Darryl Strawberry's Drugs

(Another in a series of Bad Sports Fan Experiences.)

In my formative sports years, I knew a guy who was a top-shelf heckler. He rarely resorted to profanity, but would say or do things that made normal people pale, owing to a nearly pathological lack of shame. (We'll call him, for the sake of this story, Bob.)

You'd laugh at his stuff and admire his courage, but he wasn't exactly a guy you could relax around, for fear that someone would want to beat the crap out of him.

Bob could heckle on the fly, but his best material came from preparation and research. In the late '80s, as the dominant Mets came to Philly with 20K fans in tow to mop the floor with the hometown heroes, this meant props.

Props in zip lock baggies.

Specifically, realistic amounts of flour and/or baking soda, in such a fashion as to catch you the serious attention of security personnel, not that anyone really checked in those more innocent times.

The game was one of the first back for Darryl Strawberry, who was in the early stages of pissing away his talent on cocaine. He had just completed an arduous 3-day rehab, as was the custom in the go-go '80s, and the Phillies fans were expected (required?) to shower him with abuse. It was, after all, one of the only sources of amusement in that era.

Unlike most nights, the place was packed, and like all Mets-Phillies games, it was an open fist fight between the invaders from the north and the downtrodden hometown rabble.

Bob, brandishing his baggies, went to work on Straw. Early and often, but not profane, and with fights breaking out all over the stadium, it's not like anyone was going to call security for this.

"Hey, Strawberry! I got your drugs right here!"

"Darryl! Free drugs, Darryl! Come and get 'em! That's a good drug user!"

"Hey, Darryl, what's the matter? My drugs aren't good enough for you?"

"Hey, Darryl, I just took some of these drugs and oh, man, you've just got to try them! They're awesome!"

"Darryl, are you turning down my FREE DRUGS because you're already high? You scamp!"

Et cetera. Mets fans are looking daggers at him, while Phillies fans are giving him knowing nods of encouragement, as if they're sampling a fine vintage.

The game gets out of hand early, with Kevin McReynolds doing a lot of damage. It also pours down rain, so with the outcome well in hand, we leave with the majority of the crowd, in the eighth inning.

The old Vet Stadium had long ramps for the upper levels, that eventually ended in a bottleneck where the lower levels also exit. All the way down the ramp, Bob is flogging his baggies for all they're worth.

"Get your Mets drugs! Get your Mets drugs! Special collectible Mets drugs! Who wants to buy Darryl Strawberry's drugs? Don't miss this once-in-a-lifetime chance to buy Darryl Strawberry's drugs!"

We're almost at the exit when I see Them - the very worst people in the world to catch Bob's act right now. It's a Mets Dad (probably an attorney, given the '80s slick hair, suit, tie and briefcase) and his no-more-than-ten Mets Son (head-to-toe authentic jersey, hat, and glove). They've clearly heard Bob's sales pitch, and the Son is giving us the "Say it ain't so" eyes.

Bob, in a perfectly choreographed moment of brutality, tosses a baggie to the boy. "Here, kid, catch."

Yes, it felt like this. But horribly, horribly wrong.



Time froze. The baggie arced through the air, falling short of its victim, landing in a puddle in front of them. And I'm running for my life, convinced that Bob is going to get the shit beaten out of him, and pretty sure that I don't want to intervene. Which Bob uses as his exit cue.

"Hey, (DMtShooter's Real Name)! Come back, (DmtShooter's Real Name)! Hey, everybody, I'm here at the game with (DMtShooter's Real Name)!"

I'd like to find out what happened to that kid. But only so long as things stay anonymous. I'm pretty sure you could bring a lawsuit for that today.