Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #29: Swag Before It Was a Stat: The Willie Montañez Mets Experience

Welcome to the twenty-ninth 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 took a road trip through Vinegar Bend—both the place and the pitcher. Wilmer “Vinegar Bend” Mizell, a southpaw with a fading fastball by the time he joined the original 1962 Mets, went on to a remarkable post-baseball career in politics and public service.

This week, we pivot from the political to the theatrical: polyester uniforms, copyrighted home run trots, and bat flips on walks. Before Pete Alonso made first base fun and before Francisco Lindor brought fashion to the infield, there was Willie Montañez—the original Swaggy V.

He wasn’t just a Met. He was a vibe.

Montañez played only parts of two seasons in Queens, but left an unforgettable impression—especially on kids like me, wondering why first base suddenly looked like Studio 54. He brought flair, charisma, and theater to some of the Mets' grayest days.

But before he was flipping bats like a Cirque du Soleil performer or patting baserunners on the backside like a maître d’, he was Guillermo Naranjo Montañez, from Cataño, Puerto Rico—a town best known for Bacardi Rum and, fittingly, a player who added a splash of something strong to every game.

Signed at 17 by legendary scout Chase Riddle (who also discovered Steve Carlton and the Cruz brothers), Montañez was plucked from the Cardinals by the Angels in the 1965 Rule 5 Draft. He barely had time to unpack before pinch-running on Opening Day in the 14th inning of a chilly game in Chicago. After eight hitless games, he was returned to St. Louis like a misaddressed package.

Back in the minors, Montañez found his game—and his flair. He tripled his way into MVP contention in the Florida State League, missed time due to injury (and his high school graduation, which the Cards kindly let him attend), and once broke his leg sliding—a reminder that his style of play came with real risk.

Then came the trade that changed his life. In 1969, when Curt Flood famously refused to report to the Phillies, launching a historic challenge to the reserve clause, Philly needed a replacement. They chose Montañez, on the recommendation of manager Frank Lucchesi, who had seen him play winter ball and liked his moxie. And moxie? Willie had it—along with at least three gold chains at all times.

After a stint in the U.S. Coast Guard (yes, really), Montañez broke out in 1971: 30 home runs, 99 RBIs, and a flair that made him look more like an off-Broadway matador than a big-leaguer. He flipped bats, pirouetted after strikeouts, and defended like a showman. In Rick Wise’s no-hitter that June, his defense was game-saving. He broke Dick Allen’s rookie home run record and nearly took home Rookie of the Year honors—losing out to Earl Williams, who may have had better numbers but definitely less swagger.

The next few years brought highs and lows. He led the league in doubles in ’72 but clashed with managers over effort. By ’74, he found his groove, hitting over .300 three straight years and peaking at .317 in 1976.

When the Mets acquired him at the winter trade meetings of 1977 in a complex four-team deal on December 8, 1977. The Atlanta Braves sent Montañez to the Mets, who also received Tom Grieve and Ken Henderson from the Texas Rangers. Meanwhile, the Mets parted with Jon Matlack (to Texas) and John Milner (to Pittsburgh).—trading Tom Grieve and Kim Seaman to Texas—they knew what they were getting: a switch-hitting showman with pop and personality. He replaced Ed Kranepool at first base, which in Queens was like swapping Mel Torme for Little Richard. He immediately led the team in RBIs—and flair. He twirled bats, flipped gloves, and turned routine plays into curtain calls. Some called it hot-dogging. Willie called it being Willie.

Montañez quickly became a fan favorite. In his first month, he struggled a bit at the plate, hitting just .182 in April, but by May, he found his groove, batting an impressive .313 with 5 home runs and 28 RBIs.

Over the full season, Montañez hit .257 with 17 home runs and led the Mets with 76 RBIs, providing much-needed production and personality on a 99-loss team. Fans loved his bat twirls, glove flips, and dramatic flair—some called it hot-dogging, but Willie called it just being Willie. His style made first base at Shea feel like a stage, and his bat carried both weight and swagger—all this one year before ESPN launched SportsCenter and gave the world a nightly highlight reel. If SportsCenter had existed in 1978, Montañez would’ve been a regular in the opening montage.

Pitcher Pat Zachry said, “Willie plays like he's got music in his head. Probably salsa.” He brought levity, veteran savvy, and the kind of unpredictability Shea desperately needed.

In 1979, Montañez’s fortunes in Flushing began to fade. Though he remained a showman, the numbers weren’t as dazzling—he was hitting just .234 with five home runs and 47 RBIs when the Mets dealt him to the Texas Rangers midseason for two players to be named later. Of course, in classic Mets fashion, he caught fire the moment he left, batting .319 with 8 homers in 71 fewer games for Texas. After the season, he was shipped to the Padres in a deal that included future Hall of Famer Gaylord Perry. But for one shimmering season in Queens, Montañez was the Mets’ mustachioed matador—strutting across Shea like he owned the joint.

Montañez played 14 seasons for nine teams, and made sure you remembered him everywhere he went. He may not have a plaque in Cooperstown, but he deserves a star on the infield walk of fame, the one reserved for the game’s great characters. He wasn’t a franchise cornerstone or a statistical marvel, but for one glorious season in Flushing, he made the Mets feel like a Broadway revue with a dirt infield. He brought joy to the joyless, style to the stagnant, and a sense of theater to a team that desperately needed a headliner. And if the box score didn’t always sparkle, the memories did—gold chains, unbuttoned jerseys, and all. That, perhaps, is his greatest stat: he made baseball just a little more fun.