Rookie

I was sitting on the bench in the dugout, watching the last few innings of our last spring-training game at Al Lang Field in St. Petersburg. We were playing the Tigers. Right after the game, the Mets would break camp and fly to Cincinnati to open their 1984 season the next day, against the Reds. I wasn't on the roster. I was still a minor-leaguer in the Mets' organization. I had been throwing the ball well during spring training, striking out a few batters, and the press had been giving me quite a bit of attention. But I figured I would be going to Tidewater, the Mets' triple-A farm team in Virginia. If I pitched well there, maybe the Mets would bring me up to the big leagues after the All-Star break, or next year. I was only 19 years old, so I could be patient.

Davey Johnson, the new Mets manager, came over and sat down next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders. He said, "You made the team. You're in the four-man starting rotation."

I said, "Yeah?"

He said, "Yeah."

I couldn't say anything else. A feeling flowed through me, something I can't even explain. I didn't really know how to react. Suddenly, I was on the Mets, a starting pitcher. Two years before, I had been at Hillsborough (continued on page 204)Rookie(continued from page 94) High School in Tampa. I had been drafted from there by the Mets, had spent a year in the rookie league and a year in Class A ball. During spring training, I was sure I could pitch in the big leagues.

I was sure, that is, until the moment Davey told me I was a Met. Then, suddenly, I wasn't sure anymore. Suddenly, there was a little fear inside me. Was I really ready? Was I going to go up and embarrass myself or something like that? Maybe it was too soon for me to compete on the major-league level. Maybe I wasn't good enough.

Those things ran through my mind real quick while Davey sat there. Then he asked me if I was ready to go. I told him I was. My bags were packed and I had taken them to the stadium, because I knew I would be going somewhere after the game--like to Tidewater.

But I was going straight up to the Mets to start the season. I had been dreaming about pitching in the big leagues since I was a little kid. Now I was right there in the dream.

•

I had never been in Cincinnati before. I had never been in any of the cities where the Mets would play while on the road, and we would be on the road for two weeks before going home to Shea Stadium. As much as I had dreamed about it, as often as I had watched games on TV and seen big-league players in spring training, I still didn't know what it would be like to actually be a part of it. Everything was first-class--the plane, the hotel; even the locker room at Riverfront Stadium was great, a lot bigger and nicer than in the minor leagues.

I went out into Riverfront. It was the biggest stadium I'd ever been in. The stands surrounded the playing field, closed it in. I walked around on the field, all by myself, imagining what it was going to be like. The place was empty except for a couple of ushers cleaning around the seats.

I walked out to the pitcher's mound and stood on it, just checking it out. It was kind of hard to believe. It was, like, I'm only 19--what am I doing here? I was excited, real hyper; and when I get that way, I tend to talk real fast. But I wasn't talking to anybody but myself. I was glad I wasn't pitching that day.

It seemed like it took forever, but finally people started coming into the stadium, and it was time for batting practice. After I had done a little running and loosening up in the outfield, I was walking toward the dugout when a little boy leaned out of the stands and asked for my autograph. He didn't know who I was or anything, but I signed for him. Some more kids came over and I signed for them, too. I was the youngest player in the National League, but it made me feel real big, signing autographs for the very first time, right there in a major-league ball park.

The crowd was much bigger than any I'd seen--they announced about 46,000--because I was used to minor-league crowds. For some reason, I had sort of expected all the players to be giants, too. I had thought maybe I'd be one of the smaller ones. But I was actually bigger than many of them. Logically, I should have known that, of course, because I am 6'3" and 195 pounds, and I'd seen a lot of them in spring training. But the way I felt was, big-league players must be bigger.

Basically, I just sat there in the dugout, watching everything that went on, mostly watching the hitters. I was a little intimidated by some of them. The cuts they were taking seemed harder and better than what I had seen in the minors. But then, some of our hitters were getting good wood on the ball--and these were guys I had struck out in intrasquad games during the spring, which gave me an idea of what I could do, gave me some confidence. Darryl Strawberry hit a home run off Mario Soto his first time at bat in the second inning. I figured he was going to have another terrific season, and maybe the Mets would turn things around from their last-place finish the year before. But our pitchers took some lumps, and Soto beat us, 8--1. I was still kind of floating on air, though, even after the loss.

•

We flew to Houston in a chartered plane. Walt Terrell would pitch the first game there and I would pitch the second. Davey said he wanted me to make my first start in a controlled environment, in the Astrodome, where the temperature would be reliable and there wouldn't be any wind and the ball wouldn't carry much.

