Some might argue I did enough to be the MVP of that series, but the award went to Scott. It is extremely unusual to give the MVP to a member of the losing team. Although he only pitched two games in the series, Scott was incredibly impressive: two complete-game victories, 8 hits, and an ERA of 0.50, yielding only 1 run in 18 innings. Regardless, I was in the zone. I can only imagine what I may have done had Davey played me more. Most important, we were going to the World Series.
In 2011, MLB Network ranked Game 6 of the 1986 NLCS as the fifth-greatest game in the previous fifty years of postseason baseball.
As memorable as that series was against the Astros, the best was yet to come. Our performance in the 1986 World Series against the Boston Red Sox would become even more legendary. We were about to participate in a Fall Classic for the ages.
6
1986 WORLD SERIES: NEW YORK METS VS. BOSTON RED SOX
You don’t win a World Series drinking milk.
—KEITH HERNANDEZ
After winning one of the most famous games in baseball history, we were on our way to the World Series.
Our opponent, the Boston Red Sox, had just defeated the California Angels, 4-3, in a tense seven-game struggle to win the ALCS. The BoSox had been literally one pitch away from elimination. Coupled with the fact that we would have home-field advantage in the World Series, we truly felt as though nobody could beat us. I was hoping Davey would play me more based on my performance in the NLCS.
Saturday, October 18, 1986, in the best sports city in the world, New York, would be the beginning of the greatest World Series in baseball history. In Game 1, we had Ron Darling on the mound with Boston countering with Bruce Hurst. A classic pitchers’ duel ensued, with Darling yielding only an unearned run in the seventh inning, after an error by our second baseman, Tim Teufel. Hurst was even better, as he kept us at bay with his combination of gas, a nasty hook, and a forkball. He pitched eight shutout innings, allowing only four hits. Sox closer Calvin Schiraldi came on in the ninth to seal the victory and earn a save. Although we were down 1-0 in the series, we still felt good knowing that Doc was starting Game 2.
On the mound for Boston was a young Roger Clemens, who was filthy and mean. Trust me, that guy was one bad motherfucker. He was an ultra-competitor. Forget the bullshit about Clemens and steroids. This was 1986, and he was already a gas-throwing stud. How is this dude not in the Hall of Fame?
Well, the anticipated pitchers’ classic did not occur, as the Sox put up three runs in the third, and we came back with two in the bottom of the third. With the aid of dingers by Dave Henderson and Dwight Evans, the Sox took a 6–2 lead in the fifth, and Doc was gone. Despite the nice cushion, Clemens left in the bottom of the fifth with runners on the corners and one out. We had Kid and Straw coming up, but we were only able to plate one run. Boston scored three more times, and we lost 9–3.
Suddenly we were staring at a 2-0 series deficit, and to make matters worse we were going to Fenway for Games 3, 4, and 5. Not many teams climb out of that kind of hole. Needless to say, the odds were stacked against us.
Most pundits and all the other “experts” out there would have expected a closed-door players’ meeting or an inspirational “pep talk” by Davey at that point. However, even though we were staring at an 0-2 hole, there was no Knute Rockne, no Rudy, not even the famous Belushi line, “What did we do when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?” No, we did nothing. We were the fucking New York Mets, the same crew who dominated the NL that year with 108 wins. We knew what we had to do, and we were surprisingly calm. We also weren’t stupid. If we lost Game 3, it was over. As we traveled to Boston, I started to think that I needed to do something different to start Game 3 in order to swing the momentum back to our side.
Dennis “Oil Can” Boyd was on the hill for the Red Sox. We had pretty much been dominated by their pitchers in the first two games, so I thought it was important to put a crooked number on the board early. I actually told my wife before the game that I was going to try to go yard with one of Oil Can’s garbage batting-practice fastballs in my first at-bat. While I would rarely look to hit a homer leading off the game—because it is very difficult—I knew a leadoff homer in Game 3 would silence the crowd and give us some much-needed momentum.
