Behind the plate, we had Gary Carter. The thing that Kid doesn’t get remembered for enough is how tough he really was. Everyone knows Carter never met a camera he didn’t like, and knows he enjoyed being in the spotlight, but behind that he was really a winning player, a guy you wanted to go to war with. He’s been remembered as the final piece of the puzzle when he was traded to the Mets before ’85. But he was different from a lot of the other wild personalities in the locker room, and he added a special dynamic. By the time he became a Met, the wear and tear of playing catcher every day for a decade was getting the better of him. And yet he was a clutch hitter and still hit cleanup for us despite playing through pain every day. What I’ll say about Kid is that he was a different kind of leader on the team than Hernandez, who was more vocal. Carter led by example and really strapped it on every day. What he had to do to prepare himself for games went unnoticed a lot, because he never complained. I’d say he played injured most of the time, and, maybe most remarkably, he did it clean and wouldn’t ever take anything. Even I tried to give him some amphetamines to give him a jolt, and he refused without hesitation. He was just that kind of guy, clean-cut all the way around. He didn’t really party with the guys, didn’t cheat on his wife, didn’t lose focus on the game over the season. He was a man on and off the field, and I think maybe in ’86 he knew he was running out of chances to play for a championship.
At third base we had Ray Knight, a real veteran player, and Howard Johnson, a truly great guy. Wally Backman, our second baseman, was a smart player; it’s unbelievable he is not managing in the major leagues again. I see some of these bozos managing in the big leagues and think, Why doesn’t someone give Wally Backman a second chance to manage?
On the mound, we would go as far as the foursome of Doc, Ron, El Sid, and Bob would take us.
Doc was clearly the ace of the staff, and his talent was one of a kind. I don’t even know how to accurately describe how good he was, since it’s really hard to categorize or compare him to anyone else I had seen before.
Ron Darling was the number two starter. He was living proof that you could have a successful career without much stuff. What he lacked in talent he made up for with his preparation and knowledge of the opposing hitters. He wasn’t overpowering, but he could throw three pitches for strikes. And that’s what matters when you’re in a pennant race. I wasn’t close to Darling—but I wasn’t alone in that respect; he wasn’t close with many people. He has always treated me with respect, and I am happy to see him flourish in the booth as a baseball announcer.
Overall, our pitching staff had lacked depth the season before—so our GM, Frank Cashen, remedied that big-time in ’86. He made a trade with the Dodgers to bring in Sid Fernandez—a larger-than-life left-hander from Hawaii. He had weapons on the mound and threw gas. He loved to use his rising heater but kept batters guessing, since he wouldn’t hesitate to throw the big hook.
I can remember one day at the start of spring training all the brass came down to watch Sid throw his first session of BP to the hitters. Guess who they threw in the fire first? Me, of course. Fuck, did you really think Keith Hernandez was going to volunteer?
So I have all the brass watching and I said to myself, I’m gonna hang in there against him. I’m not bailing, man. No fear. So I get in the box, and the first pitch Sid threw came right at me. Fast. I turned to get out of the way, but the ball hit me right in the chest at ninety-five miles an hour. Thump. I went down like a Navy SEAL sniper had shot me.
That was my first experience with El Sid, as we called him. He was a good guy; a gentle, kind, and quiet man when he wasn’t beaning batters. And don’t let his body fool you; he was a really good athlete. His “overweight” appearance was just the way his body was distributed. He wasn’t fat at all. It wasn’t fun to hit against him, so I was happy he was now on our side.
Another of Cashen’s important off-season acquisitions was left-hander Bobby Ojeda. A veteran pitcher and a leader, Bob was one of the guys who showed us all how important teamwork was. He didn’t throw hard, but he had location and a great changeup. He kept hitters off balance and he threw strikes. He would become a key part of our championship formula.
Rarely do you see a team make the playoffs that isn’t in the top two or three statistically in pitching. Winning starts with the arms, but the truth is when a pitcher knows he’s going to get some run support, he’ll relax and pitch better. One has an impact on the other, in my experience.
