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Richard Botto, Editor in Chief / CEO of RAZOR Magazine, has created the definitive men's magazine which features the best in men's fashion, travel, sports, autos, celebrities, technology, humor, fiction, fitness and more.
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 WRITINGS:
RICHARD BOTTO
Back to Writings Main Menu
March 2005
The Sound and the Fury
On October 26, 1986,
I sat rapt as a 24-year-old Darryl Strawberry launched an Al Nipper
fastball into the autumn sky of Flushing Meadows, Queens. When it landed
on the other side of the Shea Stadium wall, the New York Mets had all
but wrapped up their first World Series since 1969. It was probably
the only night in baseball history where Yankees and Red Sox fans cried
in symphony. Especially disheartening to Yankee fans, Strawberry and
the Mets owned the town and man, did they hate "Straw" and
the team he played for.
But back to that night. Hours later, outside the players' parking lot,
hundreds of crazed devotees waited for the guys to come out. Strawberry
emerged, sour faced, driving a gold Mercedes, his wife by his side.
One overzealous (read: completely inebriated) Mets supporter, not able
to actually give Strawberry a celebratory champagne shower on his head,
decided to do the next best thing and douse the windshield. In an instant,
Strawberry slammed on the brakes and bolted from the car to give chase,
leaving his side door open and his wife exposed to the drunken, touchy-feely
crowd. It was a harbinger of things to come… the ignorance, the
selfishness, the immaturity.
But still later that evening and into the next morning, we partied outside
of Shea and dared to dream of what was to come. We, the loyal Mets faithful,
finally had our own homegrown superstar - a guy that was going to take
out seemingly insurmountable hitting records while leading us to World
Series appearance after World Series appearance. After all, this guy
was five or six years away from his prime and he was already a man amongst
boys. Or so we thought. In reality, it was the other way around.
Within a couple of years substance abuse rumors began to surface. In
early 1990, Strawberry was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon
during an argument with his wife, a violent side seen previously when
he punched teammate Keith Hernandez during a team photo session. A week
later he famously entered the Smithers Center for alcohol rehabilitation.
The star wasn't falling, it was disintegrating. There would be no more
World Series appearances as a Met, no destruction of records and seemingly
no hope for a resurrection of any kind. Yankees fans had a field day.
There was a small outpouring of support for Strawberry. Here was a guy
who clearly had
an addiction problem, but many thought it was a cover-up for his other
transgressions. Regardless, the honeymoon was over. But the thing I
remember most from that time was something a good friend of mine said
to me when the Mets' ownership had finally had enough of Strawberry
and sent him packing for Los Angeles. "He fucked us," he said
with venom. "The son of a bitch fucked us." Us… not himself…
us. I'll never forget that. It didn't matter what Strawberry did outside
the lines, it only mattered what he did between them.
And as fate would have it, I would be reminded of this in the cruelest
fashion 10 years after that amazing night at Shea Stadium when Strawberry
hit three postseason home runs to help lead the Yankees to their first
World Series win in 18 years. The same people who unmercifully jeered
him during his Mets tenure embraced their newest winner. The same winner
who had been indicted on federal tax evasion charges, suspended from
baseball for cocaine use and who had been charged with failure to make
child support payments all within the previous 24 months. As I watched
the throng at Yankee Stadium shower Strawberry with superficial love,
I could think only one thing. What a bunch of hypocrites. Then I thought
of another thing… he fucked us.
And at that moment, I realized that I'm a hypocrite too. And if you're
a sports fan, so are you.Don't believe me? Award-winning sports writer
Mike Lupica illustrates the point
further on page 56 in his first appearance for RAZOR.
Five years ago,
if you mentioned the word blog to someone they would probably think
you had some sort of gastric malady. These days, not only have most
heard of blogs, but many have them. And pretty awful ones at that. If
in matters of love, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, in the blogging
world hell hath no fury than an aspiring writer with a closet full of
rejection letters.
The worst blogs regurgitate legitimate news adding sarcasm and loathing.
They attack instead of inform or entertain. The best, and they are few
and far between, read like op-ed pieces without the stodginess. They
have an original voice, a fresh opinion and, in the best of cases, an
outstanding scribe at the keyboard.
I have always been impressed by The Corsair written daily by Ron Mwangaguhunga.
Not only is Ron's style unique, but he is probably one of the most informed
and fact-detailed people writing on the web. In a medium whose participants
see themselves as renegades, anti-journalists who believe that boundaries
are only for guys with filing deadlines, Ron is one of the few people
blogging who cares about integrity.
After months of reading The Corsair online, I am honored to announce
that it will now be in print every month between the covers of RAZOR.
This month, Ron takes a look at the majestic waves of fortune and misfortune
that have washed over the life of Mike Tyson.
For a daily dose of Ron, visit The Corsair at http://ronmwangaguhunga.blogspot.com/
Enjoy the issue.
RICHARD J. BOTTO
Editor in Chief, CEO
www.razormagazine.com
As always, we welcome your comments via e-mail to
letters@razormagazine.com
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