It was a Tuesday night in Boston, and the Red Sox fans were pumped, anticipating the end of their horrific, decades-long history of bad luck. I got into the box to start the game, and I just kept thinking to myself, I am going to take this motherfucker deep. I got the pitch I wanted and turned on it beautifully, lofting a fly ball deep to right. The fucker wrapped around the foul pole at Fenway for a homer that gave us the spark we needed to turn the series around. We dented Oil Can for three more runs in the first to put up that crooked number I knew would change things. Bobby Ojeda pitched seven innings, surrendering only one run, and Roger McDowell pitched the last two innings to earn the save. We claimed a 7–1 victory, and we were back in business.
I truly recognized the significance of my home run when I got back to the dugout and was greeted by Lee Mazzilli, who flat-out said, “That’s going to win us the series.” Maz was a key player for us, a wily veteran with a keen understanding of game situations and moments that only comes with years of experience. It meant a lot to me for a guy like Maz to say that in the moment. Remember, despite my cockiness, I was still just a twenty-three-year-old kid in my first big rodeo. Over the years, many others have told me that my leadoff homer in Game 3 was the turning point of the 1986 World Series. Who am I to disagree?
Nonetheless, we were still down 2-1 in the series. Game 4 featured Ron Darling versus Al Nipper for the Red Sox. The game was scoreless until the fourth, when Gary Carter deposited a two-run blast over the Green Monster in left, the first of his two dingers that day. Ray Knight drove in Straw, and we were up 3–0 in the fourth. The score remained 3–0 until the seventh, when I hit a two-run shot off Steve Crawford to give us a 5–0 lead. Ron Darling had a great outing, and we went on to win 6–2, evening the series at 2-2.
We felt good going into Game 5 with our ace, Doc Gooden, on the mound. Unfortunately, Doc struggled again, giving up four runs on nine hits in just four innings of work. Despite a terrific relief effort from El Sid, we were unable to get to Hurst, who was masterful again. Hurst scattered ten hits and gave up two runs in a complete-game performance. So we were down 3-2 in the series, but we were going back home to Shea for Game 6, and hopefully Game 7.
In the face of elimination, we still felt confident about our position: win two games at home, and we would be World Series champs. We knew we could do it. No one could have predicted that Game 6 would become one of the greatest games in the history of the World Series. While everyone remembers what happened at the end of the tenth inning, most people forget the series of events that sent the game into extra innings. I always talk about “winning baseball,” doing things that only true students of the game understand and appreciate. This game was the epitome of a team truly working together, sacrificing personal stats in order to achieve victory.
Game 6 matched Clemens versus Ojeda. Boston got single runs in the first and second to take an early 2–0 lead. We tied it up with two runs in the bottom of the fifth. An error by Ray Knight led to an unearned run for the Sox in the seventh. In the top of the eighth, Boston manager John McNamara pinch-hit for Clemens with rookie Mike Greenwell, a move that was later questioned by some. Regardless, the Sox failed to score, and Boston’s closer, Calvin Schiraldi, was summoned to try to nail down a two-inning save that would give the Red Sox the World Series championship.
Maz, who was pinch-hitting for Jesse Orosco, greeted Schiraldi with a single to start the eighth. I bunted to sacrifice Maz to second, but I was able to reach first on the play as well. Wally laid down a sacrifice bunt, advancing Maz and me to second and third with one out. Schiraldi walked Keith intentionally to set up a force at any base and a potential double play. Carter came up and worked a 3-0 count. Given the green light, Kid lifted the next offeri
ng to left for a sacrifice fly, which tied the game at 3–3. The only hit in this sequence was the leadoff single by Maz. We manufactured the run, and it was a beautiful thing.
In the bottom of the ninth, Knight worked a walk off Schiraldi to lead off the inning. Mookie bunted, and catcher Rich Gedman threw to second in an attempt to cut down the lead runner. The throw sailed wide, and we had first and second with nobody out. HoJo struck out as a pinch hitter, and Maz, and then I, flied out to end the inning, leaving Ray stranded in scoring position. We had blown a golden opportunity to put up a W.
In the tenth, Boston stormed back and went up 5–3 on a blast by Dave Henderson and an RBI single by Marty Barrett. McNamara allowed Schiraldi to hit for himself in the top of the tenth, so he was on the mound for his third inning, in the bottom of the tenth. While it is almost unheard of today for a closer to go two innings, let alone three, this was not unusual for Schiraldi. In fact, in 1986 he averaged more than two innings in his 51 appearances.