We won the series opener against the Astros, 8--1, with Terrell giving up only four hits. It seemed like the game went awfully fast--too fast--because I was pitching the next night and I didn't feel mentally prepared. I would have to face these same hitters tomorrow, and they would be hungry, and they would know I was a rookie in my first start. Plus, the Mets were flying my parents in for the game.

That night, I couldn't sleep, couldn't help thinking about the next day's game. Because of my success in the past couple of years in the minors, a lot had been written about me, and I felt the pressure of it. The year before, when I was 18, I had had a record of 19--4 with Lynchburg in the Class A Carolina League. At one stretch, I won 15 straight and went 46 consecutive innings without allowing an earned run. I ended up with a 2.50 E.R.A. and struck out 300 batters in 191 innings, which was a record for that league. Then, at the end of the season, the Mets brought me up to Tidewater to help them win the triple-A world series, and I won two out of three. Baseball America named me Minor League Player of the Year.

So this year at spring training, the press wrote a lot about me being some kind of phenomenon or something, destined to be a star with the Mets. They wrote about my pitches and my control and my competitiveness and all kinds of stuff. That was all nice publicity to have, and I was proud of what I had accomplished so far. But I was in the big leagues sooner than I or anybody else had figured I would be. And now I was about to pitch my first big-league game. I had never been so nervous about throwing a baseball.

I got to the stadium about 2:30. A couple of players were there, getting treatments in the training room. I just paced around and got dressed slowly, trying to make the time pass. To calm my nerves, I kept telling myself just to do the things that had got me here, and to go out and have fun.

Finally, we went out onto the field for batting practice. There were already people in the stands. I didn't feel like myself. I felt like a totally different person when I walked out onto the field in a Mets uniform. I swung the bat a few times in the batting cage and hit a couple of balls pretty good, and before I knew it, I was in the bull pen, warming up.

Davey had told me to start off easy and just give him five good innings. I walked out to the mound real slow, taking my time, trying to relax. I didn't want my first warm-up pitch to get away from me and sail into the stands or something, so I began by just tossing the ball, going through the motions.

When the umpire said "Play ball!" it really hit me. I had to walk off the mound and get myself together. I told myself, "Just throw strikes and let everything else take its own place."

The first hitter I faced in the big leagues was Bill Doran, Houston's second baseman. I had never seen Doran and didn't know anything about him, but I figured that the Astro hitters might be taking a lot of pitches to see how I'd throw my first time out. So I was going to go right at them, starting every hitter off with a fast ball.

My first fast ball was a little outside and Doran took it for a ball. He hit the next one on the ground to second base for the first out. Then Terry Puhl also grounded out to second. I took a deep breath. They weren't taking a lot of pitches. They were coming right at me, too, swinging.

I got the count to 2--2 on the next batter, Dickie Thon, the shortstop, a good hitter; then I threw him a hard fast ball. I meant to go down the middle with it, but I overthrew and got it up. He swung and missed--my first major-league strike-out.

Walking off the mound, I couldn't believe I had struck Thon out, especially on a high fast ball. People had told me before that you might get away with a high fast ball in the minors but not in the big leagues. I got away with it, though.

I sort of cut my eye up at my parents in the seats behind our dugout, and I was hoping they weren't looking at me while I was looking at them. But they were watching everything I did.

The team was really behind me, not just encouraging me when I was on the mound but getting some hits. I got through the fourth without problems and with a 3--0 lead. But in the fifth, I gave up my first run on a couple of hits and a walk.

After the fifth, Davey brought in Dick Tidrow to relieve me. Instead of going in to the showers, though, I stayed on the bench to watch the rest of the game. I had left with a 3--1 lead, and when Doug Sisk and Jesse Orosco shut them out for the last three innings, I had my first major-league victory.

•

When we got to New York, people had set up our lockers and had brought up the players' cars from Florida. I had arranged for an apartment on Long Island, but it wasn't ready yet, so I stayed at the Marriott Hotel across the highway from La Guardia Airport, near the stadium.

When I was at Shea for the first time as a Met, not too many people knew me. Lots of people thought I was Darryl Strawberry. We're both pretty tall and lean, similar in that way. When we were having batting practice for the home opener against the Montreal Expos, a guy called to me, "Hey, Strawberry!" He wanted my autograph.

