Saturday Seasons: The Worst Team Money Could Buy: The Crying Game at Shea – The 1992 Mets

If you were a Mets fan in 1992, you probably remember two things:

You had to blow into your Super Nintendo cartridge to make Super Mario Cart work, and you had to do the same thing to your TV remote just to get through a Mets game.

This was supposed to be a bounce back year for the Mets’ as we added A Few Good Men. But instead we got The Crying Game .When the big reveal came, we couldn’t handle the truth and much like The Crying Game, we were left blinking in disbelief, asking ourselves, “Wait what did we just see?”

The front office went shopping that winter like it was a Black Friday sale at Modell’s. The Mets reeled in Bobby Bonilla, the biggest free-agent fish in the pond, signed for a record $29 million deal that made headlines everywhere (and, ironically, will still be making headlines every July 1 through 2035). They added future Hall of Famer Eddie Murray, steady veteran Willie Randolph, and traded for former Cy Young winner Bret Saberhagen. They even shed Gregg Jefferies and Kevin McReynolds both talented but reportedly tough in the clubhouse.

And then there was Jeff Torborg, the new skipper the man hired to steer this luxury yacht through choppy waters. A former Yankee coach and the reigning American League Manager of the Year, Torborg had just led the White Sox to 94 wins and was lured to New York on a contract big enough to make even Steinbrenner blink.

Smooth, well-spoken, and ready to lead grown-ups , until midseason, when he looked like Kelly Leak behind the wheel of a stolen van, with Bobby Bo and Vince Coleman acting like Carmen Ronzonni and Mike Engelberg in the back with a KFC feast, and the team’s version of “discipline” was a distant memory.

To his credit, Torborg tried. He preached professionalism. He wore the pinstripes with dignity. But managing that clubhouse with Bonilla’s contract, Saberhagen’s injuries, , and a general sense of impending tabloid doom. But managing that clubhouse was like patrolling the ’92 NYC subways alone , maybe he should have called Curtis Sliwa and the Guardian Angels for backup.

On paper, this was the National League’s version of Farm Aid ’92: a star-studded roster worthy of Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bonnie Raitt, Paul Simon, and Joe Walsh , supposed to steal a pennant, not just the spotlight.

In reality? A talent-show train wreck ,Gong Show meets Star Search and enough bad moments to make Ted Mack wince.

Despite carrying the highest payroll in baseball, the 1992 Mets treated hitting like it was optional , somehow the order for all that highly priced talent got placed at Temu instead of Tiffany’s. They finished last in the National League in batting average (.235), hits, and triples. Their on-base percentage was a feeble .310—good for 10th out of 12—and they slugged .353, which sounds less like a team stat and more like a punchline.

The power outage was so bad, Bobby Bonilla led the club with just 19 home runs, while Dave Magadan, the designated “best hitter,” topped out at .283 in only 321 at-bats. Howard Johnson, once the team’s switch-hitting superhero, hit seven home runs in what felt like seven years.

Speed? They had a little , Vince Coleman swiped 24 bags and HoJo added 22 — but it’s hard to steal second when you’re already out at first.

Oddly enough, the Mets actually led the National League in walks with 572. That’s right ,they walked a lot. Which was ironic, because that’s mostly what fans were doing out at Shea Stadium by the seventh inning.

Off the bench, Chico Walker quietly became one of the few bright spots, batting .308 in 207 at-bats , a small miracle in a season otherwise devoid of them.

The pitching? It was a mixed bag , mostly of ice packs. Sid Fernandez (14–11, 2.73 ERA) and David Cone (13–7, 2.88) were terrific. Doc Gooden, however, was mortal, and Saberhagen’s arm seemed to have been left back in Kansas City.

The bullpen was an adventure only Indiana Jones could’ve survived. John Franco pitched when he could (1.64 ERA, 15 saves), and when he went down, Anthony Young took over. He went 2–14 that year, a hint of the historic losing streak to come. Making it through required the fortitude of Violet Jessop, the stewardess who survived both the Titanic and the Britannic—proof that some voyages are doomed, no matter how brave the crew.

A few more footnotes in the chaos: Jeff Innis was a workhorse (76 appearances, 2.86 ERA) who somehow got tagged with a 6–9 record. Tom Filer, a 35-year-old call-up, pitched 22 surprisingly good innings (2.09 ERA), then promptly disappeared from baseball forever ,a perfect metaphor for the season.

And then came the dagger: the David Cone trade. In August, the Mets shipped their ace to Toronto for two prospects, one of whom was a gritty young infielder named Jeff Kent. Cone went north, struck out everyone in sight, and helped the Blue Jays win the World Series. Mets fans went south , emotionally.

When the dust settled, the Mets finished 72–90. They were bad, but not boring — which, in some ways, was worse. The talent was there. The payroll was there. The results were not.

Torborg , who’d been hailed as the man to restore order looked like a substitute teacher trying to keep the kids from lighting the gym on fire. A year after being named Manager of the Year, he was now managing the most expensive cautionary tale in baseball. By the time the Mets started 13–25 the following spring, he was gone, replaced by Dallas Green a man whose idea of motivation involved equal parts truth and terror.

To make matters even more surreal, the locker room dysfunction became public legend thanks to The Worst Team Money Could Buy, Bob Klapisch and John Harper’s inside account of the season gone wrong. The book was a national hit at least someone was cashing in that year though Bobby Bonilla, shall we say, would not leave them a glowing Amazon review.

And just when it seemed the embarrassment had peaked, the Mets capped it all off with an actual apology letter to the fans. Signed by every player, it basically read: Sorry, we meant well. Here is the actual text of the letter :

Dear Mets Fans,

Our season wasn’t exactly one to remember. We were just as disappointed as we know you were. But what we won’t soon forget is all of you who came to Shea, despite our many injuries, despite the economy, despite even the bad weather.

They say when you’re down and out you find out who your true friends are. We were happy to discover we still had true friends, by the millions.

So thank you Mets fans and thank you New York.

Spring training is only four months away. We can hardly wait.

Let’s go Mets!

The New York Mets

Reading it, you couldn’t help but smile or groan. It was heartfelt, awkward, and slightly pathetic, the only thing that I could think of while reading it though was Sean Connery delivering one of his famous lines: “Your ‘best’! Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and…

A few flickers of pride did remain. Cone was named an All-Star before his trade. Dwight Gooden took home the Silver Slugger Award for pitchers (because of course the best bat in Queens belonged to a guy with an ERA). Rookie Todd Hundley and newcomer Jeff Kent were both named to the Topps All-Star Rookie Team, giving fans a faint hint of the future.

And on one weirdly perfect August afternoon, the Mets actually played like a storybook team, shutting out the White Sox 3–0 in the Hall of Fame Game at Doubleday Field. Of course, they did—it was an exhibition game that didn’t count. Bobby Jones nearly tossed a no-hitter, Chico Walker went deep, and Daryl Boston drove in two. For one day in Cooperstown, the Mets were kings again. Then they came back to Queens.

The 1992 Mets were living proof that money can buy a lot of things headlines, hype, even Hall of Fame talent but not harmony.

They were a team of mismatched puzzle pieces jammed into the wrong box, held together by high expectations and loose change.

Or, as Wayne and Garth might’ve said that summer:

“We’re not worthy.”

Still, we remained Mets fans, We always do. That’s the beautiful, maddening, and thoroughly Metsian part of it all.