I grew up a Mets fan in the 1980s. I was the kid who stayed up late with the static-filled AM radio just to catch the last pitch. And in those days, there was no one bigger—no one cooler—than Doc and Darryl. They were my heroes. Doc Gooden was electric. Darryl Strawberry had a swing so smooth it should’ve been copyrighted. They were the future of the franchise, the face of a team that was wild, reckless, and for a few magical years—absolutely unstoppable.
But like too many stories in life, it didn’t stay perfect.
I was crushed when Darryl left the Mets for the Dodgers. Watching him in another uniform felt like watching your older brother switch high schools and never call again. And Doc… seeing his career derailed by addiction, watching him unravel—game by game, year by year—was like watching someone you admire disappear in real time. It was painful. You don’t realize as a kid that your heroes are human until the headlines remind you.
But here’s the thing: we spend too much time focusing on the fall, and not enough time celebrating the climb back up.
I see Doc and Darryl more than I see some family members. That’s not a joke—that’s just life and baseball. They’re at events, watch parties, fundraisers, and yes, the occasional That 401(k) Conference. Darryl especially—he’s in a goodplace. He found God. He found sobriety. He found peace. And I never would’ve imagined how genuinely pleasant he’d be in person. Humble, warm, present. The guy who once walked away from greatness now walks into rooms and lifts people up.
Too many people still dwell on what he lost. I think the more powerful story is what he found.
Recovery doesn’t make for flashy back pages. There’s no ticker tape parade for getting clean or finding faith. But Darryl’s story isn’t one of failure—it’s one of redemption. And that’s the story I choose to see when I look at him now. Not the strikeouts or the suspensions, but the survivor who made it through when so many others didn’t.
We shouldn’t define people by their lowest moments. We should define them by how they rise from them.
Doc and Darryl may not have had the perfect careers we dreamed about in the ‘80s, but maybe that’s OK. Maybe the lesson wasn’t about home runs and Cy Youngs. Maybe it’s about resilience, grace, and growth—the kind that happens when the cameras are off and the crowd is gone.
If you ask me, that’s more heroic than anything that ever happened at Shea.
