Last week, in Forgotten Faces of Flushing, we turned the clock back and remembered Masato Yoshii. And if you read that column and thought, “Wow, I completely forgot about Masato Yoshii,”then congratulations. You understood the assignment. Because that's really what this series is about. Not necessarily the greatest Mets. Not necessarily the most famous Mets. Just the guys who once wore the orange and blue, contributed something to the franchise, and somehow got pushed into th

Last week, we went back into the Mets' memory bank and pulled out Gene Clines—one of those players who spent just enough time in Flushing to become part of Mets history, but not quite enough to become part of Mets trivia night. And that's really the fun of Forgotten Faces of Flushing. The stars are easy to remember. It's the guys who were here for a year or two, played 100 games, won 10 games, hit a few big home runs—or simply wore the uniform—that tend to disappear into the

Last week, we took a trip back to 1975 and remembered Randy Tate, the young Mets pitcher who came within five outs of throwing a no-hitter at Shea Stadium. Instead, he lost the game. The next day, Yogi Berra lost his job. Because, well...Mets history. This week, we're sticking with the 1970s, but we're going in a slightly different direction. Our forgotten face is a player who arrived in New York with something Randy Tate never got to experience as a Met: a World Series ring.

Last week, we remembered Joe Ginsberg, the first Jewish player to wear a Mets uniform. Ginsberg's Mets career lasted exactly two games, but one of them happened to be the first home opener in franchise history. Sometimes you don't need a long Mets career to leave a permanent footprint. This week, we're going back to 1975 and a pitcher who came considerably closer to becoming a Mets legend. His name was Randy Tate. And if you're wondering why you've never heard of him, that's

Last week, we looked back at Tyler Naquin, a player whose brief Mets career gave us another reminder of one of baseball's favorite traditions: convincing ourselves that every trade deadline acquisition is about to become the next great Met. You may have noticed there wasn't any writing coming from me on the Korner this week. That's because I was in Kansas City managing my U17 baseball team at the Maccabi Games. And we came home with our third straight gold medal. So, needless

Last week, we looked back at Dyar Miller, the pitcher who refused to let baseball tell him his dream was over. Released as a catcher, he reinvented himself on the mound, spent seven seasons in the major leagues, and remained in professional baseball for decades afterward. His story reminded us that perseverance can sometimes be as valuable as talent. This week, we're moving from perseverance...to optimism. More specifically, trade deadline optimism. If you're a Mets fan, you

Last week, we wrapped up our little tour through the Mets' unexpected parade of interim managers with Mike Cubbage, the quiet baseball lifer who walked into Shea Stadium expecting to coach third base and instead walked out managing the New York Mets for the final week of the 1991 season. It was a fun detour through a forgotten corner of Mets history. This week, we're shifting back to what this series has always celebrated best—those players whose names make longtime Mets fans

Last week, we looked back at Frank Howard, the towering slugger who somehow made every bat look like a toothpick. If "Hondo" was baseball's version of Paul Bunyan, this week's Forgotten Face is almost his opposite—a man who never sought the spotlight but found himself standing directly under it. Meet Mike Cubbage. Let's be honest. When Mets fans think about managers, names like Gil Hodges, Davey Johnson, Bobby Valentine, and Terry Collins usually come to mind. Mike Cubbage? H

Last week in Sunday School, we continued our month-long look at one of baseball’s strangest job descriptions… Interim Manager. The man with the clipboard but no guarantee. The guy asked to steer the ship after someone else has already hit the iceberg. We first met Salty Parker, the original Mets emergency captain, who briefly grabbed the wheel during the franchise’s inaugural season. Then came Roy McMillan, the former “Mr. Shortstop” who went from Yogi Berra’s trusted coach t

Last week in Sunday School, we began our month-long look at one of baseball's most unusual job titles... Interim Manager. We started with Salty Parker, the first man ever asked to temporarily steer the Mets ship. This week, we move ahead eight years to the second. Roy McMillan. Unlike Salty, McMillan wasn't just another baseball lifer passing through Queens. Mets fans knew him first as a veteran infielder, then as one of Yogi Berra's most trusted coaches. Then, almost overnig

