Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #18: Danny Heep, The Forgotten Bat Behind the Magic

Welcome to the eighteenth installment of Mets Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, where we dig through the cobwebbed corners of Mets history like we’re searching for that last Slurpee cup from 7-Eleven’s 1986 World Series promotion. These are the guys who didn’t get statues or SNY documentaries—but for a clutch hit, a cult following, or just being wonderfully, weirdly Mets, they were ours.

Last week, we revisited the meteoric rise (and basketball-fueled fall) of Mike Vail, the rookie heartthrob of 1975 who hit in 23 straight games and made Shea believe… before a torn ligament turned his stardom into a what-might-have-been.

This week, we move ahead to the swaggering, mulleted glory days of the 1980s—to the tale of a quiet Texan with a sweet lefty swing and a name that sounded more like a country singer than a fourth outfielder.

Let’s talk about Danny Heep.

Danny was one of those guys who felt like he was always on the verge of something bigger. He could’ve been the guy. He had the swing, the pedigree, the perfect baseball name. Maybe he wasn’t destined for Cooperstown, but you could picture him carving out a steady 10-year run in Queens, batting .285, and becoming one of those sneaky-good lifers Mets fans adopt like family. Instead, Danny Heep became the quintessential bench guy—the lefty bat off the bench, the guy who always seemed one at-bat away from breaking out, but never quite did. And yet somehow, we still love him. Maybe because he never quite made it.

If you’re building a championship baseball team, sure, you need your superstar arms and your MVP bats. But just as important are the Danny Heeps of the world — the lunch-pail guys. The ones who never complain, always stay ready, and once in a while, sneak up and win you a ballgame when nobody's looking.

Danny Heep wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t fast. He didn’t have the glove of a Keith or the swagger of a Darryl. But when the 1986 Mets were bulldozing their way through the National League like a runaway beer truck, Heep was quietly doing his job — coming off the bench, taking professional at-bats, and giving Davey Johnson the kind of depth that turns good teams into great ones.

Heep grew up in San Antonio, Texas, where the summers are hot and the baseball is hotter. His dad was a semipro player and Air Force base worker, and his uncle, Matt Batts, actually caught in the big leagues in the '50s. So baseball was in the blood. While most of the family rooted for the Red Sox, young Danny took a shine to Roberto Clemente and the Pirates — not a bad choice if you’re looking to learn how to play the game the right way.

Heep pitched and hit at St. Mary’s University, but the bat won out. The Astros drafted him in 1978, and by the time he was done demolishing minor league pitching in Columbus and Daytona Beach, he was wearing the MVP sash and heading for the bigs.

He got his first taste of the majors with Houston, but with guys like José Cruz and Terry Puhl entrenched in the outfield, there weren’t a lot of openings. After four seasons of part-time duty, Heep got traded to the Mets in December 1982 — just a few weeks after he got married. In return, the Astros got a guy named Mike Scott. He would later throw about 700 split-finger fastballs past the Mets in the ’86 playoffs and give New York fans indigestion for life. But that’s another story.

In Flushing, Heep was looking for a chance to play more, and early on he wasn’t afraid to say so. Eventually, Davey Johnson convinced him to embrace the “super sub” role — part-time outfielder, full-time pinch-hitter, and clubhouse glue guy.

By 1986, Heep was hitting .282 in limited duty, with a .379 on-base percentage and the kind of approach that made pitchers sweat even if the fans were still buying hot dogs. He was especially dangerous off the bench, where he could come in cold and still slap a double to left like it was nothing. He was the guy pitchers forgot about — and then regretted remembering too late.

Heep was part of some wild Mets lore, too. On July 4th, 1985 — technically July 5th by the time it ended — he played in the infamous 19-inning marathon against the Braves in Atlanta. The game had fireworks before and after — capped off by Braves reliever Rick Camp, a career .060 hitter who looked like he should’ve been grilling sausages at a church picnic, somehow hitting a game-tying home run in the 18th inning.

Heep was in left field for that moment, and the TV broadcast caught him standing there in stunned disbelief — the posture of a man asking, “Is this even real life?” His reaction spoke volumes, because like everyone else on that field, he knew the laws of nature had just been violated. Fortunately, the Mets eventually won in the 19th. Heep called it the craziest night of his career — and that’s saying something for a guy who shared a dugout with Lenny Dykstra and Kevin Mitchell.

He also made history on July 11, 1985 — just not the kind he wanted. He was Nolan Ryan’s 4,000th strikeout victim. Later he admitted the pitch was six inches outside. But hey, if you’re gonna make an out, might as well help someone else into Cooperstown.

In the ’86 World Series, Heep got a start as DH in Game Three and delivered — a two-run single after the Red Sox botched a rundown. It was the first win of the series for the Mets, and Heep helped jumpstart the comeback. He also grounded out for an RBI in Game Six, part of the slow-burn rally that led to that little dribbler down the first base line that we’re legally required to show at every Mets wedding.

In Game Six, while the chaos unfolded, Heep was back in the clubhouse watching on the TV with Keith Hernandez and some of the other “this rally’s over” guys. Once the rally started, Keith wouldn’t let anyone move. “We’re not jinxing this,” he said. So they stayed. And watched. And then ran out to celebrate.

After the ’86 season, Heep hit free agency — right in the middle of the owners’ collusion era. Despite wanting to return, he didn’t get an offer from the Mets. He ended up with the Dodgers, where he picked up another World Series ring in ’88, though that one came more from bench-warming than base-hitting.

Heep played two more solid years in Boston, hit .300 in 1989, and wrapped up with the Braves in 1991. Back problems ended his career, but he went out with class.

Back home in San Antonio, Heep went into coaching and eventually ran the baseball program at the University of the Incarnate Word. He led the Cardinals for nearly two decades, mentoring hundreds of players and helping them hit — and think — like pros. He stressed schoolwork, responsibility, and line drives to left.

So no, Danny Heep never made an All-Star Game. He wasn’t a face of the franchise. But he was the kind of player every winning team needs — smart, steady, and always ready. The kind of guy who shows up in big games and blends into the background the rest of the time. Which is exactly why we remember him here.

Danny Heep: Forgotten Face of Flushing, unforgettable part of the '86 magic