I said, "I'm not Strawberry, I'm Gooden."

He said, "Come on, Strawberry, you just don't want to sign. You're not Gooden."

I said, "Well, I'm not Strawberry." And I walked away. Later on in the season, people would start calling Strawberry Gooden, and he wouldn't sign for them, either.

•

It was my first turn pitching at home, and it sure was a weird feeling walking out to the mound that first time as a Met. I had played at Shea the year before, in a game for Lynchburg, but it was different being in a Mets uniform and knowing the crowd was there to see me pitch. It was the first time I was pitching for my crowd and I wanted to show the fans that I belonged in the big leagues.

The first guy I faced was Pete Rose, the legend. Just looking at him in the batter's box, I was nervous. I was so honored to be facing him that I forgot what I was out there to do.

Rose was all crouched down and ready. I figured he would hit the ball somewhere and hoped it would be at somebody. I threw him a fast ball and he swung and fouled it off--which made me jump, because I was so tight. Then he grounded out to short. When he was thrown out at first and ran back across the infield, I just watched him all the way. I was amazed that I had got him out.

In the third and fourth innings, I struck out five Expos in a row, the heart of their batting order. But in the fifth, I got in trouble, and before I was out of the inning, they'd scored four unearned runs. Davey took me out then, because I had already thrown 118 pitches, but we still had a one-run lead. I had heard that New York fans love you one day and hate you the next, and I figured maybe I'd get a lot of boos. But when I came off, a few people clapped and that was about it.

After the game, I was on Kiner's Korner, the postgame TV show, for the first time. All I knew about Ralph Kiner at the time was that he broadcast the Mets games. I didn't know anything about him as a baseball player until later in the season, when we went to Pittsburgh and they showed old highlight films on the big Diamond Vision screen. They showed Kiner hitting, and when I found out he'd hit 54 homers one season and was in the Hall of Fame, well, I was really surprised.

•

For three or four days before the Sunday game in which I would be going up against Nolan Ryan for the first time, the press had been asking how I felt about it, talking about how the fans would be coming out to see strike-outs and all that. They were trying to build it up to a big confrontation and making it sound like it was just me and Ryan, like a tennis match or something.

There were 40,000 fans there to watch, and I pitched two pretty good innings, striking out three. The crowd really got into it. For the first time, I noticed that the fans not only started yelling for a strikeout as soon as I got a couple of strikes on the batter, now some of them in the outfield were hanging big red k signs over the railing every time I struck someone out. I didn't want to get caught up in what they had going out there, so I tried not to look.

In the bottom of the second, with us leading 1--0, I had my first chance to bat against Ryan. We had a man on first and second with one out, and he came with three straight fast balls, hard and high. It was right there in a hurry, and I was happy just to make contact. It was a grounder to short, a double-play ball. I ran it out hard, but they got the double play. Coming back to the dugout, I said to the other guys, "Now I know what it probably feels like hitting against me."

I was out of breath from running so hard, but instead of taking some time, getting a towel to dry off, I got my glove and went straight to the mound to pitch. That was inexperience, and it was a mistake I wouldn't make again.

I never really caught my breath. I was tired and trying to push myself. A couple of little mistakes, and suddenly everything had turned around on me. One minute I was cruising, next minute I was crashing. I looked around the bases and there were bodies all over the place.

By the time it was over, Ryan had pitched a complete game and they'd beaten us 10--1. The big strike-out confrontation amounted to four for me and seven for him.

Going through that taught me that I had to relax and pitch my game and worry about the hitters instead of who my opposing pitcher was. That helped me later, when I faced Soto and Fernando Valenzuela, two of the best in the business.

•

We came off the road and returned to Shea for a long home stand, finishing up June and the first week of July, taking us all the way to the All-Star break. It was good to be back in New York.

I had a nice one-bedroom apartment in Port Washington, about 30 minutes from the stadium. I paid $700 a month, plus $255 for the furniture. The landlord went out and picked up the furniture that I liked and put it in. That apartment was plenty for me.

The neighbors were real nice to me. Sometimes, after I'd pitched a good game, I'd go home and find balloons hanging up and sign saying, Congratulations Dwight, and people would come out and clap for me. It was great to know they felt good about me, people I didn't even know.

By the time we got home in June, All-Star balloting was going on, and Strawberry was leading the vote for National League outfielders.

