An MMO Fan Shot by Mets Fan In Paradise
1986 was a great year to be a Mets fan. Especially for me. A couple of years out of college, I was living on my own, had a reliable car, and a good enough job to afford the short trip from NJ to Flushing to see the Mets a couple of times a month.
After almost a decade of disappointment the Mets had returned to relevance in 1984, and in 1985 they’d stayed in the division race until the last weekend of the season. In Spring Training 1986 manager Davey Johnson told his team they could dominate the league, and his assessment was accurate. After spinning their wheels the first week of the season with a 2-3 start, they reeled off a club record-tying 11 straight wins and never looked back.
They were so good that the other teams had pretty much conceded the division by the end of May, and the whole summer was like one long victory tour—rolling into one town after another, roughing up pitching staffs and ruffling feathers. They were cocky and wouldn’t back down from anyone.
The July 22nd brawl in Cincinnati and the Cooters incident in Houston were only two of the scrapes the team got into that summer. I went to 12 games that year, including two NLCS games and the division clincher on Sept 17th. But I had to work very hard to see the clincher.
With a magic number of 2, the Mets rolled into Philadelphia on September 12 needing only one win over the second place Phils to celebrate their first division title in 13 years. I decided to motor on down the NJ Turnpike for the Friday night game to be on hand.
I’d been to that stadium before, and everyone knows the rowdy reputation of Philadelphia sports fans. I had my cap on so I took some ribbing, but managed to avoid a more hostile confrontation—it’s a good thing I’m not much of a drinker, especially with a long drive ahead of me, or I might have ended up spending part of the night in the on-site police substation-fairly common now, but I think Veterans Stadium was ahead of their time. The Mets lost, 6-3, but I don’t have any personal recollection of the details.
I decided then and there to return for Saturday’s game, and made a contingency plan for Sunday, calling a fraternity brother who was from Philly and in law school there, and arranging to crash at his place in case of another loss. That, of course, is exactly what happened. Mike Maddux was unable to retire a batter in the first inning Saturday, but the Mets let the lead slip away, and they were shut out the next day to complete the sweep and leave the Phillies clinging to the slimmest of hopes,
I went home, disappointed, and watched on TV as the Mets lost in St. Louis on Monday, Roger McDowell walked in the only run of the game in the 13th inning, while the Phillies whitewashed the Pirates. The good guys finally took a step forward the next night, defeating the Cards, 4-2, to clinch a tie and set the stage for a home clincher, which I just had to attend.
September 17th was a Wednesday and I had to work. I was a claims processor at a health insurance company, the best-paying job I could find while I was trying to make it as a drummer, playing in bands and making demo tapes (that’s another story). At lunch time I went from my workplace in Piscataway, NJ, to downtown New Brunswick, where a used record shop called the Rhythm Stick had a Ticketmaster booth. That’s how we did it in those days.
I was able to land a decent seat—it’s always easier when you’re buying only a single ticket. I probably brought a change of clothes to work so I could drive directly into the city instead of having to stop at home, unwilling to take unnecessary chances with rush hour traffic. I brought with me the gloves and ski cap I’d used in the Rockies while on my cross-country hitchhiking trip two summers earlier. It was cold and windy this night and I’d be exposed in a front row mezzanine box seat.
I was disappointed to find that my favorite player, Keith Hernandez, was under the weather and Dave Magadan was starting at first base. This proved serendipitous, as he drove in Lenny Dykstra with the first run on the third of four straight third inning singles off Dennis Eckersley. Strawberry immediately followed suit to plate Backman. This was a formula which we had used with great success all year. With Lenny and Mookie Wilson platooning at CF/leadoff and Backman and Tim Teufel a perfect 2B/two-hole aggregate, it seemed like there were runners on base constantly for our deep batting order to drive home. And Keith, Gary, Straw, and Knight rarely let us down.
Dwight Gooden wasn’t at his sharpest, with five walks to go along with eight strikeouts and six hits allowed, but he took a 4-2 lead into the 9th, and Keith came on for defense.
Growing up in the 70s, my family attended many weekend games which were more and more sparsely attended as the competitive teams of the early part of the decade gave way to the moribund teams highlighted by the likes of Craig Swan, Lee Mazzilli, John Stearns, Lenny Randle, and Skip Lockwood. All decent players, but you’re not winning any pennants if they’re the best you’ve got. Attendance dwindled, and it wasn’t difficult either to buy field-level box seats or to change seats for a better location late in the game without any interference from an usher.
