’d never seen grass so green. The grounds crew watered down the infield, causing brown dirt to contrast strikingly with pristine white bases.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Baseballs, like little round missiles, were rocketing all over the place as players took batting practice. Yeah.., I could get used to this.

“Daddy, daddy!” I shouted, jumping in place nearly wrenching his arm out of his socket. “There’s Rusty!!!”

Rusty Staub was my favorite Met. I don’t know why I took to him. I had yet to grasp the significance of confusing stats and complicated numbers. I didn’t quite comprehend batting average or Earned Run Average and didn’t know if Rusty was good or not. Maybe it was his unique hair color, or his strange batting stance which was upright and stiff with his backside sticking out. Maybe it was the fact he and I shared the same initials or perhaps it was simply due to his cool nickname, Le Grande Orange.

Yea, I definitely could get used to this.

We watched BP for a while before heading to our seats. We went inside the stadium and took the escalator up. And up. And up again. And up some more.

I don’t know what happened, don’t know if the guy who sold dad the tickets gave us the wrong seats. But we were sitting in the very last row in the grandstands, the upper deck. The grating was against our backs. Miles beyond my shoulder was the NYC skyline with the Empire State Building and the Twin Towers that had just opened two weeks earlier. It felt like I was closer to the cement sidewalk four levels below than to the field. Planes landing at LaGuardia were practically on eye level. The players were tiny. I couldn’t tell who was who. Which one is Rusty?

The seats in the stratosphere, however, was secondary. The date was April 21, 1973. It was cloudy, overcast, there was a crisp bite in the air, the wind whipped around with gale force ferocity. Baseball was played in the summer but winter seemed reluctant to release its grip. My hands were shoved deep in my pockets, my feet growing numb, my teeth chattered. I knew the words to the song but right now I didn’t want anyone to buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks. I just wanted a hot chocolate.

Dad lit up a cigarette. (Hey, it was 1973) “You okay?”

“Ss-ss-sure, da-da-daddy, this is gr-gr-great.” I may have been fighting frostbite but I didn’t care. I was at my first ballgame.

Moments later, he tapped my shoulder. “C’mon.” He took my hand and led me down the steep steps. On the walkway he approached an usher. My dad was a salesman and went into selling mode. “Look,” he began pleasantly, “This is my son’s first game. And if I bring him home with pneumonia, my wife will kill me. She’ll never let me take him to another game and you’ll lose a fan for life. You gotta get us into better seats.”

The usher pointed to a different usher a few sections over. That guy told us to speak to someone else. The third guy directed us to someone in an office. We went inside the concourse and hurried to this other guy. My little legs had difficulty keeping up with my dad’s long loping strides.

This new guy informed us we’d need to discuss it with someone different.

Organ music emanated from massive speakers as Jane Jarvis began the opening notes to Meet the Mets.

Along another concourse we went. My dad now jogging, me running alongside.

The voice of the PA announcer boomed across Flushing like the voice of God. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls. Welcome to Shea Stadium, home of the New York Mets.”

A roar went up. Fans cheered. But my dad and I were running around like Matt Damon would be forty years later in the final twenty minutes of “The Adjustment Bureau.”

Dad picked up the pace. “C’mon, Rob!”

We went into another office. This guy in a white shirt and tie directed us to an office on the second level.

We took off again.

“We ask you to remove your hats and please rise for the singing of…”

“Daddy!” I shouted.

“What?!” he clipped, understandably frustrated.

“It’s the National Anthem.”

He gave me a look, then couldn’t help but laugh

Oh, Canada, Glorious and Free….

“What’s that?” I asked, scrunching my face.

“We’re playing Montreal. That’s the Canadian National Anthem,” he explained.

“They have a different one than us?”

Moments later, the more familiar, Oh, say, can you see…

I stood motionless, respectfully removing my brand new helmet, patriotically placed my hand over my heart and sung.

And the home of the brave.

And off we went again.

“Here are today’s starting lineups and batting orders. First, the visiting Montreal Expos.”

Boo!

“Daddy, the game’s starting!” I cried out, gasping for air. My short legs ached, I had sticking pain in my side from running so hard and so fast. I liked running. I was one of the faster boys in my second grade class. But even this was getting excessive.

There was no one around, everyone already in their seats. We bulleted around a corner and were dashing down a wide ramp full speed.

My side was stabbing but not from running so hard. Instead it was cause of my Dad. He was really old, the ripe old age of thirty and I’d never seen him run before. I tried to keep up but was giggling so hard, I pulled up short and angled forward, laughing uncontrollably.

The hilarity of the moment quickly turned to tears when my helmet slipped off my head, hit the concrete and fractured.

Twenty yards ahead, Dad turned, came back and took a knee by my side. He sympathetically lifted my splintered helmet and embraced me. “I’ll get you another one,” he whispered while hugging away the tears.

I’m not sure how he did it but somehow he made sure everything worked out.

With mere seconds to spare before the first pitch we ended up in our own private press box Reporters from local newspapers and TV stations close by. Three booths to our right were the Mets play-by-play announcers. Lindsey’s jackets were even brighter in person. “There’s Ralph,” Dad pointed reverentially, even at thirty somewhat awed by the presence of Kiner’s greatness.

I learned a lot that day.

During the middle innings, Expos manager Gene Mauch got ejected for arguing a call. Dad wasted no time in pointing out, “See what happens when you don’t respect authority.”

The Mets had a pitcher named Tom Seaver who was supposedly pretty good. Dad had stated repeatedly, “He’s gonna wind up in Cooperstown one day.” I guess if you’re good you go to Cooperstown, whatever that means. But Seaver didn’t pitch that day. Neither did Jerry Koosman who was on the mound when the Mets won their only championship four long years ago in 1969. It wasn’t even the lanky fella named Jon Matlack. Toeing the rubber this day was spot-starter Harry Parker.

But that didn’t matter.

My guy, Rusty, didn’t get any hits, but walked three times and scored twice.

But that didn’t really matter.

I got to see some guy wearing number 24. He was supposedly pretty good, too, probably also going to that Cooperstown place. He used to play here in NY with a team called the Giants a long time ago and made some catch in a World Series. Willie Mays went 0-for-3.

But that didn’t really matter either

I got to see my first Home Run, a two run blast in the 8^th off the bat of John Milner, The Hammer. The Mets defeated Montreal 5-0. Harry Parker pitched 7 shut-out innings before Tug McGraw recorded the final 6 outs

But no, that didn’t matter either.

What did matter was not the specifics–who won, who lost.

Over the next several decades I was privileged enough to see first-hand many great players. Some like Seaver, Mays, Doc Gooden, Darryl Strawberry and Mike Piazza wore a Mets jersey. Others I saw like Mike Schmidt, Don Sutton, Willie Stargell and Pete Rose did not.

I saw Seaver and Rusty go away, only to return years later. And I saw Tug McGraw and Gary Carter go away, never to return.

I went as a 7-year old with my dad. I’d go with my uncle, with friends from school, with buddies from college, with girlfriends and with wives. I saw one of Mookie Wilson’s first games and one of Jesse Orosco’s last. I went from eating chocolate and vanilla ice cream in little cups with wooden spoons to drinking beer. I saw Shea go from a ‘state-of-the-art’ modern sports venue to an archaic outdated relic. I saw rallies in the bottom of the 9^th, bench clearing brawls, grand slam home runs, walk-off home runs, inside the park home runs, championships won, a no-hitter and I even caught a foul ball. I got to see Hank Aaron hit two of his 755 Home Runs.

But honestly, none of that mattered either.

What did matter is that this was my first Major League Baseball game. And despite seats up in the ether freezing my tuchus off, fighting frostbite, and my very first article of Mets attire breaking after only thirty minutes, my dad made it something memorable, something I’ll never forget, something I’ll always cherish. My dad saved the day and made everything better.

Sometimes heroes are not the guys who hit 700 Home Runs or get 4,000 hits.

Footnote:

I still have that same helmet over forty years later. It’s in a box, alongside yearbooks, scorecards, programs, old Mets caps that are frayed and tattered with age, my old glove, a signed Baseball by Davey Johnson—all stored away with memories of my childhood. Despite my dad’s offer to get me a new helmet, I refused. I wouldn’t change a thing from that blustery April day and if I could, I’d go back in time and relive it all over again, relive that very first baseball game I went to with my father.