From a chemistry standpoint, it didn’t take long for things to get exciting. In spring training a much-publicized fight between Keith and Darryl broke out during our team photo. They were just fucking around initially, but it escalated into a good little scrap. The media loved it, but it wasn’t really anything besides the fact that it was too early in the morning. If you ask any player, they will tell you that adding “early morning” to “spring training” doesn’t equal “good manners,” by the way. Spring training sucks.
But the fighting wasn’t contained to just spring training. We had another classic fight in August while playing the Cincinnati Reds. Eric Davis came sliding into third, and Ray Knight tagged him hard. Eric was dumb enough to mouth something offensive to Ray, so Ray belted him right on the chin. Davis went down, and every player from both teams—except our left fielder George Foster—came running out to join the battle.
For most of ’86 I played center field between Foster in left and Darryl in right. Foster was a strange guy. Talk about a human Xanax. I am falling asleep just thinking about him. Between innings in the dugout or during pitching changes in the outfield, I tried to get him to open up out of sheer boredom. No dice. Talking to George Foster was like attempting to hold a conversation with a piece of furniture.
After the Cincinnati game, Foster told reporters he didn’t come out to fight because he didn’t want to set a bad example for children. But in my opinion, the real reason was that he was at the end of his career and was pouting because Davey wasn’t playing him as much as he hoped. After that game Davey stopped playing him altogether. When Davey announced that Kevin Mitchell was going to be our new left fielder, Foster charged that the Mets were being racist.
The only problem with that story? Kevin Mitchell was black, too.
Kevin Mitchell, by the way, was a beast. People ask me all the time: “Who was the best pure athlete on the team?” It’s an easy answer. Hands down it was Kevin. He was the most impressive physical specimen I ever played with. This guy never took drugs, didn’t drink alcohol, and never took anything. He was all natural, a born athlete.
In spite of the drama, all the puzzle pieces fit. At the end of the day, we knew how to play together and Davey somehow got the most out of everyone. Each day we had fun winning together on the field and then even more fun drinking together every night. There was just this feeling or attitude that surrounded our team during the season that when opponents would come play us at Shea Stadium, you could sense that they didn’t want any part of us. They just wanted to get out of there alive.
The blend of tremendous talent and great team chemistry translated to 108 wins in 1986. We ran away with the division, winning by an astounding 21½ games. In essence, we knew we would be playing for the National League pennant by Labor Day. Nonetheless, we would be facing a formidable foe in the Houston Astros.
Remember, ’86 was pre-wild-card rounds, so the two division winners squared off for a best-of-seven series to determine the World Series representative. The Astros had home-field advantage for the series, with Games 1, 2, 6, and 7 scheduled for the Astrodome. We were supposed to have home-field advantage in the series, as they alternated every year between Eastern and Western division winners, regardless of regular-season records, from 1969 to 1993. However, as luck would have it, the Houston Oilers had a game scheduled against the Chicago Bears that week, which caused a scheduling conflict. Therefore, the Astros gained home-field advantage.
Moreover, they were led by eventual National League Cy Young Award
winner Mike Scott, who was nearly unhittable that year. Scott featured a split-fingered fastball that literally dropped off the table. No doubt his effectiveness was enhanced by the fact that he scuffed the ball, which makes it drop dramatically. Regardless, the dude was flat-out filthy. We realized that getting a W against Scott would be difficult at best, so that put pressure on us to beat their other pitchers.
Game 1 featured a battle of the aces, with Doc facing Scott. Doc did not disappoint in his seven innings of work, yielding only a solo home run to Glenn Davis in the second. Unfortunately, that would be enough for the Astros, as Scott was his usual nasty self, tossing a five-hit, complete-game shutout, punctuated with 14 Ks.