Tonight was different. As the 8th inning ended I wasn’t the only one who made his way to the field level, but the ushers were well aware of our intent and blocked each entrance with the ferocity of Cerberus guarding the gates of Hell. Three of us rushed spontaneously at one usher, knowing that unlike the fierce three-headed dog, this warder probably wouldn’t be able to prevent all of us from getting by. We were right.
I slipped past and made my way through the crush to the rail opposite first base. I was thrilled to see that Keith had replaced Magadan at 1B, wanting to be on the field when it happened. (This foreshadowed the World Series, as manager John McNamara would give Bill Buckner the same opportunity in Game 6, lucky for us.) The pent-up energy of the entire crowd, over 47,000 strong, could barely be contained as Gooden navigated around a walk and a hit in the ninth.
Then came the final out, a ground ball to Backman. Even before the ball was in Keith’s glove and the umpire’s fist had gone up signaling the out, a couple of fans had run onto the field. I wasn’t far behind, immediately ripping up a piece of turf from the edge of the outfield grass just to the right of 2B and shoving it under my jacket as I milled around with hundreds, maybe thousands of others, high-fiving and chanting, “We’re Number One!”
I have no idea how long I stayed there before heading toward the parking lot and starting the drive home, listening to the radio postgame interviews, exhausted, ecstatic and hoarse. The near-impossible task Pete Flynn and his grounds crew had of making the field playable in time for the next afternoon’s game has been well-documented, and that was pretty much the last celebration of its kind, as we soon got used to seeing mounted policemen lining the perimeter of the field to prevent such mayhem.
I might have been a little late for work the next day (and I definitely had no voice) but it was OK, as my supervisor was also a Mets fan. In fact we had fun during the World Series, noting that Boston catcher Rich Gedman had drooping eyelids and was in need of a cosmetic procedure called a blepharoplasty (we paid medical claims so we were familiar with all kinds of surgeries).
I placed the turf in a shallow round pan about 14 inches across and watered and fed it, hoping it would take hold and I’d have a live memento of that night forever. Alas, it died within a couple of months, and I now have the desiccated dirt, shot through with strands of dried grass, sitting safely in my lock box as a treasured remembrance.
Within days playoff tickets went on sale and I worked the phone for hours (718 507-TIXX) until I was able to get through and place my order for 2 NLCS games. Like many others, I rushed home from work in order to catch the end of Game 6 a few days later, and then, unable to get World Series tickets, watched the entire Series from my home, my father joining me for Games 6 and 7, the last time we’d watch World Series games together until 2015.
Roger Kahn wrote nostalgically of the Dodgers of the 50s, the “Boys of Summer.” The 1986 Mets were my “Boys of Summer.” Circumstances came together to create the greatest experience a fan could have, and one I’ll never forget–my team dominating the league for the entire season, and me getting to witness much of it firsthand and up close.
Of course, all good things come to an end, and that was that team’s pinnacle. 1987 was marred by DL time for the entire rotation, between Gooden’s suspension and injuries to all the other starting pitchers. 1988 ended in disappointing fashion. I moved to Key West in 1989 and was distanced from a lot of the turmoil of the next few years, including “the worst team money can buy.” With many transplanted New Yorkers in South Florida, the “New York Mets Radio Network” extended down here only until the Marlins came into being, and even by 2000 other media formats weren’t well enough developed for me to have access beyond newspapers and what games were broadcast locally.
The 2015 season was the first championship season I was able to enjoy on a daily basis since 1986, and I’m sure I’m not alone in calling it my favorite season since then. I think the presence of so many home-grown players makes it more satisfying than 2006, and we have a lot to look forward to as they develop and hopefully form the nucleus of a championship team for the next decade (Syndergaard 2016 Cy Young—you saw it here first!). I’m confident that the 30th anniversary of the great 1986 team will end with a similar celebration. Let’s Go Mets!
I was born as the Mets were taking the field for their first Spring Training (late February, 1962) but didn’t become a fanatic until Tug McGraw issued his famous (and sarcastic) rallying cry, “Ya Gotta Believe,” in 1973. Since then I’ve bled orange and blue. I’m currently a social worker in Fort Lauderdale Fl, where I can watch the Mets nightly through the miracle of the Internet. I was close enough to Bartolo Colon to see his sweat when he made his amazing behind-the-back flip last September in Miami against the Marlins. Can’t wait to see them climb the final steps to the mountaintop in 2016, and for the next several years.
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This Fan Shot was contributed by Mets Fan In Paradise. Have something you want to say about the Mets? Share your opinions with over 30,000 Met fans who read this site daily. Send your Fan Shot to [email protected]. Or ask us about becoming a regular contributor.