I was real happy about that. I had met Strawberry when I signed, in 1982, and I didn't like him at first. He was the type of guy who had a lot of confidence in himself and always believed that he was higher than anybody else, that there was nothing he couldn't do. I saw the way he was acting on the field, but I didn't really know him. Once I did get to know him, I realized that was just his way of holding his head up and believing in himself.

Last year, Darryl became a real good friend. He helped me in a lot of ways, keeping me believing in myself and helping me avoid some of the problems he'd had when he first came up. Once we started hanging out together, I was always on his side and he was always on mine, whether we were having fun or one of us needed help. And I was especially glad that he was getting all those All-Star votes, because he had been through some difficult times with all the pressures of following up a great rookie year.

We had the Reds coming in for a big five-game series, our last before the All-Star break. The day of the first Reds game, they announced the final results of the balloting by fans. We knew who would be in the starting line-ups, because the press had been carrying the voting results all along.

Strawberry got the most votes of any National League outfielder. The word was that he was the first Met to be voted to the starting All-Star team since Dave Kingman in 1976. Then Paul Owens of the Phillies, the manager for the N.L. All-Stars, added Keith Hernandez to the squad. Everybody knew he should be on the team, because he was having the best year of any first baseman in the league.

But when Owens named the pitching staff, I couldn't believe it. Because along with such veteran stars as Charlie Lea and Joaquin Andujar and Mario Soto and Rich Gossage and Al Holland and Bruce Sutter and our Jesse Orosco, he picked me.

I wasn't even on the Mets' roster in spring training; two years before, I was in high school. Now we had four people on the All-Star team and one of them was me.

•

They gave each player two tickets for the All-Star Game, and I took my girlfriend with me to San Francisco.

The day before the game, there was a workout, and I was really nervous when I got to Candlestick Park for that. There were lots of press people around, TV cameras and reporters wanting interviews. Talking to some of the players made me feel better. Steve Garvey congratulated me on making the team and said that this All-Star Game would be just the first of many for me. Mike Schmidt also congratulated me on the year I was having and said the main thing was just to enjoy being there and have fun.

I felt I belonged in the big leagues by that time, but the All-Star team, with all those great players, was even a step higher than that. Everybody treated me fine, but I didn't say too much. In the locker room and on the field, I mainly walked around, watching everything, checking everybody out.

I hadn't pitched before in Candlestick Park, but we had played there against the Giants. Usually, they didn't draw too many people. But on All-Star night, it was packed, and it sure looked different. This appeared to be the biggest crowd I had ever pitched in front of, and the game was on national TV, and I didn't know much about the American League hitters, so I had a few butterflies. I was mainly thinking that I just didn't want to mess up.

I was sitting out in the bullpen when Valenzuela went in to pitch the third inning, and I watched him closely and thought about how impressive he was. Then Owens called down to the bullpen and said Valenzuela would pitch one more inning and I'd be next. So in the fourth, I started warming up. But every pitch Valenzuela threw, I stopped to watch. He struck out Dave Winfield. Then he struck out Reggie Jackson. Then he struck out George Brett. With the crowd standing up and cheering, I thought, We're ahead 2--1 and I have to go in and follow that performance.

Fifth inning, my turn. I hadn't pitched in relief since high school, and never as a pro, so just walking in from the bullpen to the mound in front of that kind of crowd was new to me. I walked slowly and tried to get ready, talking to myself the whole way: "OK, it's just like any other game. All you do is throw strikes."

But it wasn't just like any other game. In a regular game, I try to pace myself, but in the All-Star Game, with just two innings to pitch, I wanted to air it out and throw every pitch with everything I had. I wasn't thinking strike-outs, but I wanted to throw strikes, and I didn't want to give up any runs and lose the lead, and I didn't want to do anything like throw a wild pitch all the way to the backstop.

The first hitter was Lance Parrish, catcher for the Tigers. At least I had faced him before, in spring training. I just wanted to get the first pitch in.

I got it over, and he took a fast ball for a strike. When I got the ball back from Gary Carter, I was more relaxed. Now I was going to go right at Parrish and let whatever happened happen. When he fouled off a fast ball to make it 2--2, I decided to try to get him right there. I threw the fast ball high, and he went for it and missed. I had a strike-out.

That took all the nervousness away. The crowd was really into it, and I had a lot of confidence.

The next two hitters were Chet Lemon of the Tigers and Alvin Davis of the Seattle Mariners, and I got them both with the same pattern I had used to deal with Parrish--fast balls, curve, back to fast balls. I struck out the side, and it was unbelievable. The crowd really appreciated what I had done, but I didn't find out until later that Fernando and I had set an All-Star record by striking out six in a row.