In Game 2 we faced the legendary Nolan Ryan, who had been 12-8 with an ERA of 3.34 and 194 Ks that year, a mediocre season by his standards. An RBI double by Carter and a sacrifice fly by Straw put us up 2–0 in the fourth. Then Wally and Keith combined for 3 RBI in the fifth to give us a comfortable 5–0 lead. Bobby Ojeda scattered 10 hits in a complete-game 5–1 victory, which evened the series at one game apiece. Now we were going back home for Games 3, 4, and 5. Game 3 was a pivotal game in that there was a possibility that Scott could go in Game 4, on three days’ rest.
The importance of Game 3 was evident to our fans. The atmosphere at Shea Stadium was electric, with 55,052 fans providing an energy that I had never experienced before. Even though it was only Game 3, it felt more like Game 7. The Astros did their best to take the crowd out of it by scoring two runs in each of the first two innings off Ron Darling. They entered the bottom of the sixth with a 4–0 lead behind Bob Knepper. The energy level in the stadium had decreased substantially. We needed to do something, and soon. Finally we got to Knepper, scoring four runs in the bottom of the sixth, capped off by Straw’s three-run blast, which provided the crowd with a supersonic infusion of energy.
Unfazed, the Astros scratched out an unearned run off Rick Aguilera in the seventh, set up by a Ray Knight throwing error. It would be our only error of the series. They took that 5–4 lead into the bottom of the ninth.
With the Astros’ closer, Dave Smith, on the mound, the inning started with a controversial play. Wally Backman laid down a bunt and avoided the tag of Astros first baseman Glenn Davis for a single. Houston’s manager, Hal Lanier, argued that Backman had run out of the baseline, but first base umpire Dutch Rennert called him safe. He took second on a passed ball and remained there when Danny Heep flew out to center. What happened next would change my life forever.
I was twenty-three years old, playing in my first major league playoff series. I had maintained a high level of confidence throughout the season, always telling myself that all I needed was an opportunity, and I would deliver. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for, and it was time to deliver.
I stepped up to the plate, looking to hit a single to drive Wally in and tie the game. That’s what the situation dictated; my job was to drive the run home and swing the momentum back in our direction. I was 0 for 1 with a strikeout on the day, but I felt good in the box. I had a good cut on Smith’s first pitch but fouled it back. Smith was a righty, and I was able to see the ball come out of his hand pretty well.
The second pitch was a hanging forkball. As soon as it left his hand, I knew I could drive it for more than a single. And drive it I did. Everything happened in a split second, but I can still remember how surreal it felt as I was running to first, watching the ball slowly drift toward the right field wall. With a helping hand from the baseball gods, the ball landed in the bullpen for a two-run game-winning homer.
In a matter of seconds, I went from running, to jumping, to screaming, to losing my mind. As I circled the bases, I was so caught up in the moment that I could actually feel the adrenaline surging through my body. The noise was deafening, but I couldn’t hear it. Upon touching home plate, I was mobbed by my teammates, who all poured out of the dugout. To this day I can’t tell you exactly what I saw, what I heard, or what I felt. I can tell you that the high I experienced that day has never been duplicated, even with drugs.
The last time I had hit a walk-off home run was playing Strat-O-Matic baseball. From the time I was a little kid, I’d always dreamed of hitting a homer to win the game. Now that I had done it, the feeling was better than I’d ever imagined. With one swing of the bat, we escaped a devastating loss and took a 2-1 lead in the series. A hanging forkball, and I nailed it!
Later that night I went out to dinner with Terri. We went to the legendary Brooklyn steak house Peter Luger’s. I was still on a high, even though it had been a few hours since the game, but I needed to just sit down and get something to eat.
The moment we entered the restaurant, everyone gave me a standing ovation. I was totally caught off guard. It was an incredible scene.
As special as this game and moment were for me at the time, I never imagined that Mets fans would talk about my home run for so many years to come. Whenever fans have come up to tell me about their memories of that game, I’m brought back to that moment and reminded how locked in I was.
Great game. Incredible moment. But the series was far from over. We still needed two more wins to get to the World Series. As we suspected, Scott came back on three days’ rest to pitch Game 4 at Shea.
