Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #27: Ty Kelly, From Las Vegas to the Holy Land

Welcome to the twenty‑seventh installment of Mets Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly meditation on the players who slip through Mets history like sunflower‑seed shells through the Shea Stadium bleachers. Last week we waxed poetic about “Super Joe” McEwing—the pocket‑knife utility man who could change a game (or at least a mood) with nothing more than hustle and a smile. Today we vault ahead to 2016 and a player whose story is part pinch‑hit, part passport stamp, part unplugged set at the Bitter End: Ty Kelly, the Pinch‑Hit Philosopher of Flushing.

Kelly was never supposed to headline anything. Drafted in the 13th round by the Orioles, he logged 855 minor‑league games and 3,063 at‑bats before the Mets phoned in May 2016. When he arrived in Queens, the clubhouse was a mash‑up of personalities—Curtis Granderson the statesman, José Reyes the spark plug, Yoenis Céspedes the lightning rod. Kelly studied them all and came away with a revelation: preparation is personal. “Your biggest competition can be you sometimes,” he told me. “You can overanalyze and overdo your prep. One pinch‑hit AB, you roll over a grounder and think, Should I have done more? No—sometimes less is more.” Instead of living in the batting cage, he loosened up with jumping jacks, a few sprints, and the confidence that talent loves a relaxed mind.

His empathy extended to Céspedes, whose off‑day golf drew tabloid thunder. “Yoenis gets a bad rap… he’s an absolute beast. I watch BP—there isn’t a position he can’t play,” Kelly said, defending a teammate who prepared with nine‑iron zen instead of soft‑toss penance.

The baseball gods quickly paid Kelly back with a hometown dream. In August 2016, the Mets visited San Francisco; Kelly, a Bay Area native, patrolled left field in front of friends who once heckled from those same bleachers. He smacked two hits, gunned down a runner, and soaked in an Oracle Park chorus of beer‑buzzed buddies. “Unbelievable,” he said later. “Playing where I used to sit—just amazing.” Two months later came the NL Wild Card game, and Kelly delivered one of only four Mets hits off Madison Bumgarner. The team lost, but Kelly’s postseason batting average reads a pristine 1.000 in Mets folklore.

If numbers explain persistence, Kelly’s do the talking. Across 13 minor‑league seasons he slashed .273/.371/.376, piling up 1,099 hits and 627 walks—an on‑base metronome managers loved. In 2012 alone he posted .327/.425/.467 across three levels; in 2016 at Vegas, .328/.409/.435 served as his launch code to Flushing. The majors saw only flashes—32 hits, three homers, and a .203 average—but they caught enough plate discipline and glove work to understand the appeal. He even tossed a scoreless Triple‑A inning in 2014; Ty Kelly remains undefeated on the mound, a trivia gem for pub nights.

Off the field he jammed guitar riffs with fellow creative Matt Paré, spoofed minor‑league life on YouTube, and dreamed out loud about sharing a stage with Bruce Springsteen—“Bernie Williams got to play with him; I’ll play with him, too,” he laughed. His Renaissance résumé widened when Israel called. Kelly—raised with one Catholic and one Jewish branch of the family tree, discovered a national team that felt like long‑lost cousins. “Everyone kept saying, ‘Thanks for representing us,’” he recalled after a whirlwind tour of Jerusalem falafel stands and Tel Aviv high‑fives. Wearing No.56 for Team Israel in the 2017 World Baseball Classic, he chased live at‑bats, cultural roots, and the chance to out‑quip Cody Decker in the dugout.

Through it all he collected uniforms the way some folks collect vinyl: Orioles black, Mariners teal, Cardinals red, Mets blue, Phillies pinstripes, Long Island Ducks orange Team Israel white and blue. Ten different Triple‑A clubs stamped his passport; none dented his spirit. “Nothing is guaranteed,” he said. “I just want to feel good, play consistent, and keep getting better.”

And that, really, is the Ty Kelly thesis. He wasn’t a slugger, an ace, or a marketing campaign. He was curiosity in cleats—ready guitar, quick wit, patient eye, open heart. Forgotten face? Maybe on highlight reels. But to the friends in Section 139 at Oracle Park, to the Mets fans who still smile at that Wild Card single, to the kids in Tel Aviv who now wear No.56, Ty Kelly is unforgettable.

So here’s to the grinder with the philosopher’s soul, proof that baseball’s magic often lives in the margins, where a utility man can pinch‑hit, pinch‑run, strum a chorus, and remind us all that joy is sometimes just one relaxed swing away.