Saturday Seasons : 1993 The Worst Sequel Money Could Buy.

If 1992 was “The Worst Team Money Could Buy,” then 1993 was the Slap Shot 2: Breaking the Ice. a straight-to-video disaster that made Toe Blake spin in his grave and the Hanson Brothers beg for a line change.

This was supposed to be a bounce-back year, the baseball version of a redemption tour. A new shortstop (Tony Fernández), a few veteran arms, and the faint hope that all that expensive talent might actually act like, well, talent. Instead, what we got was 59 wins, 103 losses, and a summer that reminded us that even miracles have expiration dates ,and the label on this one had long since faded.

The Mets opened the 1993 season with a flashback to 1969: hosting an expansion team in the franchise’s very first game. Only this time, it was the Colorado Rockies — and the Mets won 3–0. A promising start? Maybe. But once again, trouble wasn’t far behind. Just four games in, Bobby Bonilla confronted Bob Klapisch after a game, clearly trying to provoke a physical confrontation, likely still smarting from The Worst Team Money Could Buy, Klapisch and John Harper’s scathing chronicle of the 1992 Mets.

By July, Shea Stadium felt less like the home of the Amazins and more like the test kitchen for McDonald’s McPizza , messy, overhyped, and something nobody wanted to see.

Coming off a 72–90 clunker in ’92, the Mets told us things would be different. Eddie Murray still had the sweetest switch-hitting stroke in the league, Bobby Bonilla was supposed to rediscover his MVP form, and Bret Saberhagen was (in theory) still a Cy Young guy.

In practice? Murray quietly did his part — 27 homers, 100 RBI, and enough professionalism to make you wish he could’ve managed the team too. Bonilla hit 34 homers but spent half his time fighting boos, reporters, and gravity. Saberhagen , well, when your most famous pitch involves a Super Soaker full of bleach, it’s fair to say your command was off.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get weirder, Saberhagen held what might be the most unintentionally comedic press conference in Mets history standing in front of reporters, grinning like a kid caught with a water gun, and admitting the prank gone wrong. It was part apology, part hostage video, and all Mets.

Howard Johnson was breaking down, Dwight Gooden was fighting to find the old magic, and Vince Coleman was turning the clubhouse into a live-action Jackass episode. The man literally threw a lit firecracker into a crowd of autograph seekers. And that was after he accidentally hit Gooden with a golf club. Somewhere, Ralph Kiner was sitting on the set of Kiner's Korner muttering, “If Casey Stengel were alive today, he’d be spinning in his grave."

Jeff Torborg came in with the swagger of a Manager of the Year, fresh off turning the White Sox into contenders. The Mets, however, had other plans, turning him into a stress case as he slogged through a 72–90 season.

Torborg’s 1993 lasted 38 games , about as long as The Chevy Chase Show,the 1993 late-night talk show that got canceled after just six weeks on the air. He started 13–25 before being mercifully replaced by Dallas Green, who looked like he ate nails for breakfast and washed them down with lighter fluid.

It didn’t help. By September, the Mets were a punchline on The Tonight Show, a cautionary tale in Sports Illustrated, and an open wound for every fan who’d been chanting “Let’s Go Mets” since the days when the Mets’ biggest drama was a late-season pennant race, not clubhouse chaos.

The team tried to mix in some youth , Jeff Kent, Todd Hundley, and a kid named Bobby Jones got their feet wet. Kent actually had a solid year (21 HR, 80 RBI), and Hundley showed flashes of the power that would make him a Shea hero a few years later.

But when you’re surrounding them with fading stars, angry veterans, and enough dysfunction to power an entire season of MTV’s The Real World, things are bound to get messy. Think David Edwards from the 1993 cast the guy who choked John, flipped him in a chair, and pulled a blanket off Tami while she was in her underwear before getting kicked out of the house. Frankly, the only shocking part is that the Mets didn’t sign him. He was a prototypical 1993 Met.

Anthony Young, bless his heart, lost 27 straight decisions. Twenty-seven. He pitched better than his record, but the Mets’ bats went silent night after night. Fans mailed him good-luck charms , four-leaf clovers, rabbit’s feet, even a lucky $2 bill as if sheer karma might stop the madness. Through it all, he stayed unflappably kind, even joking after his first win, ‘This wasn’t a monkey off my back this was a zoo.’ When he finally went on The Tonight Show, Jay Leno told him, ‘You can make fun of my chin if you want.’ Young just grinned. He didn’t need revenge — he’d already beaten the odds.”

While the Mets were collapsing, the rest of America was roaring — literally. Jurassic Park ruled the box office, Sleepless in Seattle made everyone swoon, and Groundhog Day gave us déjà vu, which felt fitting because every Mets loss looked just like the one before it.

On TV, Seinfeld was king, The X-Files had us questioning reality, and Frasier was just getting started. Meanwhile, Mets fans were the Beavis and Butt-Head of baseball laughing through the pain, grunting “Heh… that sucked.”

59–103. The first 100-loss season since 1967.

A team batting average of .235, which felt generous.

A rotation that could’ve used an exorcist more than a pitching coach.

They traded Tony Fernández after just a few months because, why not? They’d already traded away David Cone the year before.

By the end, Dallas Green looked like he needed a stiff drink and a long vacation, Al Harazin was gone, and Shea Stadium was half-empty except for diehards, seagulls, and ghosts of ’86.

For all the chaos, there were glimmers , Kent’s emergence, Murray’s quiet dignity, and Bonilla’s occasional bombs (even if he’d have rather been anywhere else). And, oddly enough, this disaster of a team laid the groundwork for the kids who would rise later in the decade.

But in the moment? It was brutal. The Mets of ’93 weren’t just losing — they were unraveling.