Sid gave up two homers in six innings, which accounted for the Astros’ three runs. Scott pitched a complete-game three-hitter, with the only blemish being a solo shot by Straw. So we went to Game 5, the last game at home, tied 2-2 in the series. Needless to say, Game 5 was a must-win for us.
Game 5 was originally scheduled for Monday, October 13, 1986. It was postponed because of rain. The game was rescheduled for a one-thirty start on Tuesday, October 14, 1986. This allowed the Astros to start Nolan Ryan again on normal rest. We had Doc on the mound, and neither pitcher disappointed. The Astros nicked Doc for a run in the top of the fifth, but Straw hit a bomb, our first hit, in the bottom of the fifth to tie it at 1–1. The game remained 1–1 until the bottom of the twelfth, when Backman got an infield single off Charlie Kerfeld with one out. He advanced to second on an errant pickoff throw by Kerfeld. Understandably, Kerfeld walked Hernandez intentionally to get to Gary Carter, who was mired in a 1-for-21 slump in the series. The move backfired, as Carter stroked a single to center to drive home Backman with the winning run. Despite getting only four hits in twelve innings, we were going back to Houston, up 3-2 in the series. Carter delivered in the clutch, and our closer, Jesse Orosco, earned his second victory of the series.
Even though we had a 3-2 series lead, we approached Game 6 as though it was Game 7, because we knew Scott would be on the hill for Game 7. Arguably, Game 6 would become one of the most exciting games in postseason baseball history.
The Astros staked starter Bob Knepper to a 3–0 lead in the first inning with RBIs from Phil Garner, Glenn Davis, and Jose Cruz. Our starter, Bobby Ojeda, did not surrender any runs after that, but we were unable to dent Knepper. Aguilera gave us three innings of shutout relief, but we entered the ninth still down 3–0. We were not exactly brimming with confidence in the dugout, with the reality of having to face Scott in Game 7. Moreover, I was pissed, because even though Knepper was a lefty, I thought I should have started. After all, I had hit the walk-off homer to win Game 3. Knepper was throwing his typical pus, but we couldn’t do anything with it. Obviously, Davey didn’t share my thoughts. Nonetheless, prior to the start of the ninth, Davey walked down to where I was sitting on the bench.
“Lenny, get ready. You’re leading off the ninth,” was all he said.
“You want to win, huh?” I replied. “It’s about time you put me in the fucking game.”
I got in the box and something amazing happened—again. Sometimes it’s impossible to predict what is going to happen in sports.
And this was about to become another example of that.
Knepper had me down 1-2. I hit the fourth pitch decently to right center, but the Astrodome was a big yard that gobbled up fly balls. I could see Billy Hatcher and Ke
vin Bass converging on it. They both looked at each other hesitantly, and then . . . they didn’t get to it. It was almost like they thought it was a grenade. Neither of them got any leather on the ball. It took a bounce off the wall, and I raced around to third base.
And that started everything.
Mookie hit a weird humpback liner to Billy Doran, the kind the Houston second baseman caught ninety-nine times out of a hundred. But on this ball he mistimed his jump, and I scored to make it 3–1. With Mookie on first, Keith then doubled to send him home to make the score 3–2. Houston’s closer, Dave Smith, was ordered to walk Gary and Straw intentionally, and Ray Knight hit a sacrifice fly to tie the game. We had come back from the dead. Those mystical baseball gods were smiling at us.
I stayed in the game on a double switch and played center. Six innings passed until finally we ended up scoring three runs in the sixteenth and taking a 7–4 lead after I drove in Wally, who had walked. It turned out we needed all three of those runs, because the Astros stormed back to score two in the bottom of the sixteenth. With two outs and the tying run in scoring position, Jesse Orosco struck out Kevin Bass to end the game and send us to the World Series against Boston.
For that Houston series, the Mets as a team hit .189 with three home runs. My personal stats: I hit .304 with a double, triple, and a home run. I led the team in batting average, on-base percentage, slugging percentage, and OPS.
House of Nails Page 5
