Before Darryl Strawberry became the toast of New York City and won a World Series, before the substance abuse and well before the Mets announced that they would retire his number 18 on Saturday at Citi Field, he was a kid in South Central Los Angeles.
Strawberry grew up in a neighborhood in decline. The freeway system divided along traditional segregation lines, and the area felt the effects of eliminating manufacturing jobs in the 1970s, when Strawberry was playing baseball and basketball on the city’s courts and diamonds.
Sports were a chance for kids in the inner cities to get out of town and break the cycle of poverty and gangs.
“Coming from the inner city, you played with all Black players,” Strawberry said recently on a Zoom call. “You never played with people of any other color. And that was a big thing. We played against other players — white players — but we’ve never had white teammates.”
The 1979 Crenshaw High School baseball team was the stuff of lore. They reached the City Championship at Dodger Stadium, where they lost to a Granada Hills team with a third baseman you might have heard of — John Elway. For years, it was considered one of the best teams the state had ever seen. Nine players were drafted by major league teams, including Strawberry, who was drafted first overall in 1980.
He was compared to Ted Williams in a “Sports Illustrated” article shortly before he was drafted.
“I was like, ‘Who the heck is Ted Williams?’” Strawberry said. “The only baseball that I followed growing up was the Dodgers because I grew up in L.A. It was the Dodgers and the Cincinnati Reds.”
Strawberry, the prolific former Mets outfielder with the distinctive leg kick at the plate, got his ticket out of town and a one-way ticket to success. He became an eight-time All-Star, part of three World Series-winning teams and a two-time Silver Slugger who led the NL in home runs in 1988.
But along with former pitcher Dwight “Doc” Gooden, Strawberry also became a cautionary tale. Drugs, alcohol and domestic violence took hold of him, rewriting the narrative of his career. He wasn’t the only member of that 1979 team to have served time as catcher Carl Jones ended up in Folsom Prison.
Sports might be a ticket out of the hood, but at what cost does it come?
Strawberry paid the cost with his freedom and his health. Through hard work and spiritual guidance, he turned it all around. He didn’t rewrite the narrative; he wrote newer, healthier, sober chapters.
Strawberry’s current chapter is as a speaker with the ministry founded by him and his wife, Tracy. It’s a legacy he’s leaving behind that’s bigger than baseball and bigger than him.
“He speaks at churches, he speeds out rehabilitation centers, he speaks at schools,” his niece, Michelle Strawberry, told the Daily News. “Everything is different, and everything is kind of tailored towards what he’s booked for.”
The common theme in all of his speeches is hope.
“Darryl’s message resonates with everyone — regardless of their faith background — because so many are utterly defeated and bereft of hope,” said his friend Mark Vernarelli. “He reminds them that there is hope.”
Vernarelli is the media relations manager for the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services, a former news reporter and play-by-play announcer. He followed Strawberry’s rise through the minor leagues and the major leagues and followed his fall. He thought he would be a perfect person to speak to prison inmates.
“We always try to bring in programs, services and people who can help the incarcerated turn their lives around,” Vernarelli said. “Knowing Darryl’s transformation and the troubles he has overcome, I thought he’d be a great person to visit the incarcerated and offer hope.”
Strawberry visited four Western Maryland prisons in 2015 with Vernarelli saying the men were “mesmerized” by Strawberry’s message. Michelle, who schedules his travel and speaking engagements, has seen the same reactions at other events.
“The response is unbelievable,” Michelle said. “When I’m not there, they always say he’s the best speaker. He’s the most humble, the most gracious, the most giving with his time.”
To Mets fans, Strawberry is a hero. To convicts, he’s a positive influence. To addicts, he’s an inspiration. But to Michelle, the daughter of his brother Michael, a former minor leaguer, he’s just “Uncle Darryl,” a down-to-earth family man who treats everyone the same, whether it’s a billionaire like Mets owner Steve Cohen or an addict in need of encouragement. This is part of his charm and charisma.
“I think it’s just his upbringing,” Michelle said. “It was the way he grew up. And I feel like he’s just always been a people person. People always obviously looked up to him, but he was always just a people person. I think he’s humble because of everything that he’s been through and where he’s at now.”
Where he’s at now is on the road. Michelle estimates that Strawberry is on the road about 150 days a year. Recently, she has taken her four kids, ages 9, 7, 4 and 2, on the road for speaking engagements. A joint calendar helps the family keep up, but don’t ask her how she manages her uncle’s schedule with four kids because even she doesn’t know.
All she knows is that it’s enjoyable and worthwhile.
“To be honest, I have no idea,” she said. “I just get it done. He’s so busy, it’s like, insane how much he travels, And I don’t know how to keep up with it all. But I do.”
Strawberry and Tracy asked her to come aboard when they created Strawberry Ministries. It was a no-brainer. Michelle, based in Orange County, Calif., remembers watching Strawberry play baseball as a kid, handing him balls so he could autograph them and toss them to kids over the fence. Even at the height of his fame, he was still her humble uncle.
Recently, they traveled to Kingsport, Tenn., where Strawberry played his first season in the minor leagues. At the time, the kid from Crenshaw wasn’t ready for what he experienced there — being without his family, white teammates, racism and… Wood bats.
“Can you imagine what the culture shock of it was coming from South Central L.A. to Kingsport, Tennessee? I was like, ‘Where the heck am I? I’m in the middle of nowhere and I’ve got to play baseball — now I got to use a wood bat too?’”
Strawberry’s inner-city childhood may not have prepared him for fame and fortune in New York, but it made him who is today. Through all of the trophies, trials and dark moments, Strawberry became more than a cautionary tale, he became a success story.
The Mets are an important part of that story for him, just as he’s an important part of the club’s success.
“I played in other places, but no place like Shea Stadium,” he said. “Nothing on the planet like Shea Stadium, nothing like that curtain call, nothing like who we were as a team.”
An honor like this for a player like Strawberry is a lifetime achievement award of sorts. No longer burdened by his past, No. 18 will represent what can be achieved in the future — hope.
“I firmly believe that God uses someone’s fame and great victories to help others, but only after those same victorious people fall victim to terrible trials,” Vernarelli said. “Only then can they truly offer the hope that so many people have lost.”
