Beyond the obvious talent of those 1986 Mets were a bright group, as the field of wild flowers flowering at a time. And then it seemed that they had gone, after a sharp arc formed by the eclectic parts.
For some reason, expect to ever newly rich to live well, not good, his home country. But the Mets were the Second, and still one of the studs have been placed on file.
Lenny Dykstra, once a talented horse galloping through the Shea Stadium '86, is now going to prison, his rap sheet longer than the Magna Carta. We can not say we did not see this coming. When he was allegedly shooting steroids, losing six figures for illegal poker, he was stealing money under the guise of financial management.
The latest attempt Dykstra is heisting cars, he got three years, three hots and a cot in the Criminal Code facility. And unlike the video game of the same name - Grand Theft Auto - there is no reset button. Dykstra's tearful microcosm of the group that grew in Behemoth and disappeared three years later. Just as (allegedly) juiced Dykstra never looked right with all those muscles, nothing was as it seemed the former outfi elder in the Mets' current or former club.
Most men are not programmed to handle the rabid success. The examples are too numerous to review here. From boxers to fight well beyond their prime actors and musicians found dead from an overdose of the Lotto winner who broke in five years seems a short circuit in wiring already flooded with fame or financial gain.
While not as afoul of the law Dykstra, Wally Backman has been arrested several times since halcyon years. He lied about the Diamondbacks, and spent just one week, as their manager. His next job was with South Georgia peanuts. He is now back with the Mets, a symmetry is not lost on us.
And no one represented incorporate Mets want to Doc and Darryl, and actually brothers on and off the diamond and killed by forces greater than rising fast ball. Just like the Mets should have a fistful of rings, we should of Gooden and Strawberry in the Hall of Fame Refrain.
As the '77 yankees, the Mets stopped punching and partying long enough to bag the title, but their joint entropy could not keep a consistent rigors of the government. They had one shot, in 1988, but slammed the cast Meteor named Orel Hershiser.
Keith Hernandez and Ron Darling, two important members of that period, would now perhaps the best written line in sports. Whenever they talk about their fallen brethren, hear you uncomfortable as they fidget for platitudes, a cadence that comes with losing a brother. Not even Gary Carter, the dedicated group, escaped a single orbit of his team.
Another fleeting beauty of this company was that they were entirely in New York City, nearly every demographic - young, old, white, black, Hispanic, and Hawaiian. And as our city, much has changed, so we flip through the memories and VHS tapes to retrieve both were like at its best.
Even now, I call him Lenny wistfully. I'm not even a Mets fan, but it was fragrant charm that Dykstra and his teammates who spoke to endless sunrises. Now he is Leonard Kyle Dykstra, wearing a much longer number and uniform with plenty of orange, not blue.
Perhaps, in retrospect, the Mets intended to win more than they did. Indeed, reality is a way to trample our dreams. They were impossible gritty and talented, but they went to New York with a sense of permanent loss. As Lenny Dykstra discovered, sunset was not nearly as colorful and sunrise.