The post A Father’s Day Tale: Heroes Don’t Always Hit Home Runs appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

Throughout our history, we’ve had our fair share of great pitchers. The names Seaver, Gooden, Santana and even deGrom quickly come to mind. However, if there was one game that your life depended on, and if your team really needed a big win, there’s only one name you’ll see at the top of the list; Jerry Koosman.

The best lefty in team history, Koosman was always capable of shining in the national spotlight. By comparison, Seaver compiled a 1-2 record with a 2.70 ERA in his World Series appearances. Gooden, in 86, posted a disappointing record of 0-2. Jerry Koosman, however, was dominant.  Facing the Hall of Fame bats of the Orioles in 69 and the dynasty of the A‘s in 73, he was 3-0 with a microscopic 2.39 ERA. Although he would spend his career overshadowed, constantly being second in awards and in recognition, in the Fall Classic, Koosman was unmatched.

Born in Appleton, MN on December 23, 1942, Jerome Martin Koosman took an unusual route to the majors. While stationed at Fort Bliss, TX, an army buddy saw him pitch and thought he was pretty good. The friend wrote a letter to his father who happened to work as an usher at Shea Stadium. The letter made its way through the Mets back offices and ultimately, Koosman was signed on April 27, 1964.

En route to Spring Training in 1966, however, Koosman’s car broke down. He was stranded on the side of the highway, flat broke. He contacted his new team. The Mets wired him money so he could get to Florida. This instantly put a bad taste in the mouth of the frugal Mets due to shelling out cash to a nobody.

They intended to cut him as soon as he arrived. However, assistant GM, Joe McDonald, pointed out that they should at least keep Koosman on the payroll until he gets his first paycheck. Then, they could dock him and at least get back the money they wired him.

Thankfully, Koosman had a good spring and management decided to keep him around–at least for a little while.

On April 14, 1967, Koosman made his Major League debut against the Philadelphia Phillies at Connie Mack Stadium. He pitched 2 2/3 innings in relief of Mets starter Jack Fisher, allowing no hits and striking out two.

1968 was Koosman’s first full season and he immediately showed command of a wicked arsenal of pitches. He would go on to post a 19-12 record, a 2.08 ERA and he whiffed 178 batters while walking just 69. He made his first of two All-Star Game appearances but in spite of posting incredible numbers, he finished second in the Rookie of the Year voting. That award went to a catcher from Cincinnati named Johnny Bench.

In 1969, Koosman seemed to be suffering ‘The Sophomore Jinx.’ On August 12, the Astros shelled Koosman for 6 ER in 6 1/3 IP. He fell to 9-8 and the Mets fell nine games behind the Cubs. However, ‘The Miracle’ was about to take shape. “Kooz” would go 8-1 in his last nine decisions and help lead the Mets to the promised land. He would finish the season 17-9 with a 2.28 ERA and 180 strikeouts with only 68 walks.

Game 2 of the World Series took place in Baltimore and on national television, Koosman absolutely dominated. He was masterful and handled the big bats of Baltimore with ease. He conjured up images of Don Larsen’s Perfect Game as he took a no-hitter into the 7th inning before allowing a single to Paul Blair.

The Mets won the game 2-1 and it was Jerry Koosman who gave the Mets their very first World Series win in franchise history. Tied 1 game each, the World Series now shifted to New York. Koosman would pitch again in game 5.

The date was October 16, 1969, a day that will echo in eternity for Mets fans. Baltimore jumped out to an early 3-0 lead thanks to a solo homer by Frank Robinson and a two-run homer by Orioles starter Dave McNally.

However, Koosman remained tough and didn’t falter. With the exception of struggling in the 3rd inning, once again the Mets lefty shut down the Birds.

The Miracle Mets won the game 5-3 to claim their first World Series championship. Gutsy as ever, Koosman pitched a complete game, allowing just five hits and 3 ER. It was his second World Series “W” in four days.

Whereas the game is today dominated by the long ball, in the 70’s pitching was the name of the game. And there was arguably no better 1-2 punch than the right handed Tom Seaver and the left handed Jerry Koosman. They were dubbed ‘Tom and Jerry” in accordance with a popular cartoon at the time.

As great as Koosman was, he would always be overshadowed by his teammate. Gehrig had Ruth. Drysdale had Koufax. Koosman had Seaver. On any other team, Jerry would have been the ace of the staff. But he always would be second best as long as Number 41 was around and he was fine with that.

Koosman and Seaver were good friends on and off the field. He was not an ego maniac. He never demanded more money or more incentives. He fully accepted his role as number two on our team, knowing full well he could make more money and obtain more headlines elsewhere.

After struggling with injuries in 71 and 72, he returned to form in 1973. Even though he posted a losing record (14-15), his ERA was 2.84, his lowest since 69.

It was Koosman who was on the mound for game 3 in the NLCS against the Reds. Although he shut down the Reds en route to a 9-2 win, the game was better remembered for the on field brawl between Bud Harrelson and Pete Rose.

After outlasting the Reds in five games, the Mets faced the defending World Champion A’s. Just as they’ve done in every World Series in our history, the Mets lost game 1. Koosman took the mound in game 2. However, he could not silence the big bats of Oakland. He was chased early, allowing 6 hits, 3 ER and 3 walks in just 2 1/3 innings. But the Mets battled back and also had their way with A’s lefty Vida Blue. The Mets won 10-7 in 12 innings, thanks in large part to closer Tug McGraw pitching six innings in relief.

Jerry would take the mound in game 5 and returned to his traditional World Series form. He allowed no earned runs and just three hits through 6 1/3, picked up the win and put the Mets up 3 games to 2, just one win away from another ‘miracle.’ It was the last World Series game we’d win for 13 years.

Throughout the 70’s, Tom and Jerry continued to dominate the NL. Koosman’s best season came in 1976. He became a 20 game winner, going 21-10 and finally reaching 200 K’s. He ended the season with an impressive 2.69 ERA and seemed to have a lock on the Cy Young Award. However, Koosman was once again in the shadows, finishing 2nd in the voting to Randy Jones of San Diego.

As the late 70’s approached, the Mets were sinking into the abyss. One by one, our stars were being traded and/or outright discarded.

On June 15, 1977, the Mets sent Tom Seaver to the Reds. By default, Koosman now ascended into the #1 spot. He did not do well.

Perhaps it was his age. Perhaps it was his workload catching up with him. Or perhaps he was just tired. As he looked around, his teammates and friends from the glory days of ’69 and ’73 were all gone;  Seaver, McGraw, Cleon, Harrelson, Garrett.  After winning 21 games the previous year, Koosman became a 20 game loser in 77.

Things did not improve the following season. It was not his fault. The Mets were next to last in the majors in team batting and dead last in runs scored. For ’77 and ’78, Koosman fanned 365 while walking only 165. His ERA was 3.63. Yet, his won-loss record was an embarrassing 11-35.

After the Mets lost 96 games in ’78 and with no sign of things improving, Koosman raised the ire of some Mets fans by demanding to be traded. He wanted to go home. The Mets obliged his request and sent him to the Twins for pitchers Greg Field and Jesse Orosco.  Kooz returned to form in Minnesota and showed that even at age 36 he was still a force to be reckoned with. He would go on to win 20 games in 79 and 16 the year after.

In 1980, he recorded 15 K’s in one game. Jerry would go on to pitch until 1985 for the White Sox and Phillies. Perhaps his most notorious feat outside of New York was giving up Pete Rose’s 4,000th hit. Jerry’s career spanned 19 years and over that time he compiled 222 wins and 2,556 strikeouts. He frequently jokes about the fact that his Topps Rookie Card is worth ‘a fortune.’ Of course, also appearing on the card was another young Mets pitcher, Nolan Ryan.

Although Koosman did not have the natural gifts of Tom Seaver, he was a true workhorse and quite possibly the best number two pitcher in his day. He was an intelligent pitcher. Crafty. Whereas most hitters hated batting at Shea cause of the airplanes, Koosman used it to his advantage. Only a few years ago, long after his retirement, he admitted that he tried to coordinate his delivery with the planes screaming overhead.