In the bottom of the tenth inning, Wally and Keith both flied out. Keith went straight to the clubhouse without saying a word after his long fly ball was caught for the second out of the inning. I was sitting on the bench, next to Howard Johnson. We both were dumbfounded and pissed. “I can’t believe we’re going to lose the World Series,” I said to Howard. “I just can’t fucking believe it.” I slouched farther down on the bench, fuming. The entire bench was silent and in a state of disbelief.
I looked across the field into the Red Sox dugout. I swear on everything I love that I could see some guys down the steps and in the tunnel drinking champagne, and for a pretty good reason. There were two outs and nobody on. And they were up by two runs. What were the odds of our coming back from that? I don’t even know if there are odds for that. Adding insult to injury, the Diamond Vision scoreboard at Shea actually posted the message CONGRATULATIONS BOSTON RED SOX. They were a strike away, but they hadn’t won yet! (Truthfully, I wish I was that optimistic at the time, but I was like everyone else and thought it was too big a hole to get out of at that point.)
Gary Carter stepped into the box to face Schiraldi. Then, suddenly, a series of events unfolded that is now etched in the minds of baseball fans everywhere. Gary singled to center. Davey wanted Kevin Mitchell to pinch-hit for the pitcher’s spot, but Kevin was on the phone booking his flight home when he got the call to get in the game. He scrambled and put the phone down, went up to the plate, and singled. Ray Knight had two strikes on him when he singled to drive in Gary and move Kevin to third.
It was 5–4 now. One run down and two outs in the bottom of the tenth inning. Mookie Wilson was up next.
Red Sox manager John McNamara responded by bringing in Bob “Steamer” Stanley to pitch. Mookie kept fouling off pitches until Stanley threw a wild pitch that got past the catcher. Kevin scored as Ray raced to second. Tie game. Toilet paper came streaming down from the delirious Shea stands.
Three pitches later, on the tenth pitch of his brilliant at-bat, Mookie hit his famous ground ball toward Billy Buckner at first. I noticed that Buckner seemed to have trouble bending over as the ball hopped over first base and went bouncing through his legs—through his fucking legs. Before we knew it, the ball was rolling onto the outfield grass, and we were celebrating at home plate.
Pandemonium! The entire stadium went crazy.
“What was it like when you saw the ball roll through Buckner’s legs?” people ask me.
Freaky? Crazy?
Look up the word unbelievable. It’s a simple, common word. I don’t know any other description for it. Unbelievable.
There are a few things that people don’t realize about that Game 6. John McNamara, the Red Sox manager, may have let his feelings get involved, leaving Buckner out on the field even though he had gimpy ankles. He had subbed defensive replacement Dave Stapleton for him during the late innings in games all year, including Games 1, 2, and 5 of the World Series—every game that Boston had won. Buckner was an offensive player, and this play is just another example of how a manager not making the right decision or pushing the wrong button can affect the outcome of a game. McNamara wanted to give Buckner the chance to be on the field when they won, and he used his heart instead of his brain. That said, the game was already tied when this happened—and frankly you could argue that Bob Stanley’s wild pitch was just as big a blunder as Buckner’s error. If Buckner had fielded the ball cleanly and beat Mookie to the bag in a foot race (Stanley didn’t leave the mound to cover first base), then we would have gone on to the eleventh inning. We were home, and we had the momentum, and truthfully I don’t think we were losing that game no matter what. Long-suffering Boston fans treated Buckner as if that play could have ended the World Series and that he was solely responsible for that breakdown.
Let’s not forget that Billy Buckner had an outstanding twenty-two-year major league run, batting .289 for his career. Unequivocally, certain moments, particularly when they occur on a national stage, are indelibly etched in the minds of those who view them. Hence, for many, Buckner will be remembered only for his blunder in the World Series.
Unfortunately, that is the world in which we live. Fair or not, Buckner is infamous, for his name will forever be synonymous with all-time blunders.
After our unbelievable victory in Game 6, it was a foregone conclusion that we were going to win Game 7 and the World Series. Honestly, there wasn’t a single thought that we were going to lose that game. As far as we were concerned, after the ball went through Buckner’s legs, giving us Game 6, the World Series was over. Obviously, the reality was the series was not over; it was tied at three with one more game to play.