When I walked off the mound, the crowd was standing and cheering, and it was like I was walking on air. Everybody in the dugout shook my hand and gave high fives. These were some of the best players in the game, congratulating me.

When it was all over, I had pitched two innings, given up no runs, one hit, struck out three. In the end, I had battled the American League's leading hitter, Winfield, for what seemed like an hour, and finally got him on a fly ball to left.

If my season had ended right there at the All-Star break, I would have been pretty satisfied. I was 8--5, with an E.R.A. of 2.84; I had struck out 133 and my team was leading the N.L. East. But the season was only half over, and after the excitement of the All-Star Game, I had to get back to work and help the Mets go all the way.

•

In a matter, of four months, my whole life had changed. I had learned the ropes in the big leagues, had been through some pressure situations, had been successful so far. I was getting a lot of press, and that was probably the biggest change. People get to know you through the media and they see you as being different, because you're a ballplayer. Then the way you approach people changes, too.

Media attention started in spring training and grew once I started throwing well in New York. And it got even bigger at the All-Star Game.

Basically, the press was pretty easy with me. But sometimes they try to get you to say things you don't want to say--personal things or controversial stuff about people who might be giving you trouble on or off the field. I don't really worry about people watching me and judging me as a ballplayer. But Strawberry had warned me about letting anybody put words in my mouth, because that had happened to him a few times, so I tried to be careful. Sometimes I liked to get on the road, just to get away from the media and relax.

It was amazing how things had changed. Early in the season, people thought I was Strawberry, if they recognized me at all. But now, I was getting all this attention. Guys 17 or 18 would come to watch me play and to get my autograph, and they would say that when they played ball, they pretended they were me--and I was only a year or so older. And then older people would tell me I was their idol.

Girls came around sometimes, too. At the beginning, it was just every now and then; but as the season went on and I got to be known, they came a little more often. Sometimes, at the hotel, they'd call and say they had been watching me on TV and they wanted to meet me and so forth. Or sometimes I'd be out at a club and they'd recognize me and come over and sit down and have a couple of drinks. They'd ask what my plans were for later, could they come up to my room; things like that. Usually I'd say I was married and my wife was with me or that I appreciated their coming over and wanting to get to know me but that I was just going to call it a night.

I never checked out any of that action, never took any of them up on it. I just didn't want to take the chance with somebody I didn't know.

After a while, the routine of road trips started to get kind of old--especially getting up early. You have to pack and get ready to go after a late night game, then fly out that night and get up the next morning to be at the ball park. At times, I could sleep on the planes, especially if I had had a bad outing. But if I had pitched well, I'd be up playing cards, laughing and talking.

Sometimes, on the road, I'd go out walking around with Mets trainer Steve Garland and do some shopping and look at the buildings. Or a couple of players might go to a movie or to dinner. In San Diego, I went to the zoo with Jesse Orosco.

That was about it for the fast life.

•

When you get to be known, people come at you all over the place, trying to offer you deals, hustle all kinds of things. Strawberry told me that in his first year, people came around the clubhouse every day with deals to offer him.

Sure enough, various companies were starting to get interested in me. I had signed my first glove contract with Rawlings when I got drafted, in 1982. That was my first product. In the minors, they would give you two gloves a year, but in the big leagues, they basically give you whatever you want. I also signed a contract with Starter, the company that makes the Mets' jackets. And then, of course, there were shoes. After spring training, when I made the team, they all came around to have me try their products. Converse, Adidas, Nike, Puma--all the companies. I tried different shoes early in the season, and Nike felt the best, so at All-Star time, we worked out a deal. Nike even put up a huge billboard of me on a building around 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue in New York. It was amazing. I felt like I had been playing baseball for about 30 years, or something like that, with my picture up there.

Then there started to be a lot of requests for appearances--clinics, promotions, car shows, banquets. I would sign autographs for a couple of hours and get about $1000. Lots of times, the Mets set these things up for me. I didn't do too much that the team didn't know about, and I didn't do many appearances. You can make more money than I did on that, but I didn't want to lose my concentration on the season.

After the All-Star break, especially, a lot of agents were calling me or writing letters to me at the ball park. There were maybe ten or 20 of them. They would say they just wanted to meet with me and talk, let me hear what they were doing. I did meet with a couple of them, just to hear what they had to say. But it would always boil down to them wanting to represent me, and I told them I already had an agent.