Koosman led the Mets in wins three times, strikeouts, complete games and shutouts twice and ERA once. He was 3-0 in The Fall Classic and the Mets never lost a World Series game in which Koosman started.

When it mattered the most, Jerry Koosman always came through for the Mets.

The post Mets Heroes: Jerry Koosman Lived for the Big Moment appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

And then… Number 8 stepped to the plate.

In a career that spanned nearly 2,300 games and 8,000 at-bats over 19 seasons, there are many memorable moments. However, the defining moment of his hall-of-fame career and what typified Gary Carter, was something that happened OFF the field.

“The Mets are still alive,” said Vin Scully as Carter lined a 2-1 offering into left.

In Spring Training 1974, Expos teammates Ken Singleton and Mike Jorgensen chided the exuberant rookie. A 19-year old Gary Carter was trying to win every sprint and hit every pitch over the wall. His childlike enthusiasm for the game prompted them to call him ‘The Kid.’

As a late September call-up, “The Kid” made his major league debut. He caught the back end of a double-header against the defending NL Champion New York Mets. He went 0-for-4.

Baseball is and always will be a game of stats. But sometimes even those stats, no matter how impressive they may be, do not accurately measure the impact of a player.

Sure, Gary was an 11 time All-Star, 5 time Silver Slugger, 2 time MVP of the All-Star Game and winner of 3 Gold Gloves. He hit 324 career home runs and drove in 1, 225 runs. But that did not define him.

“And the Mets refuse to go quietly,” said Vin Scully, after Kevin Mitchell singled and Carter moved to second.

The road to the Championship began in 1983. In May, the Mets brought up highly touted rookie Darryl Strawberry. Just weeks later, Frank Cashen sent Neil Allen to the St. Louis Cardinals in exchange for former MVP and proven winner Keith Hernandez.

The 1984 season saw the debut of rookie phenom Dwight Gooden. But still, something was missing.

The crème de la crème came in December of ’84 when Gary Carter joined the Mets. “He was the final piece of the puzzle,” explained Keith.

On April 9, 1985, one day after his 31^st birthday, Gary made his debut with the Mets. He hit a dramatic walk-off homerun in the 10^th off of Neil Allen to give the Mets a 6-5 Opening Day victory. With that blast, Gary won the hearts of Mets fans everywhere. But that moment did not define him.

Gary had an infectious smile. He was the media darling, always willing and ready to give an interview or answer a question. Some referred to him in a derogatory way, calling him ‘Camera Carter,’ accusing him of being the ultimate self-promoter. Gary was not that. He was, however, the consummate professional.

During his tenure with the Mets there were plenty of fist raising curtain calls. Even when he struck out, he’d walk back to the dugout, looking down, shaking his head twice, disappointed with himself but most likely already planning how to adjust in his next at-bat. But the curtain calls and raised fists did not define him.

Let’s be honest. That 1986 team were not exactly boy scouts. They were a bunch of brawling, boozing, hell raisers. Gary, however, was a boy scout. Hell, he even did a commercial for Ivory Soap!

But yet, in spite of the fact that Gary may not have fit in with the recklessness of Keith, Darling, Ojeda, Knight, and Darryl, he was still loved by the fans and respected by his teammates.  However, this was not Gary’s defining trait.

More than a quarter of a century has now passed since that fateful Game 6… but yet we all remember it like it was yesterday.

It was our beloved No. 8 who started not only the greatest rally in Mets history, but quite possibly the most amazin’ comeback ever in a World Series.

In the top of the seventh, Boston took a 3-2 lead and was threatening for more. Rich Gedman singled through the left side and Jim Rice rounded third.

Mookie Wilson fired a rocket to the plate and Carter executed a perfect tag on Rice to keep the Mets within one. Had Carter not made the tag things would be very different.

In the eighth inning, it was Gary’s Sac Fly that tied the game at 3-3. But these were not his defining moments either.

This, however, did define Gary Carter… When Ray Knight singled, Carter raced home, bringing the Mets to within one run. He stepped on the plate and defiantly pointed at on-deck batter Mookie Wilson.

As Gary entered the dugout, he high-fived several players, took a breather, and then what did he do? He looked around for his catching gear!

The Mets were trailing 5-4, two outs bottom of the 10^th. But yet, in spite of being behind, Gary was preparing to come out for the 11^th inning.

The entire ’86 season, the entire never-say-die attitude of that ’86 club, was captured right then and there. What must Boston have thought when they saw that?

That one simple act, something Gary did while not even on the field, not only summed up the Mets attitude that year, but more importantly the eagerness of The Kid. He still wanted to play more baseball.

Mookie Wilson said, “Gary was one of the happiest guys in the world.”

“I relied on Gary for everything when I was on the mound,” stated Doc Gooden.

“He was a warrior on the field.” Battery mate Ron Darling said, “Gary was everything you wanted in a sports hero; great talent, great competitor, great family man and a great friend.”

However, it was Gary’s manager, Davey Johnson, who perhaps summed it up best.

“I loved him very much.” We all did, Davey. And always will. Gary may have only worn the blue and orange for only five seasons but what an impact he made on our franchise… His memories will last a lifetime.

Happy Birthday in Heaven, Gary.

The post Gary Carter: Sometimes There Is Crying In Baseball appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

The 1969 World Series saw Jerry Koosman pick up the win in two of the four Mets victories. His ERA was 2.04 and he allowed only 7 hits in 17 2/3 innings pitched.

Ron Swoboda hit .400 and made arguably one of the best catches in Series history. Tommie Agee outdid his teammate and made two unforgettable catches which will live forever in Mets folklore.

However, none of these Mets would win the World Series MVP. That honor went to a man who was not even on the Mets opening day roster. A man who, in March 1969, announced his retirement from Baseball.

Donn Clendenon was born on July 15, 1935 in Neosho, Montana. He was only two-years-old when his father died of Leukemia and his mother moved the family to Atlanta. Baseball was the farthest thing from his mind.

Clendenon was an intelligent young man who displayed athletic gifts at a very young age. His mother wanted him to be a doctor but Donn wanted to be a lawyer. His step-father, Nish Williams, had played in the Negro Leagues and pushed his son to play baseball.

However, being a black man in the deep south in the 40’s and 50’s, Clendenon realized he would not have an easy go out of it no matter which road he chose. Clendenon recalled, “I knew if I didn’t play baseball, I wouldn’t get my allowance.”

So to placate his father he played ball. They agreed that he would pursue a baseball career as well as getting a degree. This way, if baseball did not work out, he would have something to fall back on.

Growing up it was commonplace for some of his dad’s friends from the Negro Leagues to stop by and talk baseball. It was routine for Donn to chat about the game or have a catch with the likes of Satchell Paige, Jackie Robinson or Roy Campanella.

Clendenon attended Morehouse University in Atlanta. It was a top-notch school geared towards African-American men. Freshmen were assigned ‘Big Brothers’ to help them acclimate to college life. Donn’s ‘big brother’ was Morehouse alumnus, Martin Luther King Jr.

Although he was drafted by the Cleveland Browns of the NFL as well as The Harlem Globetrotters, Clendenon accepted the offer put forth by the Pittsburgh Pirates. He debuted with the Bucs in 1961 but did not become a regular until ’63.

The hulking first baseman, Clendenon put up some solid numbers from 63-66, averaging a .289 batting average with 17 homeruns and 78 RBIs. But he was constantly overshadowed by two teammates who possessed more talent. Their names were Willie Stargell and Roberto Clemente.

In spite of having a fluid, smooth swing, Clendenon led the NL in strikeouts twice. In ’67 and ’68, his numbers dropped off considerably, so Pittsburgh left him unprotected and he was picked up by the expansion Montreal Expos.

Donn was less than thrilled to be going from the powerhouse Pirates to the first-year club, but he was determined to make the best of it. However, the Expos quickly traded him to the hapless Houston Astros.

Not wanting to return to the deep south and face racism, Clendenon, at the age of 33, instead chose to retire. Ultimately, he was talked out of it by Expos brass and commissioner Bowie Kuhn. But he was still unhappy in Montreal.

In June of 1969, Clendenon’s luck would change and he accepted a trade to the New York Mets. It was widely known that the Mets had been a laughing stock since their inception in 1962, but this season, they were starting to open some eyes. On June 15, Donn was sent to Queens in exchange for Steve Renko and Kevin Collins.

