Hit or Error? Baseball Digest's 1989 Rookie Edition Reexamined

In our twenty-seventh installment of Hit or Error, we continue our deep dive into the promising landscape of Mets prospects as highlighted by Baseball Digest in its March 1989 season preview.

By 1989, the Mets’ farm system was starting to look a bit like your uncle’s rec room—plenty of relics from the past, but not much that still worked. Unlike the mid-’80s, when the pipeline from Tidewater to Queens was a thing of beauty, the latest edition of Baseball Digest featured nine Mets prospects, six of whom were making return appearances like a band that just couldn’t get off the reunion tour circuit. Mark Carreon, Keith Miller, John Mitchell, David West, Jack Savage, and the much-hyped Gregg Jefferies were all still trying to stick in the big leagues. Jefferies, who landed on the cover and came in hot as a Rookie of the Year favorite, ultimately finished third in the voting—without a single first-place vote. Cubs outfielder Jerome Walton ran away with the trophy while Jefferies ran into the harsh realities of major league pitching and clubhouse dynamics.

With all those familiar names still auditioning for roles they were supposed to have locked down by now, the real intrigue was in the three new kids on the block: catcher Phil Lombardi, infielder Craig Shipley, and pitcher Wally Whitehurst. In this installment, we’ll take a closer look at this trio of fresh faces and ask the eternal question every Mets fan knows too well—did they deliver ?

From The Bronx to Flushing: Phil Lombardi’s Quest to be the 24th Man

When scouts write up a player, it’s usually a mix of hopes, hedging, and just enough ambiguity to sound smart at a reunion ten years later. In the case of Phil Lombardi, a 1989 Mets scouting summary labeled him a “versatile player” — catcher, first base, outfield — with “power, good intangibles, and a chance to be the 24th man.” That last part is kind of like being told at a wedding that you just barely made the guest list. Still, it beats “organizational depth,” which is baseball-speak for “we need someone to catch bullpens in Double-A.”

Phil Lombardi, though, was more than a clipboard footnote. Born in Abilene, Texas, and raised in Granada Hills, California, Lombardi was drafted in the 3rd round by the Yankees in 1981. He paid his minor league dues for five years and finally cracked the bigs in 1986. He made his MLB debut at 23 for the Yankees — and promptly committed a throwing error on Brett Butler’s steal attempt. Not the cinematic opening you dream about as a kid, unless your dream includes Bob Uecker narrating it.

But that first year wasn’t bad. He hit .278, popped two homers, and settled in behind the plate with enough stability to not embarrass himself — no small feat at Yankee Stadium in the ‘80s, where Steinbrenner fired managers like most people change socks. He even played a little left field, which, when you’re a catcher by trade, is like being told you’ll be flying the plane today because you once assembled a model airplane in fifth grade.

In 1987, he only played five MLB games and hit .125. The Yankees then traded him to the Mets that December in a deal involving Rafael Santana. That’s right: the Mets once traded for Phil Lombardi. We’re not sure if that was Minaya-level roster vision or just someone misreading a scouting report with a coffee stain over the name.

Lombardi spent most of his Mets tenure in Triple-A Tidewater, where he hit .308 in ‘88 and slugged 14 homers in ‘89. His call-up came in the latter year, and he played 18 games for the Mets, hitting .229 with a homer and three RBIs. Not exactly turning Flushing into Phil-ville, but respectable. The scouting report wasn't too far off — he was versatile, had a bit of pop, and carved out that 24th-man niche, even if it was more AAA shuttle than CitiField star.

He was picked up by the Braves in 1990, but Phil chose to retire five days later. Maybe he just knew his value wasn’t in being stashed away in another system. Maybe he was tired of the bus rides. Or maybe he heard Atlanta’s catchers had to carry Maddux’s golf clubs.

After baseball, Phil made a life for himself as a real estate agent and youth baseball coach in California, where he was beloved for his humor, patience, and kindness. He passed away in 2021 at the age of 58 after a battle with brain cancer. Gone too soon, and remembered not just for what he did on the field, but for the life he lived off it.

Craig Shipley :The Scouting Report Was Modest—His Baseball Résumé Isn’t

Next up was Craig Shipley, who got the classic “he’s versatile, which means we don’t know where to put him yet” label. His scouting report painted him as a solid glove guy who could bounce around the infield and maybe sneak onto a roster as the mythical “24th man” by 1989. Well, spoiler alert: Shipley did sneak onto that Mets roster… for a cup of coffee so small it wouldn’t even register on the Starbucks app. But unlike a lot of guys in those old reports who disappear into Triple-A anonymity, Shipley wrote his own script. Instead of a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, he carved out an 11-year big league career across six teams, proving that sometimes the 24th man becomes the guy who sticks around just long enough to be useful everywhere and indispensable nowhere. He hit .271 over 582 games, played four positions (plus a cameo in right field), and even helped a playoff-bound Padres team down the stretch in ’96. Not bad for a guy once viewed as the human equivalent of utility duct tape. And when he hung up the spikes? He pivoted to front office power moves, climbing the executive ladder with the Red Sox and Diamondbacks like a guy who knew how to read a scouting report—and rewrite it.

Wally Whitehurst: A Career of Almost Always Nearly There

Back in the late '80s, when perms were peaking and the Mets still had a little of that '86 magic dust left in the air, Wally Whitehurst was cruising through Triple-A with the kind of profile that screamed "back-end rotation guy" with “good intangibles.” The scouts noted he had “average major league stuff,” which, if we're being honest, is a bit like saying your blind date has a “nice personality.” It can go either way.

Whitehurst had himself a solid 1988 season at Triple-A Tidewater, going 10-11 with a crisp 3.05 ERA. Nothing flashy, but solid. Dependable. Like a Toyota Corolla with a decent fastball. The Mets brought him up for a cup of coffee in '89, and over the next few seasons, he hung around—part spot starter, part bullpen filler, always ready to eat innings, even if sometimes the innings ate him right back.

His best shot at a full-time role came in 1991, when he made 20 starts for the Mets and even tossed 133 innings. Unfortunately, he also gave up 142 hits, which is not what you'd call "crafty" or "effective." Still, he battled. That’s the word you use for guys like Wally—he battled. He bounced to San Diego, wore a Yankees uniform just long enough to say he did, and kept grinding through Triple-A in multiple systems well into his 30s. By the end, he was pitching in more towns than a Springsteen tour.

The man compiled 491.2 big league innings with a 20–37 record and a 4.02 ERA—not exactly the second coming of Tom Seaver, but hey, there are guys who’d give up a pinky toe to sniff the majors for a day, let alone parts of eight seasons. And that scouting report? “Average stuff, good intangibles?” Turns out they nailed it. Wally wasn’t a star, but he was a pro. He showed up, took the ball, and gave you what he had. And if he happened to give up a couple of long balls along the way, well, welcome to the '90s, baby.

Whitehurst never became a household name, unless you lived in his actual house. But in the era of mullets, AstroTurf, and bullpen carts, he was there. That counts for something.

So what did the Mets get from their trio of new faces in that 1989 Baseball Digest preview? A catcher who proved the 24th man could still make a lasting impact, even if his Mets chapter was brief. An Aussie infielder who turned utility into longevity and ended up in the boardroom instead of the bullpen. And a pitcher who embodied every bit of the “gritty right-hander” archetype, grinding out nearly 500 big-league innings on little more than average stuff and a reliable arm. None of them became stars, but each, in their own way, delivered something the scouting reports couldn’t quite quantify—character, persistence, and a place in that wonderfully unpredictable patchwork quilt known as Mets history.