Kollector’s Korner Met-o-ra-bil-ia Hall of Fame Inductee #7: Sal Domino — He’s Not Just a Collector—He’s a Met-storian

If you’ve been saving our first six installments in plastic sleeves and alphabetizing them by subject, congratulations — you’re one of us. If you’re just joining us, this is the monthly column where we honor those Mets fans whose love of the orange and blue has led them down the rabbit hole of collecting — and never looked back.

These are the true believers — the ones who don’t just watch the games, they live them, catalog them, and sometimes even dust them weekly. And this month’s inductee brings a new level of detail to the obsession.

Meet Sal Domino.

Full disclosure: I’ve known Sal since 1978, back when bell-bottoms were still socially acceptable and if you had a sports talk show on a college radio station, you were basically Vin Scully with bad skin. Sal was part of my first radio team at WNYT Sportstalk. He snapped some classic photos of me interviewing players—all of which I still cherish, if not for my hair, then for the memories.

Back in the day, he was nicknamed “Chico” because he bore a striking resemblance to Freddie Prinze from Chico and the Man—but he’ll always be “SAC” to me, thanks to one unforgettable promo by then-Giants second baseman and future Hall of Famer Joe Morgan. The script said “SAL,” but Morgan read the “L” as a “C.” And just like that, SAC was born.

But forget nicknames for a second. Let’s talk cardboard, film reels, subway posters, and Shea Stadium seats. Because Sal isn’t just any Mets fan—he’s a one-man preservation society for Amazin’ history.

By day, Sal works in IT and Secondary for a mortgage bank—a job he readily admits isn’t nearly as fun as collecting Mets memorabilia (which, let’s be honest, is the only proper answer).

He wasn’t raised in a sports household—his dad wasn’t a big fan—but Sal gravitated toward sports like Ron Swoboda to a diving catch. He watched everything, studied every game, and eventually found a home in the Flushing faithful.

But here's the twist: he’s also a Red Sox fan. Before you gasp and drop your Topps 1965 Cleon Jones, know this: it all started with cards of Rico Petrocelli (Brooklyn-born, like Sal) and Carl Yastrzemski (from Long Island). If that’s not a Queens/Boston crossover episode, I don’t know what is.

Sal’s collecting days date back to the magical years of 1969–1970. His first dealer wasn’t some guy in a convention hall—it was Mr. Softee. Faced with the life-altering decision of sprinkles or baseball cards, Sal took the road less frosted. And that, Mets fans, has made all the difference.

Besides cards, yearbooks and scorebooks were early staples. One each game. Like communion, but with Rusty Staub instead of wafers.

What draws him in? The memories. The stories. The way a piece of cardboard can bring back the smell of a vendor’s pretzel or the sound of Jane Jarvis on the organ. And when it comes to favorite players, one name rises above all: Bud Harrelson. Sal’s got a proof of one of Harrelson’s cards, Polaroids from a Little League event, and a collection that would make even Buddy himself beam.

He leans into the 60s through the 80s—the Mays years, the Mazzilli years, the “We Almost Had It” years. And like any good collector, he follows a simple rule for additions: It has to be interesting—and his wallet must survive the transaction.

Sal is this close to completing a Topps run from 1953 to 1995—just six cards to go. That’s not collecting. That’s a pilgrimage.

When the Mets announced a new stadium, Sal made a vow: he would own a pair of Shea Stadium seats. And now they sit proudly in his living room, which also explains why he’s never remarried.

There’s also his 1969 Super 8 highlight film reel, a piece of history he hasn’t watched yet because he only recently inherited a sound projector from his uncle. (Let’s hope when he finally plays it, the film hasn’t turned into celluloid confetti.)

Then there are the subway posters—those long rectangular ads that used to hang above straphangers' heads. Sal mounted them around the top border of his man-cave walls. It’s like riding the 7 train without the delays—or the saxophonist playing "Careless Whisper" at 7 a.m.

Sal is a proud elder of the OBC (Old Baseball Cards) collector’s group—150 strong and going since the early ’90s. Every year, about 30 of them gather at the National Sports Convention like trading card druids.

He’s met players, bonded with collectors from across the country, and even has a posthumous plan for his collection. The valuable stuff is already graded and slabbed, ready for resale. But the heart of it—the stories, the connections—that's the real treasure.

So what’s Sal’s advice to the rookies?

Start with yearbooks and scored scorebooks. Learn your team’s history. Rewind time. Smell the beer-soaked pages. And if it catches your eye—go for it. Always go for it.

To Sal, collecting is about the chase. Sure, it’s nice to know your stuff has value—but it’s better to know that a 1974 Jerry Grote can still make you smile. It’s better to find a card you’ve never seen before and feel the spark of discovery.

And as for how he’d like to be remembered? Simple:

Play hard. Play fair. Play to win.”

Sal Domino, welcome to the Kollector’s Korner Hall of Fame.

You’ve earned your seat—in the Shea seats, no less—among the greats.