Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #32 :Timo Pérez:

Welcome back to the 32nd edition of Sunday School: The Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly trip through the cobwebbed corridors of Mets history, where we dust off the players who wore the orange and blue long enough to deserve a memory but not quite long enough to earn a bobblehead.

Last week, we tipped our caps to Joe Orsulak—the lunchpail outfielder who brought dependable defense, smart baserunning, and just enough offense to stay in the lindup during the Mets' mid-’90s sitcom years.

This week, we shift from steady to zigzag. From the straight man to the circuitous route. From Joe O to TimO ,the man who seemed to pop up everywhere the Mets needed him and sometimes where they didn’t.

Timo Perez's career with the Mets (2000–2003) felt like flipping through a travel journal filled with page turns, missed connections, and a few unexpected layovers in the postseason. He came out of nowhere, literally signed from Japan midseason in 2000 and somehow almost immediately found himself in the starting lineup during a playoff run. A month earlier, he was playing for the Hiroshima Toyo Carp. Now? He was batting leadoff in the World Series.

And while most remember the infamous baserunning blunder in Game 1—getting thrown out at home after misjudging a ball he thought would be a homer, it’s a shame that moment defined him. Because Timo Pérez was more than one “oh no” on the national stage.

He was, for a stretch, a scrappy, hustling, two-way outfielder who brought energy, decent contact skills, and just enough speed to keep pitchers nervous. He could cover ground in left or center, lay down a bunt when needed, and occasionally sneak one into the seats. He was the kind of player who played hard because he had to, because the game never guaranteed him anything beyond the next at-bat.

And Timo played everywhere. After the Mets, his baseball passport got more stamps than a 1970s Pan Am pilot. Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Detroit, Korea, Mexico, and every outpost in between. He was a baseball nomad with a strong arm and a name that sounded like it belonged to a jazz saxophonist or a soccer phenom. But for four strange, fascinating seasons in Flushing, Timo Pérez was our guy.

Let’s tell his story.

Timo Pérez arrived in Queens like a mystery wrapped in speed. Signed out of Japan in the summer of 2000, he was the kind of late-season flyer that rarely makes a ripple—except this one ended up in the middle of a World Series just weeks later. The Mets brought him up on September 1, 2000, and by his 20th Major League game, he hit his first home run. But this wasn’t some garden variety opposite-field loft job—it was an inside-the-park sprint that showcased Timo’s pure burst, the kind of speed that made outfielders look like they were running in sand.

Even the Mets seemed a little confused by him. During one of his first games at Shea Stadium, the scoreboard operator accidentally displayed Melvin Mora’s headshot and stats when announcing the lineup. Mora, of course, had been shipped off to Baltimore in the Mike Bordick deal and had worn number 6—the same number Pérez inherited. Timo and the guys on the bench laughed it off, but John Stearns, ever the intense competitor, didn’t find it quite as amusing. He picked up the phone and barked up to the press box, demanding they fix it immediately. It was a Shea moment equal parts awkward and unforgettable—kind of like Timo himself..

And somehow that guy, the guy who had barely unpacked his cleats was suddenly starting in left field at Yankee Stadium in the Subway Series.

Timo wasn’t supposed to be a household name. And technically, he never really became one—unless your household still has PTSD about that fateful baserunning moment in Game 1. You remember the play. Top of the sixth. Todd Zeile rips a double off the wall. Pérez, running on contact, starts rounding third… then hesitates… then gets thrown out at the plate by a mile and a half. It was like watching someone try to parallel park in a space clearly too small—everyone could see it wasn't going to work except the guy in the car.

That single moment—caught between full throttle and second thoughts—somehow became his Mets calling card.

Which is kind of unfair. Because Timo actually could play. He had wheels, a decent glove, and enough bat to hit .300 in his first full season in 2001. He started 121 games that year, roamed all three outfield spots, and had more hustle than half the roster combined. He was the guy who’d break up a double play, beat out a swinging bunt, and slide headfirst into first base because, well, adrenaline’s a hell of a thing.

But for all his effort, Pérez always felt like he was playing on borrowed time. He was never “the guy.” He was “a guy.” A bridge piece. A Band-Aid. The first name you forget on the lineup card and the last guy out of the dugout during introductions.

And yet, he stuck around for parts of four seasons in Flushing. From Bobby V in 2000 to Art Howe in 2003. Timo survived the change in dugout moods, the switch from Shea’s late-90s thunder to early-2000s thunder-ish, and even had a decent playoff run. In the 2000 postseason, he hit .300 across the NLDS, and the NLCS, with 3 RBI and 3 stolen bases. He may have gotten hosed at home in Game 1, but he was a key piece in getting the Mets there in the first place.

After the Mets, he played for the White Sox, the Cardinals, and a couple others you probably forgot—or didn't realize in the first place—including stints in Mexico, the minors, and independent leagues. Timo became the baseball version of a reliable rental car: not flashy, but always somewhere new.

In the end, Timo Pérez may not have earned a statue or a bobblehead—or even a full inning in most Mets highlight reels—but he gave the team a jolt of energy when it needed one, and a spark of intrigue during a tense, title-hungry time.

He wasn’t the superstar. He wasn’t even the star. But for a fleeting moment, he was on center stage under October lights in the biggest baseball city in the world. He wore the jersey, took the at-bats, chased the fly balls, and ran the bases—sometimes with a little too much enthusiasm, sometimes with not quite enough—but always with heart.

For Mets fans of a certain vintage, Timo Pérez is that strange blend of “oh yeah, that guy!” and “I kind of liked him, actually.” And there’s value in that. Baseball needs the Timos—the glue guys, the grinders, the ones who never got their name in lights but made the lights worth turning on.

So here’s to Timo Pérez: the 32nd entry in our Sunday School roll call of the forgotten, but not forgettable. A man who played everywhere, gave it his all, and reminded us that sometimes, baseball’s most human moments come not from the legends, but from the players just trying to carve out their little corner of the story.

See you next Sunday.