Clutch 16-2016: The "Miracle" Mets of 1976

For most of the world, or Queens New York at least, a certain afternoon in July of 1976 was just another dog day of summer. The sun blazed down and yellowed front lawns while the streets were like walking across coal and the struggling Mets were suiting up for what was likely going to be another loss. Yup, same old same old. This was industry standard during what seemed to be the front half of a stretch to eternity. The sun would rise and set, kids would play outside all day and the Mets would lose. It would be close to a decade until things would change. 

The next three days though would be a little different.

Summer in Queens meant access to ice cream trucks, above-ground pools, and baseball. There was no Internet back then and as a result, there were no social media groups, websites or ways to keep in touch even like now archaic e-mail. There were also no cell phones, which meant no texting or communicating with friends via apps or even finding out how to get places with a single click. Knowing the weather was even hard to come by and usually required checking a newspaper or the local news channel. Despite all these disabilities kids managed to find each other and play ball.

There was one specific kid, among a sea of other kids, who enjoyed vanilla cones and swimming, but it was the third thing that kept him going. He lived, ate, and breathed baseball. If he wasn’t watching the Mets on WWOR channel 9 or making the pilgrimage to Shea stadium, the kid would be playing some version of the national pastime. The game required an opponent, bat, and ball. There was wiffleball, stickball, kickball, softball, and of course regular old baseball. It was played right in the middle of the street, on driveways, down alleys in schoolyards, and once in a while on an actual baseball field.

On this particular day, the Mets were due to play a home game versus the Houston Astros and the kid was set to play an away game of wiffleball across the street and down the block at a friend’s driveway. The Mets were not great at the time and one would question which of those two games would be more entertaining to watch. The kid was sporting his J.J. Walker “Dynomite!” tank top, while the Metropolitans wore pinstripes. Not normal garb to play ball in, the “Good Times” tank that is, but it assisted with staying cool and working the “Farmer’s tan”. 

In Flushing, the Mets were warming up with ace Jon Matlack on the hill. For a team that lost as many as they won or more, Matlack had 10 wins halfway through the season and a sub-three ERA. It was quite an accomplishment for a lineup that featured Bruce Boisclair batting third. The Mets actually managed to win the day before which was the first game of the three-game series. Matlack was having a Cy Young award-type season while closing in on the All-Star break. 

Just before the first pitch on an otherwise regular day, a local policeman had to make an odd choice. The Mets were taking the field in what would likely be a loss, and the cop needed to make a phone call. It was either to the local morgue or the volunteer ambulance company. You see the neighborhood’s biggest Met fan and arguably best wiffleball player for his age was lying in a mangled pool of blood halfway between his house and his own scheduled game. The simple query at hand was in regards to if he was still alive. The fact that there was debate about the phone call shadowed doubt on the question.

For those who haven’t computed what happened, the 70s was a time when a kid of any age, a week shy of turning seven in this case, was able to freely ride bikes around their hometown. There was no fear of abduction, getting lost or for any other reason not making it to your destination or back home for dinner. Kids played outside all day, and like the cows, knew when and how to get home. Those cell phones or GPS systems that were decades away from invention were not needed back in the day. Instinct seemed to work just as well without the monthly voice and data plan. This day would be an outlier for the kid, while the Mets were aiming to be the same. 

The street was silent until the crisp sound of a screech, bang, boom, and a drop. The kid was on his bike and hit by a speeding motorist. It was a push twenty feet up in the air upon contact, followed by a head-first dive onto that hot hard pavement.  A pretzel twisted leg with exposed broken bone was visible along with blood exiting multiple above the neck orifices where it’s not supposed to normally exit. Unlike the Mets, the kid was favored to win his wiffleball game that day. The way things were looking his next win on the diamond may have been in a heavenly league against Lou Gehrig in a white gown being cheered on by Shoeless Joe Jackson.

The Mets, on the other hand, were ironically having a better day. They did what they usually don’t which was to score a run in the first inning of their game. With Matlack on the hill, maybe that is all the offense the team would need.  The run came courtesy of a Dave Kingman hit. Also notable on this typical bad team was that Kingman had 31 HRs and 72 RBIs in mid-July. This was eons before the “Steroid” era of baseball. Kingman was a pure power hitter who rarely hit a close one. His homers were all bombs and he was the guy who was always a threat to hit the ceiling of a dome stadium or break a windshield if you were parked in the lot deep beyond the left-field fence at Shea. Dave’s at-bats were all or nothing, though he did manage a triple and five stolen bases at that point in the 76 season. That was quite a miracle within itself, but not the one everyone was rooting for that week.

Back in the other side of Queens, a decision was made and the kid was shipped off to the hospital. Despite that lack of social media, it was only hours until all his friends, family, opponents and neighbors knew the scoop. It turns out there was “Social media” back then, but it was analog, not digital. The kid would soon go under the knife and get patched up, though it would be three long days until it would be known if he had the strength, will, and physical ability to go on. He was unconscious still and it was unclear if the kid would ever find out the result of that day’s Met game, or the rest of the Astros series while he continued to peacefully nap at length in a coma. 

While residing in the communal intensive care unit, which was a large room with several other patients in similar situations, fate was tossing around possible outcomes. In the neighboring bed was an old guy named George, coincidentally the real first name of the Sultan of swat Babe Ruth – arguably the best dead guy to play the game. This George had suffered his third heart attack and was hooked up to multiple machines just to keep him artificially on earth. He was barely hanging on, but at least was alive long enough to see one or two of the locals make it to the World Series, probably multiple times. 

George whispered something into the on-call nurse’s ear, to which the nurse responded and then George gently nodded his head as if he understood. It was later uncovered that he had asked what had happened to the kid and how he was doing. The nurse told him the truth, which was not real positive news.  She told him that the kid might not see his seventh birthday, which was now only six days away, three less than when the ordeal with the Astros series began. Furthermore, the kid would likely never see his team having a winning season. Lastly, if he were to survive it was unclear if he would ever walk again, let alone smack a home run and round the bases. 

Within an hour something miraculous had happened. First, there was a bit of bad news. George had died. Despite the need for machines and the heart attack hat-trick, he was supposed to be OK. As a matter of fact, the nurses were prepping to downgrade him from the ICU to a regular room, with his next stop being sent home. It was sad, unforeseen, and uncanny all in one. The doctors made every attempt to keep him going, but destiny had gotten the better of them. 

Then, literally moments after George’s unexpected ending, the kid, just a few feet away, opened his eyes for the first time in over 72 hours.  It turns out he was going to make it and live to see many more Met losses and eventually a world title. Though it can’t be proven, it’s believed that George cashed in a favor and, in baseball terms, executed a sacrifice when up at-bat. He had asked to have his ticket to the stadium of eternity punched instead of the kids. Perhaps you need to be spiritual or one who believes in heavenly favors to buy it, but George may have spared the kid’s life while surrendering his, which is the definition of a sacrifice. 

A beat and battered Met's fan in the hospital with his baseball pajamas on.

Unfortunately, this is where the miracles ended, at least for that week.  Despite the early lead, he Met’s went on to lose the game that started way back when the kid was still whole and healthy. They also lost the “Rubber match” the next day while the kid lay in that bed practically dead as a doornail.  Ironically they shut out the Atlanta Braves on the day the kid was revived and came back to life. Do you believe in miracles? Well, one occurred on that day in 1976. The next one would be 10 years later when the kid’s favorite team would finally win a World Series.