“When we got him,” said shortstop Buddy Harrelson years later, “we became a different team. We never had a 3-run homer type of guy. He was always humble, never cocky. We were still young kids. He was the veteran that came in and made us better.”

Harrelson added, “When you threw him into the mix, we became a dangerous force.”

Tommie Agee said of his acquisition, “He was the final piece of the puzzle.” “Until he showed up,” explained Ron Swoboda, “we had no chance of winning anything.”

Clendenon’s first game wearing the blue and orange was on June 17. The Mets lost to the Phillies, 7-3, and fell  7 ½ games back.

The Mets had the pitching. The Mets had the defense. Now the Mets had the power. He came to be known as “Clink” or “Big Clink.” Standing at 6-4 and 205 pounds, the big first baseman with the big glove and bigger bat would lead the Mets down the stretch, clubbing  12 homers the rest of the way.

On September 24, 1969, when the impossible happened and the Mets clinched the NL East, it was Clink who made it happen. The Mets shelled Steve Carlton for five runs in one-third of inning. Clendenon was 2-for-3 with two homers and four RBIs.

In Game 5 of the Fall Classic, Clendenon was once again at the right place at the right time. The Orioles were trailing 3 games to 1 but the momentum was shifting back their way. Twenty-game winner Dave McNally was dominating the Mets, completely shutting down the offense. The Orioles were leading 3-0 and were threatening to take the series back to Baltimore. In the top of the 5th, Jerry Koosman threw one inside, hitting Frank Robinson who dropped his bat and began walking towards first.

However, home plate umpire Lou DiMuro claimed the ball hit the bat, NOT Robinson. Robinson argued. O’s manager Earl Weaver argued. However, DiMuro stuck by his decision. The replay, in fact, showed that the ump blew the call. It was obvious that Robinson got hit.

In the bottom of the 6th, the Mets were still trailing 3-0 and seemed clueless as to how to figure out McNally. Cleon Jones stepped to the plate and McNally threw one low and inside. The ball hit Cleon’s shoe and conveniently rolled into the Mets dugout. Cleon insisted the ball hit him, but once again, Lou DiMuro insisted it did not.

Mets manager Gil Hodges wasn’t having any of it. He slowly walked from the dugout to home plate. Stoic as always, Hodges held out a baseball with a small smudge of shoe polish on it and displayed it for DiMuro. The ump examined the ball. And then reversed his decision, awarding Cleon first base.

Meanwhile on the other side of the diamond, O’s manager Earl Weaver went ballistic, but after a few minutes order was finally restored and the game resumed.

When order was restored, Donn Clendenon stepped up to the plate and promptly deposited McNally’s offering into the Orioles bullpen. Shea Stadium erupted like it never had before. The Mets would shock the world and go on to win the game and the series.

What a scene as champagne was being sprayed in the clubhouse and jubilant fans were flooding the field. Donn Clendenon was aptly named Series MVP. He hit three home runs, the most ever in a 5-game series, until the record was tied in 2008 by Ryan Howard.

https://youtu.be/XZFVKNluykU

Clendenon returned to the Mets in 1970. He would set a Mets record for most RBI’s in a game (7) and also the most RBIs in a season (97). After the 1971 season, however, the Mets released the aging star. At 36, Clendenon signed with the St. Louis Cardinals, but ended up retiring shortly after.

With his baseball career now at an end, Donn fulfilled his other childhood dream and earned his Doctorate degree from Duquesne University and became a lawyer.

In the mid 1980’s, as he approached 50-years old, Donn became addicted to cocaine. He battled his drug habit for a while and it ultimately cost him his job with the law firm.

In the 90’s, still battling the demons, Clendenon was in a rehab facility in Utah. During a routine physical exam, it was determined that No. 22 had Leukemia. It was the same disease that both his father and grandfather died from. He straightened up, got his act together and conquered his addiction.

Donn moved to Sioux Falls, South Dakota and once again began practicing law. He also became certified as an addiction counselor, helping young adults conquer their own demons.

On September 17, 2005, at age 70, Mr. Clendenon died at his home in South Dakota. In the book, “Miracle in New York,” which was a look back at the ’69 season through Clendenon’s eyes, he talked about his illness. “Every day I wake up now is a blessing. I will eventually die from it. It will eventually take me, I know. But I keep fighting.”

The post Donn Clendenon: The Final Piece of the Puzzle appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

Photo via Wall Street Journal

I was about six-years-old when my father threatened to throw me out of the house. The reason was simple. I told him I was going to be a Yankees fan.

It was the early 1970s and I knew nothing about baseball. But still, I was going to root for the Yankees. Why? As my dad watched the local news one night, the sports came on. I was close by, doing whatever a typical six-year-old does. The Yankees catcher, Thurman Munson, did something or other.

My ears perked up. I was only six and I didn’t hear “Thurman Munson” but instead heard “Herman Munster,” the father on the old TV show, The Munsters. That settled it. Herman Munster plays for the Yankees!!! How cool is that?

My Yankee loyalty lasted all of maybe five minutes. At six-years-old, I was not ready to live on the streets in the Bronx. My father made it clear he would not live under the same roof as a Yankee fan. And so it began. My somewhat-initially-blackmailed allegiance to the Mets.

At seven, my father taught me not just the game but the “game within the game.” I fell in love immediately with the beauty, magic, and wonderment of this thing called Baseball, a love that has lasted for over 35 years now. I soon learned that you can actually SEE these games live, not just on TV.

It was Helmet Day when I first came upon this huge stadium in Flushing. I’d never seen anything so big, so massive. It was like the Roman Coliseum – but in Queens. “They play in there???” Walking in, I’d never seen grass so green. I’d never seen so many people gathered in one place for the same reason: To root the Mets to victory over the Expos.

But it was unseasonably cold, very windy and overcast. This was my very first ballgame and if I was to catch a cold my mom would never let my dad take me to Shea ever again!

So, I followed as my dad talked to this guy, talked to that guy, talked to some other guy. Next thing I knew we were sitting in the press box, just two booths down from the broadcast booth. I was maybe 25 feet away from Lindsey Nelson, Ralph Kiner and Bob Murphy. We went to another game later that year. Imagine the horror I felt having to sit with “regular” fans. Doesn’t every kid get to sit in the press box?

The year was 1973, a good first year. I wore my little Mets hat and my little Mets jacket every day. But as the season wore down and the Mets appeared to be going nowhere, floundering in last place, my classmates – who were mostly Yankee fans – teased me. I can’t even remember how many times I came home from school after being picked on all day, only to get reassurance from my seemingly all-knowing father.

“We’re gonna win, right Dad?”

“Sure, don’t worry about it,” he confidently told me.

“Okay, good.” And I walked away.

My mom turned to my dad and asked, “What will you tell him if they don’t?”

“I’ll worry about it then.”

As the Mets made a miraculous September run and won the pennant, I wondered to myself if somehow, someway, my dad maybe…did something.

My dad always has been an optimist when it comes to the Mets.

As he taught me the game, he advised me, “The Mets NEVER lose. Sometimes we just run out of innings.” He went to the second game the Mets ever played, a 4-3 loss to Pittsburgh at the Polo Grounds. He was also in attendance on Father’s Day 1964. The game moved to the ninth inning and Jim Bunning was one out away from throwing only the fifth perfect game in history.

Mets fans cheered the Phillies pitcher, hoping to witness one of baseball’s rarest feats. But not my father. He was still cheering for his Mets. When someone next to him asked, “Don’t you want to tell people you were at a perfect game?” my dad responded, “No, I’d rather tell them I was at the perfect game that got broken up with two outs in the ninth.”

As recent as 2006, when the Mets moved into first place, I’d wake up every day to an e-mail from my dad that was counting down the magic number. 94, 93, 92 (Yes, he started that early.)

Like most kids, my relationship with my dad has not been great. Better than some, worse than others. He’s disagreed with many decisions I’ve made in my life – jobs, career, girls, even to this day how I drive. But the one thing we could always come back to was baseball. And the Mets.

