Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #26: Joe McEwing: Not a Superstar, Just Super

Welcome to the twenty-sixth installment of Mets Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly meditation on the players who’ve slipped through Joe McEwing never hit more than nine home runs in a season. He never made an All-Star team, never won a Gold Glove, and never had fans scrambling to get his autograph outside the Diamond Club. But ask any Mets fan who lived through the early 2000s about “Super Joe,” and their eyes will light up like someone just brought up a long-lost friend who once helped you move a couch in the rain.

Joe McEwing was born in 1972 in Bristol, Pennsylvania , a town that probably didn’t know it was raising one of baseball’s most lovable grinders. From the time he could barely walk, Joe was all in on baseball. It was like Joe came out of the womb wearing a baseball glove, ready to play while most kids were still trying to figure out which end of the bottle to hold.

High school wasn’t a cakewalk. When a guidance counselor told him to “be realistic” about his baseball dreams, it lit a fire that still burns. Joe’s dad put it perfectly: you can measure speed and strength, but heart? Funny thing, he didn’t even make the high school team initially (a good old-fashioned clerical snafu). But once Coach realized the mistake, Joe was on the field faster than you could say “utility player.” He finished his prep career batting over .400 and earned a spot in the school’s Sports Hall of Fame , not bad for a kid who almost got left off the roster.

Then came County College of Morris in New Jersey, where Joe absolutely crushed it ,hitting nearly .500 and leading the team to back-to-back championships. The campus fell in love with him, not just for the bat but for the kind of guy who sends thank-you notes to the groundskeepers. That’s right, Joe’s the type who appreciates the folks who keep the field in shape , a true class act.

Drafted by the Cardinals in the 28th round in 1992, Joe spent seven years grinding it out in the minors. When the call finally came in ’98, and in just his 10th big-league game, he found himself right there for Mark McGwire’s legendary 70th homer — a moment forever etched in baseball history.

They started calling him “Super Joe” for good reason. McGwire joked Joe probably had his uniform on under his street clothes by the time he arrived at the ballpark. Coaches and teammates respected how he brought 110 percent every single day, no matter where they stuck him on the field.

McEwing came to the Mets in March 2000 in a trade that barely registered on the Richter scale at the time. The Cardinals dealt him for Jesse Orosco—yes, that Jesse Orosco, still pitching rubber-armed innings at age 74 (or so it felt). It seemed like a minor move. But as it turns out, Joe McEwing wasn’t minor. Not to the Mets.

What McEwing lacked in raw talent, he made up for with relentless hustle, a blue-collar work ethic, and the kind of versatility that made a managers life easy. You needed someone to fill in at second? Done. Third base? Of course. Corner outfield? No problem. Center field? Sure, let’s see what happens. If there was an equipment manager emergency, you got the sense Joe would’ve thrown on a polo shirt and started handing out sunflower seeds.

In his five years with the Mets (2000–2004), McEwing played every position except catcher. He hit a modest .243 in 502 games for New York, chipped in 15 home runs, 107 RBIs, and 22 stolen bases, but his value went far beyond the back of the baseball card. He was the guy who always seemed to be part of a rally, stretching a single into a double, laying down a perfect bunt, or diving into the stands like he was auditioning for a Super Bowl.

But as these things go, the Super Joe era eventually faded. He was released after the 2004 season, bounced around a bit with Kansas City and Houston, and then, fittingly, transitioned into coaching — because of course he did. He’s the kind of guy who was probably coaching Little League while still in the majors.

In recent years, McEwing's carved out a steady career as a coach, spending time with the White Sox as a bench coach and third base coach. The same guy who once brought energy to the Mets bench now brings it to the dugout — a baseball lifer with dirt under his fingernails and a permanent place in Flushing folklore.

He never wore a cape. But for a while there, Super Joe was the everyman hero Mets fans needed — dependable, gutsy, and never afraid to dive headfirst into a fence or a fastball.