Poor Darryl Strawberry. He messed up his 1,000th chance at becoming a normal, law-abiding, drug-free citizen. Somewhere in the corridors of Zephyrhills Correctional Institution in Florida, his gold-plated cell, equipped with a flat-screen t.v., king-sized bed, a year’s worth of
Poor Darryl Strawberry.
He messed up his 1,000th chance at becoming a normal, law-abiding, drug-free citizen.
Somewhere in the corridors of Zephyrhills Correctional Institution in Florida, his gold-plated cell, equipped with a flat-screen t.v., king-sized bed, a year’s worth of “High Times” magazine and a 400-page book entitled “How to be a role model,” cries for sympathy and one more chance.
At least this time he agreed he should serve the 18 months for his recent probation infractions. Now he can still plan for that long-awaited game of chess with actor Robert Downey Jr.
If I hear another “Poor Darryl,” I think I’m going to lose it. “He has a sickness. He can’t help it. He’s trying.”
Hogwash.
So was Harry the Drunk and Crack-Pot Joe, but no one cares if they’re knawing off their fingernails at San Quentin Penitentiary, wondering if the judge will give them 15 more chances.
Strawberry doesn’t belong in a drug-treatment facility, he belongs on the front-page of every metropolitan newspaper across America, dressed in an orange jump-suit with a large headline that reads “I’m a loser, kids, don’t be like me.”
But until that happens, what do we tell our children? “It’s O.K. to be a drug addict, just make sure you’re famous and you hit a bunch of home-runs.” The more we sympathize with Darryl Strawberry, the more we tell our youth, “Don’t do drugs, but if you do, that’s fine, the courts will give several chances.”
Greg Maris begs to differ. He graduated from Hudson University with honors, was a staple on their top-ranked NCAA soccer team and played mentor in the local neighborhoods “Big Brother” program. But he was caught with a few pills of ecstasy, some pot and a bunch of cocaine at a college bar two years ago and is spending his first years out of college in a prison in upstate New York.
No one is knocking on the prison guard’s door to say “But, it’s a disease,” on Maris’ behalf. Of course, he couldn’t swing the bat quite like Darryl.
And since when did drug addiction become an unavoidable disease? Is it fair to attribute a junkie’s self-induced problem to that of a cancer-stricken patient trapped in the cell of terminal illness? Can we even try to compare the guy who sells an autographed baseball for cigarettes to the guy who spends his post-chemotherapy visits suspended to a hospital bed, sick to his stomach?
I don’t buy it. All I know is the guy who made millions, had millions of fans, and messed up a million times should have little sympathy compared to the guy who battled life’s true diseases. That’s the same guy who is too sick to work, buried in hospital bills, and in deep depression but still gets up out of bed each day with the hope he will live to see another.
No one gave him a second chance.
Darryl Strawberry’s infractions shouldn’t evoke sympathy. We shouldn’t call his drug-addiction a disease and we shouldn’t give him anymore chances.
But we should use him as an example: Even with fame, with talent, with greatness, charisma, and one of the most attractive swings in baseball, this man was ruined by drugs.
Not even the great Darryl Strawberry is immune to consequences.
