CDIH

Quote:"The Mets were animals," adds Day. "They were worse than Philly, and that's when the Phillies had Greg Luzinski and Larry Bowa. But the Mets were the worst. They had some real dickheads."

Women and dickheads. They filed off the bus together -- a few composed, most in advanced states of inebriation -- and onto the airplane. Welcome to hell.

Because the Mets' playoff traveling party was too large for Ozark's DC-9s, the team hired a United DC-10 for the trip. It was New York's first dealings with the airline, and United's executive staff hoped it would be the beginning of a long relationship.

As everyone boarded, flight attendants distributed glasses of champagne to the already buzzed clientele. Some players -- Hearn, Knight -- politely took one. Others -- Sisk, Orosco, Heep -- grabbed two or three or four. Or ten.

Sisk, Orosco, and Heep. They were the Three Musketeers of the Mets, only this trio was as dashing as a scrum of street rats. Their collective nickname was the "Scum Bunch," and it fit perfectly. The "Scummers" took pride in antics that made Porky's look like a documentary on convent life. By day they were mild-mannered baseball players. But by night, watch out. The Scum Bunch ran the back of the plane on team flights, holding drink-a-thons and sometimes, as a result, puke-a-thons. And now the wives were here, equally indulgent but unfamiliar with the effects of getting wasted thirty-five thousand feet above ground.

After takeoff the boozing reached epic levels. The champagne was followed by beer, beer, and more beer. Almost everybody -- even Carter -- partook. (He had only one.) On this night the Scum Bunch were magnets, drawing people to the rear of the aircraft. "It was the loudest flight I've ever been on," says Michael Ruffino, one of the team's batboys. "It was sheer craziness."

"It was the one time when everybody -- and I mean everybody -- was drinking," says Wally Backman, the team's second baseman. "It was all-out partying."

For the first hour the all-out partying was little more than drinking and yelling. But then, the United crew committed the ultimate mid-celebration error: They served cake. It was the kind you see at childhood birthday parties -- spongy yellow with chocolate icing on top. The flight attendants distributed a piece to every person on the flight. Ruffino remembers sitting in his seat and biting into his piece when -- Whoooosh! Splat!

What the?

Whoooosh! Splat!

What the hell?

Whoooosh! Splat!

What the hell is that?

Whoooosh! Splat!

It was cake. Lots of cake. It started with Jane Heep, who chucked a piece at her husband. Suddenly -- Whoooosh! Splat! -- pieces of cake were -- Whoooosh! Splat! -- everywhere. On the backs of seats. On the fronts of suits. In hair. Covering eyes. Brown icing was all over the carpet. Brown icing on the ceiling. Soon it was a free-for-all. Bottles of champagne rolled down the aisle. Peas were smooshed up and used as shampoo. "Tore up that plane like Bay Bay's Kids," says Kevin Mitchell. "I couldn't believe the things I saw going on."

More and more alcohol made its way from United's refrigerators to passengers' throats. When the beer ran out, the airline distributed small bottles of hard liquor. To a man the players insist that this was where the real trouble began. The wives were able to handle champagne and beer, but not the strong stuff, especially combined with the altitude and the food. Who was the first to throw up? Eighteen years later it's hard to say. One thing is certain: At least three wives did so, and none seemed to feel that the toilet or a barf bag would serve them any better than the seat pocket.

Meanwhile, a couple of players -- demonstrating the '86 Mets trademark intellectual curiosity -- decided to see if with some jiggling the seats could unfold into a couch. Strawberry, for one, pushed and pushed until -- crack! -- the seat folded down.

"It was like watching Animal House with John Belushi having the food fight in the cafeteria," says Vinny Greco. "You were just ducking from stuff the whole time. It got to a point where even I was like, 'Whoa, what the hell is going on here? What are we doing to this plane?' "

In his autobiography, Heat, Gooden recalls his most vivid image of the flight. "At one point the partying was so out of control, the lavatory door accidentally flew open and there was one of my teammates, his face in front of lines of cocaine," he writes. "I wasn't shocked that he was using. I was shocked that he was so high, he didn't even realize the door was open."

Meanwhile, the airplane was a disaster area. Upon landing, two or three wives had to be carried off the jet. Others weren't quite sure of their whereabouts. Half the team exited wearing T-shirts and ties. Sisk wore one shoe. Fans who had waited for hours at Kennedy Airport to greet the team were shocked at what they saw. "To have the wives in their snazzy North Beach Leather outfits, covered in vomit, it didn't make for a pretty picture," says Mets pitcher Ron Darling. "And the guys were coming off in various forms of disarray of dress. We were gross."

* * *

The plane was even grosser. A few days after the flight, Cashen received a bill from United for $7,500, along with a note saying that the Mets' business was no longer welcome. Besides the innards of the craft being layered in food, three rows of broken seats had to be completely removed. Cashen was furious -- at his players for turning a DC-10 into a toilet; at his manager, Davey Johnson, for displaying the disciplinary skills of a fig; and at himself for allowing the wives to fly.

He called Johnson into his office and, after a good bout of back-and-forth screaming, insisted the manager tell his players that they would be financially responsible for the damages.

That afternoon Richman, the travel secretary, held a closed-door meeting with the team. In front of the disbelieving players, Richman let them know that Cashen was livid, that the New York Mets were a first-class operation and would not stand for this and blah, blah, blah.

Once he left the room, Johnson spoke. This was one of his shining moments as Mets manager.

"Guys," he began, "do you realize how much damage we did on the plane? I mean, does anybody in here have anything to say? Does anybody in here feel guilty?" Johnson was pacing back and forth, a copy of the United bill rolled up in his hand. The players were awkwardly staring at the ground, quiet and motionless. "Men, what are we going to do about this? What should we do?"

There was silence.

"Well," said Johnson, "do you know what I think? I think in the next four games you'll probably put enough money in these guys' pockets to cover this. So fuck this bullshit!"

With that, Johnson ripped the bill in half, crumpled it up, and threw it into a nearby garbage can. The room exploded with comments.

YEAH! FUCK THEM!

FUCKIN' A--!

MOTHERFUCKERS!

The Mets were heading to the World Series.