One guy I spoke with represented some pretty good players, and he tried to talk me into letting him represent me. When I told him I wanted to stick with the agent I had, he said, "Well, maybe you could hire me just to look over your agent and make sure everything's going right."

An agent to keep track of my agent. Just what a rookie needs.

•

We went to Chicago on August sixth, trailing the Cubs by only half a game. We would have four shots at them. I would pitch the first.

At Wrigley Field, they throw stuff out of the stands at you, especially during batting practice, when you're out there shagging fly balls. I think they should have some security guards in the outfield, where the Bleacher Bums sit. It's pretty dangerous there. Anything's liable to happen.

When we arrived in Chicago this time, the Mets people warned us that the Cubs fans had been encouraged by some radio broadcaster to harass us and not let us get any rest. The Chicago fans had apparently been told that in New York, a lot of people had called the rooms of the Cubs players just to bother them, so now the Cubs fans were supposed to do the same to us.

When I got to my hotel room, I didn't tell the operator to hold my calls, so the phone rang a lot at first. One guy said, "If you look out the window, you're gonna get shot."

Others said, "If you come downstairs, you're gonna get killed," and "When you pitch tomorrow, you better not turn your back to the stands." Stuff like that. It was the first time anything like that had happened to me. I just figured they were trying to intimidate me and take my mind off the game.

The next day, the Cubs got to me early. It was 6--0 after four innings when Davey brought in Brent Gaff from the bullpen to relieve me.

I don't swear much, but for the first time in the season, I went into the dugout swearing and slammed down my glove. In my last seven innings of pitching, against the Cards and the Cubs, I had given up 13 runs. Before that, everything had been pretty smooth. But now, all of a sudden, I thought things were catching up with me, and I could be in real trouble. Things I had gotten away with in the minor leagues I was not getting away with anymore. It was rough for me right then, and for a little while, I wasn't sure of anything.

•

We were in San Diego late in August, five games out of first place. If I could beat the Padres, at least we could break even on the road trip and go home feeling a little up. With the last week of August and most of September scheduled at home, maybe we had a shot at catching the Cubs.

I really had my good pitches working. I retired the first 11 Padres before Garvey doubled and Graig Nettles hit a home run in the fourth. In the eighth, I struck out Garry Templeton, and the umpire called time and stopped the game. I didn't know why. I looked into the dugout and I thought maybe something was wrong, because Charlie Samuels, our equipment manager, was motioning out to the field with his hands and some of the players were yelling about something. It turned out that Templeton was my 200th strikeout of the season. Then they flashed on the scoreboard that I was only the 11th major-league pitcher to do that in his rookie year. Because we were in San Diego, I thought maybe the fans would just clap a little, or even boo, but they gave me a standing ovation.

We ended up winning 5--2. I pitched the whole game, gave up three hits, didn't walk anybody and struck out nine, to give me a total for the season of 202.

After the game, the press kept bringing it up: How did it feel to have 200 strikeouts? They said that no teenaged rookie had ever finished the season leading the major leagues in strike-outs and that I was leading the majors now, and how did I feel about that? They said the National League record for strike-outs in a rookie season was 227, and how did I feel about that? They asked me if I was thinking about breaking all these records and how it was going to affect me the rest of the season.

I told them I hadn't really been aware of the records, which was true at the time. But soon after that, I started thinking about it a little bit, since I was so close. I figured it out one night: I'd had about 25 starts so far, and I would have maybe five or six more. All I needed was about five or six strike-outs a game, and I could set the National League record for a rookie.

But I didn't want to change my game plan and go for the strike-outs and end up getting a loss. It was the wins that helped the team, not the Ks.

•

The crowds really dropped off after an early September series against the Cubs in New York that left us six games out of first place. I guess they figured the race was over. I was thinking a little bit more about strike-outs now, because I figured I might get the major-league record in the next couple of starts.

When I'm pitching, I usually don't know how many strike-outs I've got. But this day against the Pirates, I knew I was close to the record, because I was getting a lot of strike-outs early and I was trying to keep track of how many I had. With one out in the sixth, Marvell Wynne was up, and I figured I needed two more for the record. The count was 2--2, and I got him to swing at a high fast ball and miss.

Then everything broke loose, and I knew I had miscounted. Everybody in the stands stood up and cheered and yelled. It went on like that for about three minutes. I just stood there and watched everything and felt pretty good.