Last week in Sunday School, we wandered away from forgotten players altogether. Instead of forgotten faces... We remembered a forgotten piece of baseball theater. The bullpen cart. A giant rolling baseball that somehow made perfect sense in an era when baseball wasn't afraid to have a little fun. Which got me thinking. Sometimes you know exactly what this week's Forgotten Faces of Flushing will be. Sometimes an anniversary jumps off the calendar. Sometimes an old baseball car

Last week in Sunday School, we took a slight detour. Or perhaps more accurately, a detour around the outside of Shea Stadium. Instead of forgotten players, we talked about forgotten facades. The giant orange and blue squares. The wind. The ramps. And the strange truth that sometimes the things we remember most about being Mets fans aren't players at all. Sometimes they're pieces of a ballpark. Which brings us to this week. Because if last Sunday was about the outside of Shea…

Last week in Sunday School, we talked about Tim Tebow. The football superstar who spent five years chasing a baseball dream that never quite felt real—but somehow never felt impossible either. Because baseball has always had room for the unusual. Strange players. Strange moments. Strange experiments. And sometimes… Strange architecture . Because every once in a while, the things we remember most about being Mets fans aren’t the players at all. Sometimes it’s Bob Murphy’s voic

Last week in Sunday School, we talked about Andrés Galarraga. The Big Cat. A beloved baseball survivor who arrived in Port St. Lucie carrying one last dream, one home run short of 400, hoping baseball might grant him one final miracle before the curtain closed. For a few weeks, Mets fans bought into the possibility. Honestly, how could you not? Spring Training is where baseball manufactures hope by the gallon. Every radar gun reading becomes a prophecy. Every batting practice

Last week in Sunday School, we talked about Dae-Sung Koo and the beautiful insanity that makes baseball the only sport where a middle-aged relief pitcher can accidentally become Babe Ruth, Bo Jackson, and Evel Knievel all in the same inning. One swing. One headfirst slide. One Shea Stadium crowd screaming “KOOOOOOOOOO!” loud enough to register on nearby seismographs and probably wake up people waiting on line at Nathan’s in Coney Island. It was the kind of baseball story Mets

Last week in Forgotten Faces of Flushing, we talked about Grant Roberts and how quickly baseball can take things away. A live arm. A promising future. A career that looked like it was just beginning until shoulders, headlines, and bad timing stepped in like a seventh-inning rain delay nobody asked for. This week is different. Because sometimes baseball gives you one perfect afternoon instead. One ridiculous, impossible, beautiful baseball memory that somehow lasts longer than

Last week in Forgotten Faces of Flushing, we took a detour. No player. No box score. No forgotten middle reliever who once wore #47 for six weeks and later sold insurance in Tampa. Just the escalator at Shea Stadium — that sacred conveyor belt to baseball heaven, where scorecards, tiny pencils, and childhood joy all waited at the top. Funny thing about memory: you never know what opens the door. Sometimes it’s an old scorecard. Sometimes it’s the smell of a stadium concourse

Last week in Forgotten Faces of Flushing, we talked about Derek Bell, a man who once famously said baseball “is a business” and somehow managed to make Mets fans simultaneously laugh, groan, and reach for antacids. This week’s Forgotten Face isn’t a face at all. It’s a place. And for me, beginning sometime around 1968, it was sacred ground. Long before the first pitch. Long before I understood batting averages, earned run averages, or why my father occasionally yelled things

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly wander through the Mets attic, where last week we bumped into Rick Anderson, a man who waited nearly a decade for his shot… and made the most of every second once the door finally cracked open. This week, we stay in that same neighborhood of “brief but memorable,” but instead of quiet persistence, we turn to something a little louder… a little flashier… and, because this is Mets history, just a little bit

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly wander through the Mets attic where the air is a little musty, the cardboard baseball cards are slightly curled, and every so often you find a story that makes you stop mid-sip of coffee and say, “Wait… that actually happened?” Last week we spent time with Vern Hoscheit, one of the true behind-the-scenes faces of the 1986 Mets, a man who collected World Series rings the way some people collect airline mile