Hit or Error? Baseball Digest's 1994 Rookie Edition Reexamined

Welcome to the 32nd installment of Hit or Error, our deep dive into the scouting pages of Baseball Digest, where we sift through past prospect hype to uncover what was real and what was wishful thinking. This time, we turn to the March 1994 issue—and once again, the Mets brought a butter knife to a gunfight.

While other organizations flaunted blue-chip pipelines, the Mets offered up six first-time names: Butch Huskey, Pete Walker, Tom Wegmann (sadly, not the heir to the grocery empire), Ken Greer, Alan Zinter, and Tito Navarro. With a lineup like that, it’s no surprise they were more afterthought than feature. We’ll focus on the three hitters—Huskey, Zinter, and Navarro—and try to determine whether the scouts saw a future core… or just filled in some column inches.

So dust off the old scouting reports and let’s find out: did Baseball Digest make a hit, or commit an error?

Butch Huskey: The Big Man Who Carried Big Hopes

Back when shoulder pads were part of your football gear and not your business suit, a kid named Robert Leon "Butch" Huskey was flattening linebackers in Lawton, Oklahoma, and dreaming of hitting bombs, not just drawing pass interference. Butch could've been catching touchdowns for the Sooners—he was that good as an All-State tight end—but thank the baseball gods (and the Mets scouting department) that he chose lumber over leather.

Drafted by the Mets in the seventh round of the 1989 draft, Butch came wrapped in potential: “Power plus,” they said. “Could be a 25-30 home run guy.” They weren’t wrong—though the journey from prospect to Shea Stadium stardom was anything but a straight line. He had the agility of a much smaller man, the kind of speed that made you do a double-take when you saw the size of the guy who just swiped second.

He also had the kind of raw pop that made scouts compare him to Mark McGwire. (And if you were a Mets fan in the '90s, you learned real fast that hope was half the game.)

He racked up minor league honors like they were trading cards—four Doubleday Awards in all—blasting homers in Columbia, Binghamton, and Norfolk, all with that easy power and infectious smile that made you root for him before he even got his batting gloves on. In fact, the only thing bigger than Butch’s bat was his heart—he played like he cared, because he did. And when he got the call to the big leagues in 1993, it just so happened to be against Darryl Kile… the same day Kile threw a no-hitter. Welcome to The Show, kid.

When the ’96 season rolled around, the Mets were playing musical chairs with their infield, and the original plan had Butch Huskey penciled in as the starting third baseman. But then Rey Ordóñez showed up with a glove too slick to keep off the field. That set off a Rube Goldberg chain reaction: Dallas Green handed the shortstop job to Ordóñez, shifted José Vizcaíno over to second, moved Jeff Kent to third—and suddenly, Huskey found himself in right field. A position he’d played exactly once before in the majors.

And yeah, it showed. He looked more like a pulling guard trying to read a screen pass than your typical corner outfielder. Sports radio had a field day, but Mets fans? We’ve always had a soft spot for the guys who weren’t perfect but gave it their all. So we cheered a little louder for Butch—not because he made it look easy, but because he never backed down when it got hard.

That year, Butch hit .278 with 15 home runs, and by '97 he was back at third base—or so we thought. Another defensive misadventure landed him in a right-field platoon, but something clicked. The power showed up like it had in the minors: 24 home runs, 81 RBI, and the kind of raw slugging that finally made good on those early scouting reports. On September 15, 1997, he launched one into the 600 level of Veterans Stadium—only the third human being to do so, after Stargell and Rivera. You don’t fake that kind of power.

But baseball is crueler than a bad hop at the old Polo Grounds. In 1998, the numbers dipped again, and by December, the Mets sent Butch to Seattle in exchange for pitcher Lesli Brea. The Mets got the arm; Seattle got a sparkplug. Butch popped 15 homers in half a season, earned a ticket to Boston at the deadline, and helped the Sox clinch a wild card with seven homers down the stretch.

Minnesota signed him next, hoping for a breakout season. It didn’t happen. A midseason trade to Colorado gave him a brief jolt—four more dingers in just 92 at-bats—but the game is a young man’s hustle, and by 2001, at the tender age of 29, Butch hung up his spikes.

Still, the guy’s story isn’t about what might’ve been. It’s about how far he came, what he brought to the clubhouse, and how, for a few shining moments, he reminded us that baseball is at its best when big-hearted, big-swinging guys like Butch Huskey take the field. He wore number 42 with pride—long after it was retired—because he was grandfathered in, and because, in a way, Butch always played like he had something to honor.

Years later, he came back to the Mets at fantasy camp, flashing that same smile, that same joy. And if you ever meet him, ask about that 600-level shot in Philly. He’ll downplay it. But don't believe the humility. That ball is still going.

So, was Baseball Digest’s scouting report on Butch Huskey a hit or an error? Call it a solid double off the wall in left. They nailed the power, the presence, and the potential—but like so many players who pass through Queens, Huskey’s story was less about sustained stardom and more about brief, brilliant flashes. He never became the cornerstone slugger some hoped for, but he wasn’t a swing-and-miss either. He was a fan favorite, a clubhouse heartbeat, and, for a time, a symbol of every Mets fan’s greatest hope: that heart and hustle could still carry the day.

14 Years to the Show, a Lifetime in the Game: Alan Zinter’s Legacy

Back in 1993, the scouting report on Alan Zinter sounded like something cooked up in a minor league press box after a doubleheader and a few too many hot dogs: “Bat came alive in ’93. Has home run power from both sides of the plate. Could be regular first baseman or valuable utility man because of catching ability.” That sounds a bit like someone describing a Swiss Army knife with biceps—switch-hitter, power potential, can catch, probably changes your oil, too.