Finally, I went back to the rubber. And after Lee Lacy doubled, Johnny Ray lined out to end the inning.

That set off the crowd again. They gave me a standing ovation all the way to the dugout. When I got to the dugout, the crowd kept yelling, and the players were saying I should go back out there, so I stepped out of the dugout and took off my hat. Usually, it's the home-run hitters they call back out. That was the first time it had happened to me. I tipped my hat to the crowd and felt a little embarrassed and uncomfortable. But I also felt like I was on top of the world, with people showing how much they appreciated me. I felt like a big hero.

I ended up winning the game 2--0, with 16 strike-outs, five hits and no walks.

After the game, I looked at the pitching charts and thought maybe they were wrong, because they showed something I had never done before: I had pitched a game in which I had never had three balls in the count to any batter. That was unbelievable. The Mets put out a press release that listed my accomplishments that day and my totals so far for the season. Besides the major-league rookie strike-out record, it showed:

I had tied California's Mike Witt for the major-league single-game strike-out high of the year.

I had had my 14th double-figure strike-out game, breaking Tom Seaver's club record.

I had set a Mets record for most strike-outs in a game by a rookie.

I had had the biggest strike-out game for a Met since Seaver struck out 16 in 1974.

I was the first Met to pitch two shutouts in a row since Pat Zachry, in 1980.

With my third shutout, I had become the first Mets rookie to have more than two since Jon Matlack had four, in 1972.

I was the first major-leaguer to strike out 16 batters in a complete game without giving up a walk since California's Frank Tanana, in 1975.

By striking out the side in the fifth and eighth innings, I had struck out the side 14 times during the year.

It was all beyond belief.

•

We didn't have a celebration for finishing in second place, no champagne or anything, but we felt real good. After finishing last or next to last for so many years, we felt pretty satisfied with second. Even the young players like me could feel that way, because we all knew where the Mets had come from and what the expectations had been at the start of the season, and we had done better than that.

We beat the Phillies for the third straight time in our final game at Shea. Davey decided to have me pass up my last scheduled start in Montreal. He said I had nothing more to prove, and he figured I might as well save my arm. I had already gone 218 innings, which was the most I had pitched in my career. If we'd still had a chance for the pennant, though, I would have wanted to pitch. But we had already clinched second, and that was going to be it, no matter what happened.

•

Once we got to the airport in New York and were waiting for our luggage, I guess we all realized we wouldn't be seeing one another for a long time, and maybe some of us wouldn't be seeing one another again at all. It crossed my mind that maybe not everybody would be back with the club this year, because that's the way it is in baseball. The mood kind of changed there when everyone realized we were splitting up.

I caught a flight from New York home to Florida the next morning. It was the first time in a long time that I'd been on an airplane without the team. I felt strange, because there was nobody to talk to or joke with, but I was real excited about going home. I kept trying to fall asleep to make the time pass; but every time I did, I'd wake right up, because I was thinking about what things would be like now, how my friends were going to react, everything. Just the idea of seeing Florida again made it seem like it took forever to get there.

When I got off the plane, I saw my family waiting, and it was a great feeling. They had signs hanging up in the neighborhood: welcome home, Dr. K, welcome home, Dwight, glad to have you home, things like that. Everybody came to the house--neighbors, friends I hadn't seen in a long time, a whole lot of people. They had music on, and there was lots of food, and there were lots of hugs and kisses and stuff. I had such a great feeling with all those people around showing appreciation. It was great to be home.

Gooden, Better, Best

the rookie of the year's rookie year

In his first major-league season, at the age of 19, Dwight Gooden started 31 games, won 17, lost 9, pitched seven complete games including three shutouts, gave up 161 hits and 73 walks in 218 innings, with an E.R.A. of 2.60. In addition, he:

• Set a major-leagues rookie strike-out record with 276;

• Led the major leagues in strike-outs for the season--the first teenaged rookie ever to do so;

• Led the major leagues by striking out ten or more batters 15 times;

• Set a National League record by striking out 16 batters in two consecutive games;

• Was the youngest player ever chosen to play in an All-star Game;

• Finished second to Rick Sutcliffe in balloting for the National League Cy Young Award;

• Set a major-league record for ratio of strike-outs per nine innings with 11.39;

• Finished with the second-best E.R.A. in the major leagues;

• Was named the 1984 National League Rookie of the Year.