But even that has caused some disagreements. My dad insists the ’69 team was better then the ’86 club. My dad loves David Wright, but he will never be as good a third baseman as Ed Charles in ’69. While Endy’s catch was great, it was “No Agee.” No matter how great Johan is, Koosman will always be the best left-handed pitcher in our history.

Before I was even born, it had been predetermined that I would root for this team. My father had been a Brooklyn Dodger fan, just like his father. This love for New York, National League baseball went back to the 1920s.

While New York was in awe of Ruth and Gehrig, my grandfather was a Dodgers fan rooting for guys like Zack Wheat and Dazzy Vance. When my dad was old enough, he too kept up the family tradition and became a Brooklyn fan.

Although it’s been close to 60 years since “The Shot Heard Round The World,” my dad still refers to the Giants outfielder not as Bobby Thomson but as “Bobby *^%$@# Thomson.” To this day, my dad insists the final called strike in Don Larsen’s perfect game in the ’56 series against Brooklyn was “outside.”

The year was 1957 when the Dodgers and Giants vacated New York for the barren wasteland of California 3,000 miles away. The heart of every little boy in New York was broken, including my dad’s.

It was not until 1962 when NL baseball returned to New York with our Mets. But in those five years, my dad’s life had changed. He graduated high school, started college, met my mom and got married. He went from a teenage boy to adulthood. But when it was announced that a new team would be created named The Metropolitans – shortened to Mets – my dad immediately became a fan, as did many old Dodgers and Giants fans.

My dad looked at the 1962 Opening Day roster and, as always, felt confident that we could finish at .500. His dad, my grandfather, followed the Mets, but never really became a fan. He had rooted for Brooklyn for 40+ years. But by 1962, he was becoming older and his health was failing. After rooting for Duke, Gil, Jackie, Roy and Pee Wee, it was hard to get enthused about Choo-Choo Coleman, Felix Mantilla and Marvelous Marv.

My dad tried to convince his dad that this new team, the Mets, may be pretty good in a few years. He even joked, “Give it some time. Within a few years, we’ll be in the World Series.” My grandfather shook his head and nonchalantly commented, “I won’t live to see it.” My grandfather’s innocent remark was correct. He passed away in May 1969.

To this day, my dad wonders if somehow, someway, maybe….

The post A Mets Father’s Day Tale appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

When he removed his Mets uniform for the final time he was our all-time leader in hits, runs, RBI, doubles and 2nd in batting average. There was no fanfare, no celebration of his achievements, no day honoring his accomplishments after a decade of playing in New York.  Instead, he lumbered away, head down, disgraced, a beaten man.

He’s one of very few Mets who can call himself a two-time pennant winnlooper. He had a direct impact on both the 1969 and 1973 seasons. Teammate Buddy Harrelson said of him, “Even if he was in a 0-for-20 slump, he was the guy you’d still want at-bat.”

Tom Seaver was our first superstar. But this man was our first offensive superstar. He caught a fly ball off the bat of Davey Johnson and dropped to one knee, an image that remains one of the most iconic in team history.

He was never given a snazzy nickname like Doctor K, Nails, Kid, or The Franchise. Instead, we referred to him by his given name only: Cleon

Cleon Jones was born August 4, 1942 in Mobile, AL, the same birthplace as Hank Aaron. He’d wear number 21, the same as Roberto Clemente. His first Major League game was playing center field in the Polo Grounds, the same position patrolled by Willie Mays. And although Cleon was nowhere near the player these Hall of Famers were, it was okay. Because he was our legend.

Numerous players throughout history have been seemingly predestined for a career in the majors, be it the ability to throw a ball at 100 MPH with pinpoint accuracy, blinding speed or remarkable hand-eye coordination. Cleon was not one of them.

Whereas some burst onto the scene, Cleon yo-yoed for several years between the majors and minors. Wearing number 34, he made his major league debut on September 14, 1963. Manager Casey Stengel put the 21-year-old in as a defensive replacement for Duke Carmel. In what would be one of the final games ever played at the Polo Grounds, Cleon played center field. And like Moonlight Graham’s one inning, they never hit the ball anywhere near him.

Cleon had 15 at-bats that September, getting just two hits for a forgettable .133 batting average.

Jones spent all of the 1964 season with the Triple-A Buffalo Bisons. The following year, he made the team out of spring training. However, after one month and a meager .156 average, he was once again demoted to Buffalo. Cleon was a late-season call-up and on September 22, 1965, in a 6-2 loss to Pittsburgh, he hit his first major league home run, a solo blast off of right-hander Bob Friend. Despite the dinger, however, he batted just .149, 11-for-74 and still looked overmatched and not quite ready.

In 1966, Cleon was named the Mets everyday starting center fielder. Not because of an overwhelmingly solid performance, but largely due to the fact the Mets had little else. In his first full season, he improved, batting .275 with 74 runs and 16 steals. His performance earned him fourth place in the Rookie of the Year voting.

There was optimism coming into 1967. For the first time, the Mets had NOT lost 100 games the previous season and two rookie pitchers, Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman, showed lots of potential. However, Cleon backpedaled. His BA dipped to a disappointing .247 and he ended up in a CF platoon with Larry Stahl. The team as a whole also backtracked, once again losing over 100 times that year. Six seasons, five of which saw more than 100 losses. Would things ever improve?

In 1968, Cleon was shifted to left field to make room for a newly acquired center fielder. Tommie Agee had been AL Rookie of the Year in 1966 and was a childhood friend of Cleon. Management also brought in a new manager, much loved former Brooklyn Dodger Gil Hodges. Despite Hodges, Agee and defending NL Rookie of the Year Tom Seaver, Cleon’s struggles returned. Six weeks into the season he was hitting just .205 and found himself in a platoon again, this time with Art Shamsky.

Then it happened. Something clicked.

On May 18, Cleon went 3-for-4 with a home run, two RBI’s and a pair of runs scored. He started to hit. And there was no stopping him. On July 16th against the Phillies at Connie Mack Stadium, number 21 went 4-for-6 with 3 RBI a run scored and he played all three OF positions. He ended the season batting .297, fourth best in the NL. Next up: 1969. And our left fielder was in the center of it all.

Although he notoriously started slow and was always a streaky hitter, Cleon was 26 and coming into his prime. He kicked butt from Opening Day and never looked back. By the All-Star Break he was batting .341 with 10 HR’s and 56 RBI’s, good enough to earn a starting spot in the Mid-Summer Classic along with the likes of Aaron, Johnny Bench, Willie McCovey and future teammate Felix Millan. Cleon went 2-for-4 with two runs scored against the best the American League had.

By that summer Mets fans were beginning to think the unthinkable. The team that had lost 737 games in seven seasons actually had a good chance to finish .500. However, Gil Hodges, a man who knew a lot about winning, wanted more. In late July the Mets were 55-41 and in second place, just five games behind the powerhouse Cubs. Despite the fact Chicago was laden with future Hall of Famers Billy Williams, Ron Santo and Fergie Jenkins, Hodges kept the Cubs right in the Mets’ crosshairs.

July 30th in Houston was the turning point in the season. And yes, Cleon was again in the center of it. The Mets got trounced in the first game of a doubleheader, 16-3. The Astros continued the embarrassment in the nightcap, jumping all over Gary Gentry for 8 ER in 2 2/3 IP. In the third inning, Cleon failed to hustle after a ball that went for a double.

To Gil Hodges, it didn’t matter that the Mets were in a pennant race for the first time in their history. It didn’t matter that Cleon Jones was an All-Star. It didn’t matter that he was our best hitter. The Mets skipper would not sit idly by tolerating lackadaisical play. Hodges, stoic as always, stepped from the dugout, took a lengthy slow walk to left field and conferred with his star hitter. After a few words, Hodges turned and walked off the field. Cleon, like a chastised little boy, shadowed Hodges into the dugout.

Years later, Jones claimed he advised Hodges the turf was wet. Hodges replied there must be something wrong with his ankle and pulled him from the game. “Gil was my favorite manager I ever played for,” Cleon clarified years later. “He’d never embarrass a player that way.” We may never know the true content of the conversation. However, the implication was undeniable. This was Gil Hodges’ team. You either play hard or you don’t play. The Mets lost the nightcap, 11-5. They wouldn’t lose too many more after that.

