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Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we brush the dust off the bubble gum cards, flip through the curling pages of old yearbooks, and rediscover the players who once made you pause mid potato knish and mutter, “Hold on… he was a Met, right?” We closed out 2025 by revisiting one of the strangest detours in Mets history, when Tom Seaver, Ron Swoboda, Ralph Kiner and Yogi Berra paid a visit to Sing Sing pri

Jorge Polanco’s introductory Mets press conference had everything you want from a winter Zoom: position flexibility, God references, family values, a nickname that sounds like a Springsteen cover band (“George Bonds”), and at least two moments where reporters couldn’t be heard, which officially makes it a New York press conference. Polanco arrived sounding like a man who had already unpacked his bags, memorized the Citi Field dimensions, and labeled his glove collection by po

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we brush the dust off the bubble gum cards, flip through the curling pages of old yearbooks, and rediscover the players who once made you pause mid potato knish and mutter, “Hold on… he was a Met, right?” Last week, we told the story of Randy “Moose” Milligan, a man whose Mets career could fit comfortably on a cocktail napkin but whose fingerprints somehow wound up al

Let’s be honest, Mets fans: if 2024 ended on the magical, delirious high of the “OMG Run,” and the following offseason delivered the jaw-dropping addition of Juan Soto, you would’ve thought the Mets were building toward a baseball utopia. Instead, the collapse of the 2025 offseason and the events of the past two days have felt more like waking up the next morning, looking around your house, only to realize someone took the TV, the couch, and half the kitchen appliances. The

Losing Edwin Díaz hurts. It hurts emotionally, spiritually, musically, and in that little spot right behind your left rib that starts throbbing every time the Mets lose a late-inning lead. And look, this is personal too, because I genuinely love Edwin. He was always accessible. He was a stand up guy. He never once ducked a camera, a microphone, or a tough question after a meltdown inning. In New York, that matters. In New York, that is gold. And on a personal note, celebratin

If you’ve read any of my stuff over the last three years, first of all thank you, and second of all my condolences. You already know I am dangerously prone to falling down Mets rabbit holes on the internet. One minute I’m innocently looking for a Gary Carter highlight to avoid doing something productive, and the next thing I know I’ve lost three hours, three 20 ounce bottles of Diet Pepsi, and any grip on the space-time continuum while watching pixelated footage of long-forgo

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we brush the dust off the bubble-gum cards, rummage through the old yearbooks, and rediscover the players who made you pause mid–potato knish and mutter, “Hold on… he was a Met, right?” Last week, we dove into the rarest of Mets species, the two-sport unicorn himself, DJ Dozier, NFL running back, major-leaguer, and a man who collected job titles the way the rest of us

The Mets’ newest second baseman, former Rangers star, Gold Glover, father of five, and now owner of the Most Spoken Words in a Zoom Call Since 2020, Marcus Semien met the New York media today for the first time. And if first impressions matter… well, Mets fans, start stretching now because this guy plays like he expects you to run out every grounder too. From the jump, Semien was vintage Semien: direct, thoughtful, polished, and sneakily funny in that “I’m a dad of five and

I’ve had the privilege of covering Brandon Nimmo for his entire Mets career, and let me tell you, the guy has been more gracious with his time than any ballplayer has a right to be. On-field interviews, appearances on my radio show, random chats in the dugout—Brandon always showed up with that trademark smile that made you wonder if he knew something wonderful about the world that the rest of us Mets fans didn’t. And it’s not just me; he’s exactly the kind of player an organi

If you’ve been a loyal reader of Kiner’s Korner over the years, you probably know I’m usually all in on most things the Mets do. I take a wait-and-see approach to most moves, rarely critical, because let’s face it anyone sitting in that chair at Citi Field making Major League hires has more baseball smarts in their pinky fingernail than I do in my entire body. That being said, this is one of the first moves in a long, long time that has me scratching my head. Time will tell,

Not hitting much lately? Grab a Snitker. You’re not you when you’re slumping and Mets fans know that better than anyone. After too many nights of runners stranded and warning-track fly balls, this lineup has been hungry for something or someone to finally satisfy. Enter Troy Snitker, the new Mets hitting coach, here to feed an offense that’s been living off empty calories. He’s not a candy bar, though his last name sounds like one. He’s a data-loving, launch-angle-tracking

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where the dust smells like pine tar and nostalgia, and where we occasionally stumble across treasures we thought we’d forgotten. Last week, we focused on Ron Herbel, a sturdy right-hander whose brief but reliable stint with the Mets in 1970 made him the kind of pitcher every team needs: steady, uncomplaining, and quietly effective. This week, we return to the 1960s, to a Me

Yesterday marked Keith Hernandez’s 72nd birthday ,and if that doesn’t make you feel old, consider this: when Keith sat down on David Brenner’s Nightlife on December 1, 1986, over 38 years ago it had only been 35 days since the Mets won the World Series. Just over a month removed from Mookie’s grounder rolling through Buckner’s legs, and New York was still floating somewhere between disbelief and euphoria. And there was Keith, the mustachioed captain of the newly crowned worl

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where the dust smells like pine tar and nostalgia, and where we occasionally find something we forgot we ever owned. Last week, we wandered off the basepaths entirely and into the barnyard, revisiting Homer the Beagle and Mettle the Mule , the two mascots who barked, brayed, and did their best to distract us from box scores that sometimes made you want to cover your eyes. T

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we dust off the bubble-gum...

Today was one of those raw, gray October mornings, the kind that makes you reach for an old Mets yearbook instead of the remote, because...

If you’ve been saving our first seven installments in plastic sleeves and alphabetizing them by subject, congratulations — you’re...

Every so often in the press box, between the stale pretzels and the postgame scorebook math that makes you question whether you really...

One of the crueler tricks of time is how quickly baseball players turn into alumni. One minute, they’re legging out doubles and tracking...

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we dust off the bubble-gum...