Looking back, I barely remember anything that played out in Game 7. It’s all a blur. We didn’t play Game 7 the next night on October 26, as it rained all night. Pretty early they announced Game 7 would be played Monday night, on the 27th. This was big for Boston, as they had been planning on sending Oil Can Boyd at us on Sunday night, but with the extra day, McNamara decided to throw Bruce Hurst back at us again. Hurst was 2-0 after throwing eight shutout innings in Game 1 and a complete game against us in Game 5. He was the front-runner to win the series MVP. It also meant that with the lefty throwing against us, Davey would decide not to start me in Game 7 in favor of switch-hitting Mookie Wilson.
I understand the lefty-righty philosophy. But the thing is, in baseball sometimes you are better off just playing your best players. I loved that team and my teammates, but anytime I sat that year I was pissed off. But this one stung a little more. I loved playing when the stakes were high—in fact I got off on it! And if you look back now, ask anyone to dispute the fact that not too many players have played at the level that I rose to, or accomplished the things I did in the postseason over my career. Davey should have been able to realize it in the moment—that was his fucking job. But as I have mentioned before, he was a lucky manager. He was drunk every night and frequently hungover just enough the next day to not always know what was going on. That, and he was probably the worst communicator I’ve ever been associated with in baseball, and that includes a lot of fucking people! Other than all that, Davey was great. Ha!
Boston jumped on an ineffective Darling in the second when Dwight Evans and Rich Gedman went yard, back to back. Wade Boggs drove in Dave Henderson, and the Sox had an early 3–0 lead. Darling was pulled after three and two-thirds innings. Enter El Sid to stabilize the ship.
Hurst was cruising along, continuing his mastery over us, hurling a one-hitter, as we came to bat in the bottom of the sixth. With one out, Maz pinch-hit and stroked a single. Mookie followed with a hit, and Tim Teufel walked to load the bases. Finally, Hurst was showing signs of being human. Hernandez singled in Maz and Mookie, bringing Gary Carter to the plate. Carter hit a line drive to right that Dwight Evans, a superb right fielder, was unable to come up with despite diving. Wally, who was pinch-running for Teufel, scored the tying run easily, but Keith, who got a late jump because he had to wait to see if Evans made the catch, w
as gunned. Hurst then retired Straw to end the threat.
Meanwhile, El Sid had come on in the fourth with two outs and held the Sox scoreless for three and one-third innings. Most people have no clue how difficult it is for a starter to come in and provide quality middle relief in the cauldron of the postseason. El Sid’s contribution cannot be overemphasized!
Hurst was scheduled to lead off the seventh against Roger McDowell, who was called upon to replace El Sid. McNamara sent up Tony Armas to pinch-hit, thereby ending Hurst’s night. On the surface, this seems like a relatively innocuous move. However, there is a backstory that complicates the move. Oil Can Boyd, who was bypassed in favor of Hurst as the Game 7 starter after the postponement due to rain, was not happy with McNamara’s decision not to hand him the ball for Game 7. Oil Can disappeared into the clubhouse, where he medicated his bruised psyche with alcohol. Pitching coach Bill Fischer eventually found Oil Can in a highly intoxicated state, rendering him unavailable to pitch in relief that night.
With a short bullpen and Oil Can unavailable, McNamara opted for Schiraldi, his closer, who was coming off his Game 6 outing, where he pitched two and two-thirds innings. Ray Knight welcomed Schiraldi to the mound by going yard to lead off the seventh, giving us a 4–3 lead. I pinch-hit for Kevin Mitchell and got on with a single. I went to second on a wild pitch and scored the fifth run when Rafael Santana poked an RBI single to right. Joe Sambito came in and walked Wilson and Wally to load the bases for Keith, who had a sacrifice to center, plating the sixth run. Armed with a 6–3 lead, we could actually start to taste the championship.
However, the Red Sox were not dead yet. They entered the eighth having only a lone base runner since the third. Nonetheless, Buckner and Rice had back-to-back singles, followed by a two-run double from Evans that made it 6–5. Davey summoned Orosco from the pen to squelch the rally. Jesse got Gedman on a lineout and struck out the dangerous Dave Henderson. He then got pinch hitter Don Baylor to ground out, thereby ending the inning with Evans stranded in scoring position.
House of Nails Page 6
