The inside cover—the very first page—of the 1983 Topps Baseball Sticker Album was dedicated to the game’s greatest sluggers. There were pages for the starting lineups of every Major League team, as well as layouts for All Stars, league leaders and record breakers. But page one—the home run kings—that was the page. If you squirreled away your lunch money and were steadfast in your pursuit, you might eventually fill all fourteen sticker spots—ten for the top active leaders and four for the Mount Rushmore of round trippers. Those top four places, perched high on the page and distinguished by gold foil and stars and stripes featured (in order) Hank, Babe, Willie and Frank. 755. 714. 660. 586. Those numbers. Those names. The gold foil. The red white and blue. In my entire life, nothing has inspired patriotic awe like the un-peeling and placement of those stickers on page one of my 1983 Topps sticker album.

Beneath the holy quartet was a who’s who of MVPs—Reggie, Schmitty, Yaz and the host of “The Baseball Bunch”—as well as a bunch of esteemed, if past prime, sluggers—Lee May, Tony Perez, Rusty Staub, Dave Kingman, Reggie Smith and Graig Nettles. All great hitters. Some first ballot Hall of Famers. And yet, all a step below the top row. None of those active stars would ever crack the top four. None would ever get their gold foil. And none—no matter how hard they tried or how successful they might be—would ever hit fifty home runs in a single season.

My eight year old brain could not understand a lot of things about life, but it understood that the door on fifty had been locked shut in 1965 when Willie Mays hit fifty-two. Before 1977, there had been sixteen seasons of fifty home runs or more, a feat accomplished by ten men, all of whom were in Cooperstown—except Hack Wilson who was inducted in 1979 and Roger Maris who didn’t need the plaque because he hit sixty-one. That fifty was a number from a bygone era seemed like settled law to a child who was born two months after Aaron passed the Babe and whose earliest memories included Reggie Jackson becoming Mr. October. Fifty wasn’t sixty, but also it wasn’t forty-nine—a number that Frank Robinson and Harmon Killebrew had reached. Or forty-eight, which Mike Schmidt, Willie Stargell and Dave Kingman could claim. Or forty-seven, where Hammerin’ Hank had topped out. No—fifty was another time and place—before the Astrodome and beyond the Kingdome. It was the stratosphere.

And yet, there he was. Sitting at number twelve on the list of active home run leaders in 1982, the man who’d just been traded from The Reds—where he was an MVP and World Series title winning champion—to The Mets—where he was an overpaid, underperforming albatross—was George Foster. George Foster who, between 1975 and 1981, had more RBIs than anyone in baseball. Who, during that span, had more home runs, a higher slugging percentage and a higher OPS+ than anyone in the game not named “Mike Schmidt.” And who, most importantly, had hit fifty-two home runs in 1977.

Fifty-two. How was that even possible? And how had George Foster, who in 1982 hit .247 with just thirteen home runs, been the man to do what Hank and Frank could not? I accepted that Foster was a great player. Maybe even whatever was one step above great. But I could not explain his 1977, wherein he led the league in home runs, RBIs, runs, total bases, slugging percentage and OPS and wherein he hit .320, good for fourth in the N.L. It had been twelve years since Willie Mays hit fifty-two and it would be another fourteen before Cecil Fielder swatted fifty-one. Between 1974 and 1976 zero players hit more than forty in a season. But then came George Foster in 1977, leaping past Schmitty and Kong and Mr. October and into the realm of gold foil.

It is not uncommon for a “Hall of Very Good” player to look like a Hall of Famer for a few years. Baseball is full of extraordinary three year runs. Bushels of impeccable four year runs. Even some five and six year flashes of greatness. But the number of players who’ve sustained Cooperstown-caliber stats for seven straight years without actually winding up in Cooperstown is much smaller than you’d think. Seven years is a long time—almost half a career. Which is why, in those rare cases—Wally Berger, Hal Trosky and Mo Vaughn come to mind—the arrested development can normally be explained by injuries, military service or poor self care. George Foster would fit in with that seven year class except he largely avoided injuries, did not serve in the military and took excellent care of himself. Regression is always to be expected, but Foster’s extreme and sustained post-Reds dropoff begs the question of context: to what extent was his greatness a byproduct of his environment?