Hodges’ club played .780 baseball, winning 39 of the last 50 games and capturing the division by 8 games. Leo Durocher and the Cubs were stunned. Cleon ended up hitting .340 for the season, third behind Pete Rose and Roberto Clemente.

In the first ever NLCS, the Mets swept the Braves. Cleon hit 429.

In the World Series few gave the Mets any chance of defeating the mighty Baltimore Orioles. And when Don Buford opened the Fall Classic with a homer off 25-game winner Tom Seaver, it appeared we were out of Miracles.

The Mets tied the series when Jerry Koosman outdueled Dave McNally 2-1. Back in New York for game three, the Mets drew first blood. Tommie Agee opened the game with a HR. He also made not one but two of the greatest catches in history. Gary Gentry outpitched future Hall of Famer Jim Palmer for a 5-0 Mets win. In game 4, Seaver returned to form. After struggling in the opener, Tom Terrific threw 10 innings, the Mets prevailed 2-1 and were now one win away from a championship.

The Orioles, however, showed why they won 109 games. Needing a win to return the series to Baltimore, they scored early off Koosman and took a 3-0 lead. In the top of the 6th, Kooz delivered an inside pitch. Frank Robinson claimed the pitch hit him. Home plate umpire Lou DiMuro disagreed. Replays clearly showed DiMuro blew the call.

Lightning struck again in the bottom of that same inning. And once again, Cleon was in the center of it. McNally threw a pitch low. Cleon danced out of the way, the ball ricocheted into the Mets dugout. Cleon, like Robinson, claimed the ball hit him. DiMuro claimed it did not.

Mets skipper Gil Hodges ever-so-slowly walked onto the field and presented a ball with shoe polish to the umpire. DiMuro changed the call and awarded Cleon First Base. Seconds later, Donn Clendenon deposited McNally’s offering beyond the LF auxiliary scoreboard to cut the lead to 3-2. And about one hour after that with the Mets now leading 5-3 it was down to the final out. Cleon caught that fly ball and dropped to one knee. The Lovable Losers were now World Champs.

“The thing that always gets me about that team — and we were one of the worst teams in baseball the year before — is that from spring training on, Gil Hodges, our manager, kept telling us we could be a winning team, a good team, that we could be a championship-challenging team,” Jones said. “A bunch of us looked at each other and smiled. We thought he was crazy.”

In the late 60’s and early 70’s, pitching dominated the game, especially in the NL. Bob Gibson, Steve Carlton, Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Don Sutton and Phil Niekro, all future inductees in Cooperstown, quieted NL bats. But don’t tell that to Cleon. From 68-71 Cleon averaged 308 at the plate.

The 1973 NL East was a dogfight of mediocrity. On August 30th, the Mets were in last place, but just 6 ½ back with 30 games remaining. Just like 1969, the Mets got hot at the right time. By September 17th, the Mets inched up to 4th, were just 3 ½ GB of Pittsburgh—with the Mets and Pirates playing a rare 5-game series–2 in Pittsburgh, 3 in New York. The two contests at Three Rivers were split and the series headed to Shea for three very crucial games.

The Mets captured the opener, 7-3, and for only the second time in his career, Cleon went deep twice in one game. The lead was trimmed to a game a half. The following day, September 20th, one of the strangest yet most memorable plays in team history occurred. And once again, Cleon was in the center of it.

Jerry Koosman faced off against Jim Rooker. A Mets victory would bring us to within a half, a loss would shove us 2 ½ back with just nine games remaining. It was a back-and-forth contest. Pittsburgh took a 1-0 lead in the 4th. The Mets tied it in the bottom of the 6th. Pittsburgh took a 2-1 lead in the top of the 7th. The Mets tied it in the bottom of the 8th. Pittsburgh scored 1 in the top of the 9th to go up 3-2. The Mets tied it in the bottom of the 9th.

In the top of the 13th, Richie Zisk singled with one out. Pinch Hitter Dave Augustine came up and sent the Ray Sadecki pitch into the night. Cleon turned and ran…and ran…and ran some more. The ball did not go over. Nor did it bounce off the wall. It bounced on top of the wall. Cleon played the carom perfectly, pivoted and fired to relay man Wayne Garrett who turned and threw a bullet to catcher Ron Hodges who applied the tag to keep the game deadlocked at 3-3. In the bottom half of the inning, the Mets would win the game and vault into first place with the post-season now within our grasp.

In the 1973 League Championship Series against the Big Red Machine, Cleon batted .300, 6-for-20 with three RBI and three runs scored. In the World Series against Oakland, Cleon hit .286. Of his eight hits, three were for extra bases. He scored five runs in seven games.

In 1975, it would all come crashing down like a Shakespearean tragedy. Spring training saw Cleon suffer a knee injury. He stayed behind when the team went north. On the morning of May 4 in St. Petersburg, FL, Cleon Jones was arrested at 5:00 am. The charge? Indecent exposure.

Police found the 33-year-old sleeping inside a van next to a 21-year-old female who was in possession of marijuana. Cleon insisted he didn’t know the woman, that he met her at a party and was giving her a ride home when the van ran out of gas and they fell asleep. Ultimately, the charges were dropped. “Indecent exposure” was the fact Cleon was barefoot. However, in the eyes of Mets chairman M. Donald Grant this was inexcusable debauchery.

Grant was an autocrat, a tyrant who viewed his players as chattel. He once relinquished his membership to an exclusive Connecticut country club when he learned an inferior individual named Tom Seaver was also a member.

Grant fined Cleon $2,000, four times more than any other major league player had ever been fined. Worse than the financial punishment was the degradation imposed on the Mets superstar. In the glare of the media, with cameras recording every mannerism, spotlights bathing him in a stifling glow and situated behind a bank of microphones angled like missiles about to launch, Cleon was ordered to apologize to fans, to teammates, to his employer, and to his wife, Angela, who Grant insisted she appear at his side.

He returned to the team in late May. But was not welcomed back. As if the financial punishment and humiliation were not enough, the order had come down from the front office that Cleon was to only play sparingly. For two months, the Mets’ icon was largely relegated to riding the pine. He seldom started and was used meagerly as a pinch-hitter. Such sparse play inhibited his ability to get anything going and messed with his timing, extra burdensome knowing he was notoriously streaky. In July he reached his breaking point. Hitting only .240 he got into an altercation with manager Yogi Berra. Grant now had more ammo and fired the fatal bullet. After 13 seasons, Jones was released outright.

The following year, 1976, he played for the White Sox but Cleon, a slow-starter, was hitting just .200 and was promptly released. Cleon Jones, loved and adored by fans in New York, a World Champion, an All-Star, an almost Rookie of the Year, and almost batting champion, was unwanted by any club. He was shamed out of baseball at the age of 33. It was a brutally sad way to end a career.

For those of us lucky enough to have seen him play, he was the one that made you sit a little closer to the TV, move up onto the edge of your seat at Shea and chant “Lets Go Mets” a little louder. He was the one you always made sure to watch when he stepped to the plate, the one guy you wanted to get to in the batting order if you were trailing. He was flashy without being flashy.

It’s been 44 years since Cleon wore a Mets uniform. He played at a time when pitching dominated the game. And despite the fact that names like Strawberry, Hernandez, Piazza, Carter, Wright, Ventura and Reyes came after him, Cleon Jones still remains near the top of the franchise leaders in runs, hits, doubles and RBIs.

Cleon Jones is deservingly a member of the Mets’ Hall of Fame and remains one of the best hitters to be developed by the Mets’ organization. In 2012, he was selected as the Mets’ “All-Time Left Fielder” by a panel of sports writers and broadcasters, an honor which he said “means a lot to me.”

Jones was certainly one prospect who, if he didn’t quite reach the lofty expectations fans may have had, certainly made his mark as an all-time great Met.

The post Cleon Jones: Our First Homegrown Star appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

I looked up at my parents. My mom gripped my dad’s arm, patting his back lovingly. My dad stood, gazing down, dabbing his eyes. My family made the somber journey to the cemetery on Long Island a few times during the year, usually around the Jewish holidays and always on Father’s Day.

I followed my father’s sight-line, reading the inscription on the marble gravestones. I had no memory of my grandfather who died when I was just three, and only a fleeting remembrance of my aunt, my dad’s sister, who died a year later. I studied the dates. My grandfather lived until he was 67. Really old. My aunt succumbed to cancer at age 39. To a boy of 7, 8, and 9, even 39 seemed old.

