The catcher’s autobiography reveals the demons that haunted him.
Note: This article deals with drug abuse and suicide. If you or someone you know is struggling with drug or alcohol addiction, please reach out for help. You’re not alone and it’s never too late. Pick up the phone and call the National Drug Helpline at 844-289-0879 or the 24/7 National Drug Addiction Hotline at 855-970-1593.
The Royals came into existence during my eighth summer. I became a fan immediately and gravitated towards several Royal players once I started playing baseball. The first was Steve Busby, who was a phenomenal pitcher (no-hitters in his first two seasons). Next came Kurt Bevacqua, a scrappy middle infielder who always seemed to have a dirty uniform. Plus, Kurt looked like he was having fun. Dirty Kurt was eventually traded to the Pirates, which opened the door for George Brett.
During that era, there was one other Royal who captivated my attention. A hard-charging, gung-ho catcher named Darrell Porter. Porter only played for the Royals for four seasons, but they were memorable seasons. The beginning of the end for Porter came in spring training 1980 when he abruptly left the club and checked into an alcohol and drug rehab facility in Wickenburg, Arizona. When that happened, 45 years ago, it was almost unheard of, and no one really knew what to make of it.
Recently I read Porter’s autobiography Snap Me Perfect, which came out in January of 1984. I’ve written about the life and times of Porter before but had no idea of the depth of his personal problems and what caused him to go so far off the rails.
The book is a quick read, only 259 pages, but not an easy read. Porter did a terrific job of narrating the downward spiral that his life took and the struggles he and his family and friends endured. Porter wrote in a way that makes the reader feel like he too is along for the ride, especially if you lived through that time.
Drug use was a problem in the 1970s and ’80s. It seemed that everyone under the age of 40 was using something in those days – marijuana and speed for the lower classes, cocaine and quaaludes for the people with more discretionary income. Professional athletes were not immune. The NBA had a very serious drug problem, one that threatened the existence of the association. Baseball had a huge problem that broke open with the arrest of four members of the Royals in 1983 and culminated in the Pittsburgh drug trials in 1985.
The final bang on the gong occurred on June 20 1986, with the news that Len Bias, the second selection in the NBA draft just days early, had suffered a fatal cocaine-induced heart attack. Porter’s admission that he had a drug problem was the first crack in the public’s perception of drug use by professional athletes. Comedian Robin Williams famously said that cocaine was God’s way of telling you that you had too much money. That was probably true in the 1970s and ‘80s. In the 2020s, it seems God’s way of telling you that you have too much money is when you buy an RV. Times change.
I’ve read that when an airplane crashes, it’s rarely just one thing that brings the plane down, it’s usually three or four events, that happen almost simultaneously, that overwhelm the pilot and crew. Reading Porter’s book, I realize that his descent into drug hell was not caused by one single thing, but by an accumulation of events. An overbearing father. A desire to please everyone. A sheltered childhood. The inability to handle pressure and temporary failure. First it was just alcohol, mostly beer. That opened the door to marijuana and other drugs, specifically cocaine and quaaludes. Those drugs became the crutch that Porter leaned on to deal with his insecurities.
The Royals, to their credit, gave Porter the initial support he needed to tackle his drug problem. John Schuerholz especially was a standup guy in this drama. The Royals also played on both sides of the coin. When Porter’s contract expired after the 1980 World Series, the Royals played it coy, telling the media that they would like to resign Porter, but made no effort to do so. Porter wanted to stay in Kansas City. He and his wife owned a home here and felt comfortable in the community. When General Manager Joe Burke refused to offer a contract, Porter reunited with former Royals manager Whitey Herzog in St. Louis. Whitey had always been a big believer in Darrell Porter.
For the 1981 season, the Royals went with John Wathan, Jamie Quirk, Jerry Grote, and Greg Keatley behind the plate. The position was a negative WAR group for the 1981 Royals. Porter had a down year by his standards but still outperformed the Kansas City group. It took Porter nearly two seasons to win over the “Best Fans in Baseball”. In 1982, he enjoyed a post-season for the ages, while winning the MVP of both the National League Championship Series and the World Series.
With the passage of time, it’s easy to forget how good Porter was in Kansas City. He was a four-time All-Star and in 1979 put together one of the best offensive seasons by any Royals player, ever. He finished that year with 7.6 WAR which was good for a ninth place showing in the MVP race. There were only two players in the American League that summer who were better than Porter: Fred Lynn of the Red Sox and George Brett. The ninth place MVP finish was a bit of a slap in the face and Porter knew it.
In the book, Porter bares his soul on his inability to handle the pressure to perform and the unrealistic expectations he put upon himself to be the very best. To be perfect. Of course, all of us know that perfection is impossible. I think Bill Snyder had the best advice – just get a little bit better every day.
Hard as he tried, Darrell Porter eventually lost his battle to drugs. On August 2, 2002, Porter stopped at a convenience store to get a newspaper. He then drove to La Benite Park, on the Missouri River, north of Independence. He drove over a tree stump, high-centering his car. It was a humid day with the temperature at 97 degrees. You know what August in Kansas City is like. If not, listen to how Ichiro describes it.
Porter tried to dislodge his car and, unable to do so, walked to the river. He dipped his left leg into the water, then walked back to his car. He collapsed and was later discovered by a passerby. The coroner’s report said Porter had perished to “the toxic effects of cocaine which caused a state of excited delirium”.
Somehow, some way, in those short hours, he had relapsed. The news hit me like a slug hitting a deer. It shocked the baseball world, especially in Kansas City and St. Louis, where Porter was still a beloved figure. Darrell Porter was only fifty years old.