If by environment, we mean the park that Foster played home games in, stats indicate that the answer is “very slightly, if at all.” Riverfront stadium was an above average park for hitters when Foster played there—a 101.7 park factor for runs and a 104.2 for home runs, neither of which would qualify as “career changing.” Its impact on Foster’s stats seems marginal at best. But if by environment we mean the team that he played for, the answer seems more obvious. During his epic seven year run, Foster suited with three Hall of Famers—Morgan, Perez and Bench—one would be Hall of Famer—Rose—and a couple other bonafide All Stars—Griffey and Concepcion. Many people have suggested that George Foster was a great “what if” story—what if he’d been given a chance to start earlier in his career? What if The Mets had any protection for Foster in their early Eighties lineups. On the other hand, Foster might also be one of the game’s great “what if not” stories—what would his career have looked like had he not played for The Big Red Machine?

In the six seasons before his 1975 breakout—from ages twenty to twenty-five—George Foster was a below average, part time major leaguer. In between AAA stints, he spent two and half seasons with The Giants platooning behind Willie Mays (obviously), Bobby Bonds (understandably), Jim Ray Hart (curiously) and Dave Kingman (questionably). When he arrived in Cincinnati during the late Spring of 1971, things were not much better. Pete Rose, Bobby Tolan, César Gerónimo and—eventually—Ken Griffey, stood in Foster’s way. In early 1975, however, Rose moved from Left Field to Third Base, making room for Foster, who’d not exactly played his way into the job but whose potential tilted the decision in his favor. Many people assume that it was Joe Morgan’s arrival, in 1972, that turned The Reds into The Machine. But, in truth, the event that most correlated to the team’s leap from division winner to World Champion was Foster’s promotion and ascent.

While he was less extroverted than Morgan and Bench, and more contained than Charlie Hustle, Foster’s on field performance was unmissable. Between 1976 and 1981, he finished second, first, sixth, twelfth and third in MVP voting. The one season he was off the ballot, he still posted a 131 OPS+ and slugged twenty-five homers to go along with ninety-three RBIs. Foster cut quite a figure in his Reds uniform. He was long, lean and powerful. His black stained Louisville Slugger was both a weapon and afashion statement, contrasting elegantly with his red and white pinstripes. And for many years—until Eddie Murray’s arrival in Baltimore—Foster’s sideburns were absolutely peerless. He wasn’t much of a talker. He didn’t drink or smoke. He wasn’t flashy—didn’t throw his body into walls or dive head first into third. But for those seven years, he was almost perfect.

And then—just like that—the bottom fell out. After his stellar 1981 campaign, Foster was traded to the lowly Mets, where he signed a five year contract worth roughly ten million dollars. But whereas in 1971 he had arrived to a team full of All Stars and future Hall of Famers, in 1982 Foster landed on a roster full of has beens, never would bes and Dave Kingman—a legendarily surly slugger and the most one dimensional player of his era. With no one on base and no protection in the order, Foster foundered mightily, posting two sub-sub-par seasons for awful teams. By 1984, the tide had begun to turn for the Mets, but it had much less to do with Foster—who’d worked his way back towards middling status—and everything to do with the arrival of Keith Hernandez, Darryl Strawberry and Dwight Gooden. Whereas Foster had been the X factor in Cincy, he was the odd man out in Queens. Fans resented his massive contract and underperformance. The press noted that he was chauffeured to the stadium in a limousine and that he ran a shady side hustle selling counterfeit Polo shirts to visiting players. Meanwhile, nobody could miss the gold-rimmed aviator shades and weighty gold necklace Foster wore to the plate. On baseball cards, he looked positively amazing. But, in real life, his conspicuous consumption was matched only by his on field mediocrity

