When I was a kid, I wasn't a baseball fan. Sure, I had Mets & Yankees caps and pennants on the wall and said I was a fan of all New York teams (although even then I preferred the Mets), I never actually watched the game. I even collected baseball cards but had no appreciation of what the men on those pieces of cardboard actually did. In 1984, there was a buzz that even someone as oblivious as I couldn't miss out on. The longtime loser Mets were suddenly good and fighting with the Cubs for a playoff spot. People were carrying transistor radios around to listen to the games. Especially on the nights that a rookie pitcher named Dwight Gooden pitched. He was so good the fans called him Dr. K. I got sucked in. Even though the Mets missed the playoffs, I watched the World Series for the first time and the next spring starting on opening day I watched the Mets. Obsessively. Even though other players became my favorites, Gooden was at the center of it all. My first season as a full-time Mets fan was one of the greatest seasons a pitcher put together ever. And then the next year the Mets won the World Series. Of course it all came crashing down in 1987 when Gooden checked into rehab for cocaine addiction. Talk about dissillusioning. I didn't want to believe it, and after accepting it thought he was a hero for finding help and solving his problems right away. And I was wrong about that too. I saw one of Gooden's last games when he was pitching for the Yankees against the Red Sox at Fenway Park in 2000. He pitched four innings of long relief and he was brilliant. I had kind of mixed feelings since I wanted to see the Red Sox beat the Yankees but with each inning Gooden pitched, I didn't want to see him fail. And he didn't, he got a save and one last moment of glory on the pitcher's mound.