My mom would sob. My dad would weep. I wanted to be an adult, a grown-up. I tried to cry. I even tried to fake it once or twice. But the tears wouldn’t come. To me, these people we were paying our respects to were little more than names and dates. And with the innocence, self-centeredness or perhaps naiveté of a young boy, I didn’t make the connection. I was unable to wrap my child’s mind around the concept that the man resting in peace was to my dad the same as my dad was to me.

Unable to locate the grief my dad felt, I sauntered off to find three stones—two larger ones for my parents, a pebble for me—to place atop the headstone. At least I could feel like I was doing something beneficial. I couldn’t cry so at least I could scour the grounds for rocks.

There are those times in one’s life when we remember precisely where we were and exactly what we were doing. On a Tuesday morning in 2001, my wife crawled out of bed to answer the ringing phone. She returned a moment later, telling me her mom called and advised her a plane flew into one of the Twin Towers.

On April 19, 1995, I was at work when a colleague of mine began freaking out. She was from Oklahoma City and apparently a bomb had destroyed a building, killing and injuring hundreds in her hometown.

On Monday night, December 8, 1980, my mom was reading in bed. My dad and I were watching the local news waiting for the sports, hoping the Mets did something. After the break, Roland Smith appeared on the screen and informed his viewers of the big breaking news: Former Beatle John Lennon had been shot on the upper west side.

I thought nothing of it, told myself it was just a grazing. Surely, someone of John Lennon’s ilk couldn’t die. That only happened to us common folk…or to people who died that I had no memory of.

Just a few months later I picked up the ringing telephone, back when they were still called telephones, not landlines. My grandmother was stammering, asking to speak with my mom. Something about President Reagan getting shot. It was the only time I ever heard my grandma cry.

Wednesday, June 15, 1977 is a day when all Mets fans remember exactly what they were doing.

It was almost 9:00 pm. My dad was watching Baa Baa Black Sheep, a show about a USMC aviator during WWII starring the very hot at the time, Robert Conrad. I meandered off to my bedroom and turned on the little 13 inch b&w RCA my uncle had given me. I adjusted the rabbit ears and prepared to watch Charlie’s Angels. I was a few months shy of turning 12 and was starting to realize that maybe girls weren’t so icky after all.

I’m not sure who it was or the exact words the sportscaster said. But the message was irrefutable. I raced from my room and shouted, “Dad, dad, we just traded Seaver!”

My dad arched an eyebrow at me, then glimpsed at my mom. I was a practical joker, a smart-ass even back then. But even I wouldn’t stoop to that level and speak such sacrilege. “They didn’t trade Seaver,” my dad smirked. “Wouldja stop.”

“That’s what they said.” I deflected blame, pointing down the hallway as if my dad had forgotten where my bedroom was located.

He stared at me, did a double-take at my mom. “Oh, please, they wouldn’t trade…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t. His mind quickly flashed back on the recent turmoil between The Franchise and team executives. He looked at me again and asked haltingly, “Seaver?”

I pointed down the hallway a second time. “Yep.”

Always a die-hard Mets fan, always looking for a bright spot, and always hoping for a better tomorrow, he asked half-heartedly, “Who’d we get?”

I shrugged.

Attempting to come to terms with the unthinkable, with trying to imagine a rotation without Seaver, the man who guided the Mets to two pennants, one World Series, countless fond memories, and would probably be enshrined in the Hall of Fame one day, the man who would now look silly wearing a Reds jersey, the man who was the face of the 15 year-old organization, my dad exchanged glances between my mom and I.

Realizing I was not simply messing with my old man, my dad let loose. He stormed across the living room, angrily turned off the meaningless TV show and grabbed his Marlboro’s. I had to cover my ears during portions of those George Carlin specials on HBO, had to cover my eyes if a sex scene came on during some movie and never heard my dad use the F-word. Until June 15, 1977.

To this prepubescent boy, I recognized some things were as important in life as Baseball. I left my dad behind to wonder what the Seaver-less Mets would look like and returned to my room to look at Jaclyn Smith.

It was during the first commercial break when I remembered the rest of the story. I ran out of my room. “Hey, dad,” I began. “They traded Kingman, too.” I paused, paralyzed by fear. A feeling came over me I’d never felt before. A feeling I didn’t like.

My mom had her arm draped over my dad’s shoulders, her trembling hand tightly clutching his. There was a quiver in her words. “Are you having chest pains? Any shooting pain in your arm? Can you breathe?”

My dad was chain smoking cigarettes. The ash tray before him more full than it had been twenty minutes ago. His right hand held a cigarette, his left hand pressed over his heart.

With the speed of a Tom Seaver fastball, the F-word flew from my dad’s mouth, using it in conjunction with M. Donald Grant and Dick Young.

“If Joan Payson was still alive, this wouldn’t have happened,” he said with that familiar sadness in his voice.

My mom repeated her questions.

In tunnel vision, I watched the terrifying scene playing out before me. My lips became parched. My throat desert dry. I couldn’t speak and felt my wobbly legs carry me over to the sofa. I was 11 years old. My dad was almost 35. Pretty old…

I looked at my dad. But I thought of my grandfather on Long Island. I made the connection.

The pain in his chest passed. The pain of losing Tom Seaver not so much. How could they do this to us, I thought. Seaver was like family…

Four days later, June 19, was Father’s Day. We made our customary pilgrimage to the cemetery. I looked up at my parents. My mom gripped my dad’s arm, patting his back lovingly. My dad stood, gazing down, dabbing at his eyes. I looked at my dad—a little longer than usual.

My eyes found their way to the name on the headstone. I swallowed down the rising lump in my throat. This time I didn’t need to fake the tears… I knew what loss felt like.

The post Who Says There’s No Crying In Baseball? appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

Remembering Gary Carter on the eight-year anniversary of his death. He was a great baseball player, a tremendous family man, and the best friend anyone could ever have. Most of all, he will always be remembered as The Kid to all who knew him because of his passion and enthusiasm for life and for baseball. We miss you, Gary…

* * * * * * * * * *

Keith Hernandez flied out to center for the second out of the inning. A tomb-like silence fell over Shea. Fans stared in disbelief. The 108 regular season wins plus six more in the post-season meant nothing. Vin Scully announced Marty Barrett was chosen player of the game.

And then…No. 8 stepped to the plate.

In a career that spanned nearly 2,300 games and 8,000 at-bats over 19 seasons, there are many memorable moments. However, the defining moment of his hall-of-fame career, what typified Gary Carter, was something that happened OFF the field.

“The Mets are still alive,” said Scully as Carter lined a 2-1 offering into left.

In Spring Training 1974, Expos teammates Ken Singleton and Mike Jorgensen chided the exuberant rookie. Nineteen-year-old Gary Carter was trying to win every sprint, hit every pitch over the wall. His childlike enthusiasm for the game prompted them to call him “The Kid.”

As a late September call-up, “The Kid” made his major league debut. He caught the back end of a double-header against the defending NL Champion Mets. He went 0-for-4.

Baseball is and always will be a game of stats. But sometimes even that, no matter how impressive they may be, do not accurately measure the impact of a player. Sure, Carter was an 11-time All-Star, five-time Silver Slugger, two-time MVP of the All-Star Game and winner of three Gold Gloves. He hit 324 career home runs and batted in 1225. But that did not define him.

“And the Mets refuse to go quietly,” said Vin Scully, after Kevin Mitchell singled and Carter moved to second.

The road to the Championship began in 1983. In May, the Mets brought up highly touted rookie Darryl Strawberry. Just weeks later, Frank Cashen sent Neil Allen to the St. Louis Cardinals in exchange for former MVP and proven winner Keith Hernandez. 1984 saw the debut of rookie phenom Doc Gooden. But still, something was missing. The crème de la crème came in December ’84 when Gary Carter joined the Mets. “He was the final piece of the puzzle,” explained Keith.

On April 9, 1985, one day after his 31^st birthday, Gary made his debut with the Mets. He hit a solo HR in the 10th inning off of Neil Allen to give the Mets a 6-5 Opening Day victory. With that blast, Carter won the hearts of Mets fans everywhere. But that moment did not define him.