And honestly, in 1993, Zinter did look like a guy on the verge. At Double-A Binghamton, he hit .262 with 24 homers and an OPS brushing up against .900. If you squinted hard enough, you could see a future big-league slugger in there—one who could mash and moonlight behind the plate. Mets brass probably envisioned a future Keith Hernandez with a catcher’s mitt in his locker, just in case.

But baseball, as we all know, doesn’t run on fairy tales and scouting reports. It runs on timing, opportunity, and sometimes, dumb luck. Zinter spent 14 years in the minors before finally making his big-league debut with the Astros in 2002—by which time the only thing regular about him was the toll booth guy at the Triple-A parking lot knowing him by name.

His big-league career, while noble, was more cameo than feature film: 44 at-bats with Houston in ’02 and another 34 with Arizona in ’04. He managed a pair of homers, which means he gets to say something most of us never will: he took big-league pitchers deep. Twice. Sure, he hit just .167 across both stints, but batting .167 in The Show beats .300 in Des Moines.

After hanging up his cleats, Zinter rebranded himself as a hitting guru, which makes perfect sense—few people know the grind like a guy who spent almost two decades chasing the dream. He became a minor league hitting coordinator, a big-league assistant, and later the hitting coach for the Padres and Reds. He quietly and passionately kept the fire burning for the next generation of hitters.

So, while the scouts saw a potential first baseman with thunder in his bat and versatility in his glove, what they got was a grinder with enough love for the game to span continents, leagues, and roles. Zinter may not have become the star the Mets envisioned in ’93, but he carved out a baseball life with grit, humor, and just enough pop to keep the dream alive—right up until he handed the bat to someone else and started fixing their swing. And honestly, that’s pretty damn admirable.

So, was Baseball Digest’s scouting report on Alan Zinter a hit or an error? Call it a long fly ball that finally left the yard—just not in the way anyone expected. They saw the raw power, the switch-hitting potential, and the patience at the plate, but like many top prospects, Zinter’s big-league breakthrough took the scenic route. While he never became a star in Queens—or anywhere else as a player—his story didn’t end in the batter’s box. Instead, he carved out a respected career as a hitting coach, passing along the lessons of a journey defined by resilience. In the end, Zinter proved that the path to impact in baseball isn’t always direct—but it’s no less meaningful.

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Three Surgeries, One Hit: The Trials of Tito Navarro

Back in the early ’90s, the Mets’ scouting report on Tito Navarro read like a hopeful Craigslist ad: “Recently repaired shortstop seeks comeback. Leadoff potential, good wheels, makes contact. Arm needs a little TLC—again.” After undergoing a third shoulder surgery in 1993 (yes, third, because once just wasn’t enough), Tito was projected as a classic table-setter and a smooth shortstop—if that shoulder ever stopped acting like it belonged to a beer-league second baseman.

And you know what? The scouts weren’t totally wrong—just, shall we say, romantically optimistic.

Here’s what actually happened: Tito Navarro did, indeed, make it to the majors in ’93. Played a dozen games for the Mets. Came to the plate 18 times. Got one hit. But hey—it was a big one: a game-winning RBI single in extra innings. That hit was the equivalent of finding a twenty-dollar bill in a winter coat you haven’t worn in years: totally unexpected, but hey, you'll take it.

Unfortunately, his body never stopped acting like a lemon on the shoulder assembly line. Even as the Mets were swapping shortstops like used cars—Kevin Elster, Dick Schofield, Tony Fernandez—Tito just couldn't stay on the field. He had the tools: patience at the plate, base-stealing speed, and defensive flair. But his throwing arm was like that one string of Christmas lights you can never get to work: flickering with promise, then gone dark.

In the minors, he racked up batting averages north of .280, stole bases by the bushel, and drew walks like a sabermetrician’s dream. At one point, he was even the best prospect in the South Atlantic League. He had the Mets dreaming of a future at short where “good glove, good OBP” wouldn’t be followed by “…but he’s on the disabled list again.”

After bouncing between winter ball, minor league stops, surgeries, and rehab assignments, he finally got his cup of coffee in the Show—more like a few sips. His entire MLB fielding career lasted two games.

By 1995, Tito was done—at 24. The scouts saw a lot in him, and they weren’t wrong about the talent. They just underestimated the treachery of tendons and the stubbornness of shoulder ligaments. Tito Navarro was supposed to be the next big thing. Instead, he became another one of baseball’s great “what ifs?”—the kind of guy whose entire major league highlight reel fits neatly into a TikTok.

And yet, he made it. Briefly, sure. But there he is in the box score, forever. One hit, one RBI, and a 1.000 batting average in extra innings with the game on the line. Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.

So, was the Mets’ scouting report on Tito Navarro a bust or a buried treasure? Call it a scratched lotto ticket that still paid out just enough to keep you buying. They weren’t wrong about the talent—just a little too hopeful about the hardware. Tito’s arm couldn’t keep up with his potential, but for one shining moment in ’93, he came through when it mattered. And for a kid from the Bronx with three shoulder surgeries by 23, that one game-winning knock wasn’t just a hit—it was a win. Maybe not the career the Mets imagined, but a legacy, nonetheless.

So, was Baseball Digest’s 1994 scouting report on these Mets prospects a hit or an error? Call it a bloop single that barely cleared the infield. They correctly identified the raw power in Butch Huskey, the switch-hitting potential of Alan Zinter, and the speed and on-base skills of Tito Navarro. However, they underestimated the challenges each would face: Huskey's defensive struggles and positional shuffling, Zinter's prolonged journey through the minors, and Navarro's persistent shoulder issues. In the end, each player had moments that validated the scouts' optimism, but none achieved sustained success at the major league level. It's a reminder that in baseball, as in life, potential doesn't always translate to prolonged achievement—but even brief flashes can leave a lasting impression.