I graduated high school in 1985. That same year, Dwight “Doc” Gooden, just 20 years old, put together one of the most impressive pitching seasons I’ve ever seen. Twenty-four wins, a 1.53 ERA, 268 strikeouts. He won the Cy Young Award and started the All-Star Game. He didn’t showboat or talk much. He just handled his business on the mound.
The image that always comes back to me is Doc standing tall on the mound, sweat dripping down his face, staring in at the catcher. That look, focused, serious, intense. It wasn’t for show. It was the look of someone carrying something, someone who knew he had to be perfect every time out.
At the time, I saw a young man in total control. But now, years later, I see something else in that image. I see pressure. I see weight. I see a 20-year-old trying to live up to something impossible.
A year later, in 1986, the Mets won the World Series. They were tough, loud, and full of talent. But when the team took their victory parade through the Canyon of Heroes, Gooden wasn’t there. Later we learned he was in a house in Long Island, using cocaine, too ashamed and afraid to face the celebration.
That moment still says a lot to me. How someone can be on top of the world one day and completely lost the next. And how hard it is to ask for help when everyone thinks you’re doing fine.
Addiction isn’t simple. It isn’t just a bad decision or a character flaw. It’s pressure, pain, and a kind of isolation most people don’t see. Gooden was quiet. He wasn’t built for the spotlight in the way some athletes are. He got thrown into it anyway.
He was suspended in 1987, and again in 1995, for the entire seasons. He managed some comebacks, like the no-hitter with the Yankees in 1996. That was a bright moment, but the consistency never came back. In his memoir, Gooden wrote that he was using cocaine the day he was inducted into the Mets Hall of Fame. That stopped me. Not out of judgment, but recognition. It reminded me how hard it is to truly leave certain things behind. How long the fight can last.
And it made me think about my own life.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that kind of struggle. I’ve faced days where the weight felt like too much. Not drugs, but alcohol and pressure. Regret. Fear. Moments where I felt like I couldn’t face the world. But I did. And I kept doing it. That daily act, just getting up, just continuing, is something I respect more than ever.
That’s why I see Doc Gooden’s story differently now. Not as a tragedy. Not as a cautionary tale. But as a real story. One that matters.
There’s another layer to this, too; one that connects directly to a moment I’ll never forget.
Doc Gooden is the uncle of Gary Sheffield. They grew up together in Tampa. Because they were only about ten years apart, their relationship felt more like older brother and younger brother. Doc mentored Gary. Encouraged him. Gave him a bat when he saw him hitting with a cracked one. Taught him how to deal with pressure.
In 1988, I saw Gary Sheffield’s first major league hit; on a first date, of all things. We were at a Brewers game. Sheffield stepped to the plate, young and still raw, and hit a home run. But it wasn’t just the result that stood out. It was his bat speed. I remember it clearly, how fast his hands moved through the zone, how clean and efficient the swing was. I turned to my date and said, “That guy’s different.” I don’t remember much else about the night, but that swing stuck with me.
Sheffield went on to have a long and complicated career. He hit over 500 home runs. He was one of the most dangerous hitters of his time. But he also dealt with criticism, was connected to the BALCO steroid investigation, and never quite got the acceptance from the baseball establishment. Like his uncle, he had to live with being misunderstood.
Both Gooden and Sheffield were incredibly talented. Both came from the same family, same neighborhood. And both carried things the public didn’t fully see.
For me, these stories aren’t just about baseball. They’re about life. About carrying pressure. About getting back up. About fighting battles quietly, sometimes without recognition or applause. And about how long and hard the road to healing can be.
Doc Gooden’s 1985 season is still one of the most complete performances I’ve ever seen. But it’s not what defines him to me. What defines him is that he’s still here. Still showing up. Still trying. Still dealing. I respect that more than I did when I was younger.
Because now I know how hard that is.
And I’ll always remember that night in Milwaukee, Sheffield’s bat flying through the zone, sending the ball over the fence. A clean swing. A new beginning. A reminder that greatness doesn’t always follow the path we expect.
But even when the story doesn’t unfold perfectly, it still matters.
And sometimes, just continuing on is enough.
Damn. I see a lot of Eric Davis in this article as a Reds fan. Well played brother...well played.