While his ‘84 and ‘85 campaigns were serviceable, by ‘86—as The Mets started their historic season—Foster was a high priced complication. On a team bursting with young, hard-partying talent, he was too old, too square and too expensive. To Foster’s great consternation, Davey Johnson began platooning him with youngsters like Kevin Mitchell and Lenny Dykstra, as well as with veterans like Mookie Wilson and Danny Heep. And then, in late July, when Ray Knight and Eric Davis instigated a benches clearing brawl, Foster sat back in the dugout while his teammates got bloodied. Just a couple weeks later, when asked about his reduced role, the aging slugger suggested that race might be a factor in the decision. The New York press pounced and Mets’ management followed suit. Foster attempted to contain the damage, indicating that he did not think that Johnson’s moves were racially motivated and that his quote was taken out of context. But, it was too late. On April 7th, The Mets released Foster. Eight days later, he made his debut for the Chicago White Sox, going three for five, with a home run—the last of his MLB career. He gutted his way through fifteen lackluster games and received no offers to play the following year.

Though his New York departure seemed like it was years in the making, and though most retellings point to his suggestions of racism as the last straw, George Foster’s fate was in fact sealed on April 9th, 1986. That evening, following a victory in their season opener against the Pirates, Foster assembled eight of his teammates at Audio Innovators recording studio in Pittsburgh to record “Get Metsmerized!” The quickly buried, long lost rap single, inspired by the ‘85 Bears’ “Super Bowl Shuffle,” was as ill-considered as it was hard to pronounce (Metsmerized?). Foster, the instigator and de facto frontman, appeared to have no plan for the track. The beat sounds like the first thing Rick Rubin tried, and then quickly discarded, during his freshman year at NYU. And also, the beat is probably the best thing about the song (save for Rick Aguilera rhyming his last name with “terror”). “Get Metzmerized” sounds drunk (Darryl, Doc and Dykstra all appear) and unrehearsed.

Foster kicks things off:

I’m George Foster, I love this team

The Mets are better than the Red Machine

I live to play and that’s my thing

This year we’re gonna wear the series ring

When he passes the mic to Strawberry, the former Rookie of the Year and future ordained minister graciously responds:

Thank you George, you’re a classy guy

With you’re black bat we can rely

Ya know California’s where I’m from

But for New York, I hit home runs

Though prophetic of the team’s success, “Get Metsmerized!” failed to capture the imagination of fans or—even—teammates. By any reasonable standard, Foster had committed a musical sin—he’d executive produced an awful, embarrassing song. But, more so, he’d committed an athletic sin—he’d behaved like the captain on a team that already had an official captain (Keith Hernandez) in addition to at least two other, more talented, if less law abiding, unofficial captains (Doc and Dwight). Anyone who’s ever been on a team knows that leadership roles either have to be appointed or earned. When the wrong player, without legitimate power, attempts to rally the troops, the results can range from awkward to disastrous. George Foster had broken a cardinal rule of teamwork. His tenure in New York survived “Get Metsmerized’s,” but his rap mutiny was surely the inflection point. The Mets could stomach a past prime slugger hitting .227. But they could not tolerate an incompetent MC slash imposter captain.

Many years before his DOA rap career, George Foster was nicknamed “Yahtzee” for his fondness of the Milton Bradley dice game. Yahtzee is a game of luck—it requires zero skill beyond the ability to roll dice, read the rules and record scores. It’s a mindless game, one that any teammate could join in and that helps pass the time on long flights and rain delays. A “Yahtzee”—which occurs when all five dice land on the same number—is a rare event, much rarer than a home run in baseball and requiring none of the skill. And yet, the nickname is a perfect summation of the “Foster Conundrum.” Were those fifty-two home runs a matter of great fortune—of hitting in that particular lineup? Were those seven seasons a matter of significant talent but once in a lifetime fortune? Or was the rest of his career a matter of misfortune—of limited opportunity and mediocre surrounding talent? Was George Foster a great what if question or an even better what if not answer? Forty-seven years after his MVP season and forty two years after I completed my Topps sticker book, I still want to know.

by Matty Wishnow