Gary had an infectious smile. He was the media darling, always willing and ready to give an interview or answer a question. Some referred to him in a derogatory way, calling him ‘Camera Carter,’ accusing him of being the ultimate self-promoter. He was not that. He was, however, the consummate professional.

During his tenure with the Mets there were plenty of fist raising curtain calls. Even when he struck out, he’d walk back to the dugout, looking down, shaking his head twice, disappointed with himself but most likely already planning how to adjust in his next at-bat. But the curtain calls and raised fists did not define him.

Let’s be honest. That 1986 team were not exactly boy scouts. They were a bunch of brawling, boozing, hell raisers. Gary, however, was a boy scout. Hell, he even did a commercial for Ivory Soap! But yet, in spite of the fact that he may not have fit in with the recklessness of Keith, Darling, Ojeda, Knight, and Darryl, he was still loved by the fans and respected by his teammates. (anyone remember Gregg Jefferies?). However, this was not Carter’s defining trait.

More than a quarter of a century has passed since that fateful Game 6 but yet we all remember it like it was yesterday. It was our beloved No. 8 who started not only the greatest rally in Mets history, but quite possibly the most amazin’ comeback ever in a World Series.

In the top of the seventh, Boston took a 3-2 lead and was threatening for more. Rich Gedman singled through the left side and Jim Rice rounded third base. Mookie Wilson fired a rocket to the plate and Carter executed a perfect tag on Rice to keep the Mets within one. Had Carter not made the tag things would be very different. In the eighth, it was Carter’s sacrifice fly that tied the game at 3-3. But these were not his defining moments either.

This, however, did define him. When Ray Knight singled, Carter raced home, bringing the Mets to within a run. He stepped on the plate, defiantly pointed at on-deck batter Mookie Wilson. As Gary entered the dugout, he high fived several players, took a breather. And what did he do then? He looked around for his catching gear!

The Mets were trailing 5-4, two outs bottom of the 10th. But yet, in spite of being behind, Carter was preparing to come out for the 11th inning. The entire ’86 season, the entire never-say-die attitude of that ’86 club, was captured right then and there. What must Boston have thought when they saw that? That one simple act, something Carter did while not even on the field, not only summed up the Mets attitude that year, but more importantly the eagerness of The Kid. He still wanted to play more baseball.

Mookie Wilson said, “Gary was one of the happiest guys in the world.” “I relied on Gary for everything when I was on the mound,” said Doc Gooden. “He was a warrior on the field.” Battery mate Ron Darling said, “Gary was everything you wanted in a sports hero; great talent, great competitor, great family man and a great friend.”

However, it was Gary’s manager, Davey Johnson, who perhaps summed it up best. “I loved him very much.” We all did, Davey. And always will. Gary may have only worn the blue and orange for only five seasons, but his memories will last a lifetime.

The post Remembering “The Kid” Gary Carter Eight Years Later appeared first on Metsmerized Online.

On Jan. 8, 2003, storied New York Mets catcher Gary Carter was elected to the National Baseball Hall of Fame on his sixth try with 78 percent of the vote. Carter played five seasons with the Mets including the 1986 championship season.  Enjoy this fun article about one of Gary’s most memorable moments! 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Keith Hernandez flied out to center for the second out of the inning. A tomb-like silence fell over Shea. Fans stared in disbelief. The 108 regular-season wins plus six more in the post-season meant nothing. Vin Scully announced Marty Barrett was chosen player of the game.

And then…No. 8 stepped to the plate.

In a career that spanned nearly 2,300 games and 8,000 at-bats over 19 seasons, there are many memorable moments. However, the defining moment of his Hall-of-Fame career, what typified Gary Carter, was something that happened OFF the field.

“The Mets are still alive,” said Scully as Carter lined a 2-1 offering into left.

In Spring Training 1974, Expos teammates Ken Singleton and Mike Jorgensen chided the exuberant rookie. 19-year-old Gary Carter was trying to win every sprint, hit every pitch over the wall. His childlike enthusiasm for the game prompted them to call him ‘The Kid.”

As a late September call-up, “The Kid” made his major league debut. He caught the back end of a doubleheader against the defending NL Champion Mets. He went 0-for-4.

Baseball is and always will be a game of stats. But sometimes even that, no matter how impressive they may be, do not accurately measure the impact of a player. Sure, Gary was an 11-time All-Star, five-time Silver Slugger, two-time MVP of the All-Star Game and winner of three Gold Gloves. He hit 324 career home runs and batted in 1225. But that did not define him.

“And the Mets refuse to go quietly,” said Vin Scully, after Kevin Mitchell singled and Carter moved to second.

The road to the Championship began in 1983. In May, the Mets brought up highly touted rookie Darryl Strawberry. Just weeks later, Frank Cashen sent Neil Allen to St. Louis in exchange for former MVP and proven winner Keith Hernandez. 1984 saw the debut of rookie phenom Dwight Gooden. But still, something was missing. The crème de la crème came in December ’84 when Gary Carter joined the Mets. “He was the final piece of the puzzle,” explained Keith.

On April 9, 1985, one day after turning 31, Carter made his debut with the Mets. He hit a solo homer in the 10th inning off of Neil Allen to give the Mets a 6-5 Opening Day victory. With that blast, “The Kid” won the hearts of Mets fans everywhere. But that moment did not define him.

Gary had an infectious smile. He was the media darling, always willing and ready to give an interview or answer a question. Some referred to him in a derogatory way, calling him ‘Camera Carter,’ accusing him of being the ultimate self-promoter. He was not that. He was, however, the consummate professional.

During his tenure with the Mets, there were plenty of fist-raising curtain calls. Even when he struck out, he’d walk back to the dugout, looking down, shaking his head twice, disappointed with himself, but most likely already planning how to adjust in his next at-bat. But the curtain calls and raised fists did not define him.

Let’s be honest. That 1986 team were not exactly boy scouts. They were a bunch of brawling, boozing, hell raisers. Carter, however, was a boy scout. Hell, he even did a commercial for Ivory Soap! But yet, in spite of the fact that Gary may not have fit in with the recklessness of Keith, Darling, Ojeda, Knight, and Strawberry, he was still loved by the fans and respected by his teammates. (anyone remember Gregg Jefferies?). However, this was not his defining trait.

Over a quarter of a century has passed since that fateful Game 6 but we all remember it like it was yesterday. It was our beloved No. 8 who started not only the greatest rally in Mets history, but quite possibly the most amazin’ comeback ever in a World Series.

In the top of the seventh, Boston took a 3-2 lead and was threatening for more. Rich Gedman singled through the left side and Jim Rice rounded third base. Mookie Wilson fired a rocket to the plate and Carter executed a perfect tag on Rice to keep the Mets within one. Had Carter not made the tag things would be very different. In the eighth, it was Carter’s sacrifice fly that tied the game at 3-3. But these were not his defining moments either.

This, however, did define Gary. When Ray Knight singled, Carter raced home, bringing the Mets to within a run. He stepped on the plate, defiantly pointed at on-deck batter Mookie Wilson. As he entered the dugout, he high fived several players and took a breather. And what did he do then? He looked around for his catching gear!

The Mets were trailing 5-4 with two outs in the bottom of the tenth. But yet, in spite of the team being behind, Gary was preparing to come out for the 11th inning. The entire ’86 season, the entire never-say-die attitude of that ’86 club, was captured right then and there. What must Boston have thought when they saw that? That one simple act, something Carter did while not even on the field, not only summed up the Mets attitude that year, but more importantly the eagerness of “The Kid.” He still wanted to play more baseball.

Mookie Wilson said, “Gary was one of the happiest guys in the world.” “I relied on Gary for everything when I was on the mound,” said Doc Gooden. “He was a warrior on the field.” Battery mate Ron Darling said, “Gary was everything you wanted in a sports hero; great talent, great competitor, great family man and a great friend.”

However, it was Gary’s manager, Davey Johnson, who perhaps summed it up best. “I loved him very much.” We all did, Davey. And always will. Gary may have worn the blue and orange for only five seasons, but his memories will last a lifetime.

The post OTD in 2003: Gary Carter Elected to Hall of Fame appeared first on Metsmerized Online.