My brush with greatness with the Goffs
For years, months and especially this Super Bowl week, I
have read and seen countless stories about all of Jared Goff’s accomplishments.
Now it’s time for my Jared Goff story. I saw him in his
first house before he learned to crawl, much less walk. I suspect I was among
dozens privileged to first see Jared. I would imagine billions have seen him
since.
The story begins with his father, Jerry, who I love, admire
and greatly respect. I was sports columnist for the Marin Independent Journal
and was covering Jerry’s brief, yet unforgettable, major league baseball
career. A San Rafael High School star, Jerry was drafted three times – first by
the Oakland A’s in 1983 as a third baseman from College of Marin then in 1984 by
the New York Yankees before deciding instead to play at Cal. In 1986, two
months before I moved from Rockford, Illinois to Novato, California, Jerry was
drafted again – as a catcher -- by the Seattle Mariners. Little known fact: He
was drafted in the third round ahead of a fourth-round pick named Bo Jackson, a
football player at Auburn.
Jerry ultimately was traded to the Montreal Expos and signed
as a free agent with the Pittsburgh Pirates. He was between his first and
second year with the Pirates when I interviewed him at his home. He and his
wife, Nancy, had recently moved into and renovated his parent’s old house in
San Rafael, just west of Highway 101.
Jared was about three months old and lying on the living
room floor. Who knew then that he would one day become the No. 1 pick overall in
the NFL Draft and lead his team to the Super Bowl.
When Jared was the No. 1 pick three years ago I received a
phone call from a friend and former Marin IJ colleague Jarrett Bell from USA
Today. Jarrett knew Jared was from Marin County and asked if I knew anyone locally
he could interview about Jared. I put him in touch with Goff longtime family
friends, Keith and Susan Conroy, who used to live in my neighborhood before
moving to Novato, and, of course, I encouraged Jarrett to contact Jerry. I told
Jarrett I had done several stories on Jerry and then told him the best one.
Jerry owns a Major League Baseball record. One few remember
and I’m sure Jerry would like to forget. However, it is symbolic of the resolve,
character, and class that Jerry obviously passed onto his son.
Jerry was a back-up catcher for the Houston Astros in 1996.
He was behind the plate for the final game of a series against the Montreal
Expos in Olympic Stadium on a Sunday afternoon when he tied a MLB record for
most passed balls in a game – six – and none of the Astros’ pitchers were
knuckleballers. Jerry simply had a bad day, as did the game’s official scorer in
the press box who probably should have ruled wild pitches on two of the passed
balls.
It didn’t seem to matter that Jerry went 2-for-4 with two
RBIs in the game and hit a home run in the second inning to deep
left-centerfield.
The Astros flew to Chicago where the next day Jerry was in
the bullpen in Wrigley Field down the right field line. Knowledgeable Cubs fans
were giving it to him, razzing him. They were shouting PB and they didn’t mean
Pass the Beer.
That night, after the game, Jerry hooked up with some of his
buddies from San Rafael who had flown into Chicago to see him. Jerry just
wanted to get out, have some fun, relax and, most of all, put all the
embarrassment and insults from the previous 24 hours behind him, like too many
Astros pitches the day before.
They went to a bar and Jerry relished the anonymity among
friends. He was drinking beer and forgetting that he possessed a dubious MLB
record. He then excused himself to go to the men’s room. He was standing in
front of a urinal when one of his friends next to him suddenly begged him,
`Don’t look up.’ Naturally Jerry looked up. Right in front of him, above the
urinal, was the front page of the sports section of that morning’s newspaper
with a big, bold headline that began “Goff’s gaffes …”
It’s a good thing Jerry didn’t take aim at the sports page.
He wasn’t really pissed.
Jerry recounted that story to me by phone the very next day
when I tracked him down at the Astros’ team hotel in Chicago. He didn’t have to
take my call, but he did. He didn’t have to take a call from ESPN Radio the day
before, but he did. Jerry was not one to hide. He handled adversity with
aplomb.
“Unfortunately I'm going to be remembered forever about
this, but it's not something I'm going to let live with me,” Jerry told me. “It's
not like I lost a family member. It's not the end of the world.”
Four days later, the Astros demoted him. Jerry never played
in another major league game though he is one of few major leaguers to hit a
home run in his last one.
Fortunately, some 22 years later, Jerry is now being
remembered again for all the right reasons. He is a fireman in California where
so many are needed and the father of a Super Bowl quarterback who possesses the
same character as his dad.
It’s not the end of the world indeed.