Bleach, Firecrackers, and a Candy Contest: Just Another Day at Shea in 1993

Ah, the summer of 1993. "Jurassic Park" was ruling the box office,Whitney Houston was ruling the airwaves, and the New York Mets—God bless ’em—were doing everything in their power to ensure that if there was intelligent life on other planets, it would never, ever want to come watch baseball at Shea Stadium.

Yesterday marked the 32nd anniversary of one of the most surreal press conferences in Mets history, which, let’s be honest, is saying something. On July 27, 1993, the Mets found themselves once again apologizing for behavior that belonged more in an episode of Cops than on a baseball diamond. A bleach bombshell, yes, literally bleach was the latest entry in what felt like a season-long audition for “America’s Most Dysfunctional Clubhouse.” A reporter claimed a Mets player doused him during postgame interviews, prompting an emergency press conference, a wave of half-hearted apologies, and a Players’ Union intervention that probably should’ve come with hazmat suits and a therapist.

Since we’re 13 weeks away from spotlighting the 1993 Mets in our Saturday Seasons series, we figured now was as good a time as any to revisit that infamous summer day in a season where the hits came less from the bats and more from the back pages.

Here’s a brief timeline of the unraveling:

It all began in October 1992, when the Mets hired Jeff Torborg to clean up a messy clubhouse. Instead, things got messier. By December, they had assembled a star-studded (and combustible) roster with Bobby Bonilla , Eddie Murray, and Bret Saberhagen—big names on paper, which unfortunately turned out to be flammable. The season started in April, and hope lasted about six innings. By May, Vince Coleman was clashing with Torborg in the dugout, Dwight Gooden was suspended after a nightclub incident, and Torborg was fired. In came Dallas Green, who promised to restore order. He did not. In June, Saberhagen set off a firecracker in the clubhouse, Bonilla threatened a reporter, and the media circus officially pitched its tent. Then came July—Coleman allegedly tossed another firecracker, this time injuring a toddler in L.A.; Saberhagen was accused of throwing bleach at a reporter; and apologies flew faster than fastballs. By August, Saberhagen was fined, Coleman suspended indefinitely, and the Mets were less a baseball team than a traveling PR disaster. They limped to a 59–103 finish in September—second-worst in franchise history—and somehow, it still felt like they lost more than that.

All of that chaos was still smoldering when the Mets held their now-infamous press conference on July 27, 32 years ago yesterday. The team was already knee-deep in clubhouse drama, public embarrassments, and firecracker-related mayhem when they suddenly had to address something even more bizarre: bleach. Because of course they did.

This came just three days after outfielder Vince Coleman who was not exactly a stranger to poor decision-making was accused of tossing a lit firecracker at a group of fans in the Dodger Stadium parking lot...Because what better way to celebrate America’s pastime than with fireworks and felony charges?

But wait, there’s more! Just to make sure the bases were fully covered, pitcher Brett Saberhagen stepped up to the microphone at Shea that night, not to throw a fastball, but to lob an apology. This time, for a different firecracker incident. One he had launched again, not metaphorically inside the Mets’ own clubhouse three weeks prior. And if you watch the footage carefully, you’ll spot longtime media relations guru Jay Horwitz trying to hold it all together, and a young, Gary Cohen tucked into the media scrum, already honing the composed presence that would one day make him the voice of reason in the Mets booth.

You almost have to admire the gall. Back in the day, Bob Gibson intimidated hitters. Nolan Ryan threw no-hitters. Brett Saberhagen? He threw M-80s.

“I consider myself a role model,” Saberhagen said, without a hint of irony, “unlike some professionals in sports.”

Now, I’m not sure which sports he was watching in 1993, but if you’re throwing explosives indoors and dodging bleach allegations in the same month, you’re not exactly aiming for the Roberto Clemente Lifetime Humanitarian Award. You're angling more for a guest spot on "COPS".

To his credit, Saberhagen did look sheepish as he stood next to a six-year-old named Timmy Spillane, a wide-eyed candy contest winner whose prize was a meet-and-greet with his baseball heroes. (Apparently, nobody told the Mets to keep open flames away from the bullpen.)

Little Timmy just wanted to pitch like Brett. Instead, he got a crash course in crisis PR, fire safety, and the olfactory differences between Evian and Clorox.

“It definitely was bleach,” Newsday's Mark Herrmann said. “I called it Clorox. That’s how I identified it. Because you could smell it.”

This is not something I learned growing up reading "The Sporting News".

Meanwhile, poor Dallas Green, who looked more and more like a substitute teacher trapped in a classroom full of pyromaniacs, promised accountability. “Sometimes baseball players don’t act very professionally,” he said. “And that’s when I have to get upset.”

Dallas, you deserved hazard pay. Or at least a whistle and some orange cones.

And yet, in the middle of all this chaos—the bleach, the bombs, the bumbling apologies—there stood Timmy. Wide-eyed. Still believing. “Are they still your heroes if they play good baseball ?” a reporter asked. Timmy nodded. “Yeah"

And there it was. The reason we keep coming back, year after ridiculous year. Even when our team is a walking OSHA violation. Even when they set their own clubhouse on fire. Even when the ERA is higher than the attendance.

Because if they play good baseball, we forgive. We forget. We move on. And we remember that baseball, like bleach, is best handled with care—but still capable of cleaning things up when used the right way.

Here’s to you, 1993 Mets. You were a mess. A loud, combustible, Clorox-scented mess. But you were "our" mess. In the end, they lost 103 games, but the real damage couldn’t be measured in the standings. There were two explosive devices, one bleach incident, one reporter threatened, one child injured, zero leadership, and countless apologies, many of them half-hearted, all of them too late. After the season, the cleanup began. Bret Saberhagen was traded. Vince Coleman was shown the door. Bobby Bonilla would eventually be released and later return and secure his spot in financial folklore with a deferred payment plan that would outlive several stadium renovations. It would take years for the franchise to recover its credibility, its culture, and maybe even a bit of its soul. But like bleach on a wine stain, 1993 left a mark. One we’ll never forget. One we probably shouldn’t.

And somewhere, little Timmy’s probably telling his kids about the summer he met his heroes—and they nearly burned Shea to the ground.