Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #30: Beyond the Radar Gun: The Underrated Artistry of Terry Leach

Welcome to the thirtieth 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 rode the rollercoaster that was Willie Montañez—the flamboyant first baseman who brought flair, chains, and just enough bat flips to liven up a struggling Mets roster in the late ’70s. He didn’t last long, but oh, he made sure you noticed him.

This week, we shift from flash to funk. Sidearm funk, to be exact.

In a decade defined by big arms, big egos, and big moments, Terry Leach somehow remained both indispensable and invisible. He wasn’t Doc or Darling. He didn’t throw heat or headlines. But Leach’s submarine sinkers baffled hitters and quietly anchored the Mets bullpen through one of the most successful stretches in franchise history.

His delivery looked like a man trying to bowl a strike on a windy day. His ERA? Pure control. His recognition? Practically non-existent.

He once threw a one-hit shutout, went 11–1 in a season, and owned one of the most unique pitching motions to ever hit the Shea Stadium mound. And still, unless you’re deep in the Mets bullpen archives, chances are you’ve forgotten Terry Leach.

Let’s fix that.

Terry Leach didn’t exactly arrive in Flushing with fanfare. Originally signed by the Braves, he was released without ever throwing a big-league pitch for Atlanta. The Mets picked him up in 1980 almost as an afterthought—another name on a long list of arms auditioning to stop the bleeding.

But by September 1982, Leach did something no Mets pitcher had done before—or since.

But by the end of the 1982 season, Terry Leach delivered one of the most quietly brilliant pitching performances in Mets history—a game that remains tucked away in the dusty corners of Flushing folklore.

On October 1, 1982, under the lights at Veterans Stadium, Leach took the mound against the Phillies and threw ten scoreless innings of one-hit ball. One hit. Ten innings. On artificial turf. Against Mike Schmidt and company. His motion looked like a man trying to bowl under a low ceiling, but the results were pure poetry.

The only blemish? A fifth-inning triple by Luis Aguayo that thudded into the outfield turf and ruined the no-hitter—but not the magic. The Mets would eventually win the game 1–0 in the top of the 10th, with Leach having already thrown 122 pitches and walked calmly off the mound like it was just another day at the office.

It was the kind of performance that should’ve been shouted from Shea’s upper deck, but instead it played out in front of 16,072 fans in South Philly, with barely a whisper in the national press. No highlights. No hype. Just ten innings of sidearm mastery from a pitcher who spent most of his career operating in the shadows of bigger names.

Then he disappeared.

In September of 1983, the Mets traded Leach to the Cubs for a pair of minor leaguers you’ve never heard of. By April 1984, the Cubs flipped him to the Braves for Ron Meridith, and by May, the Braves released him again—clearly still unimpressed by the guy with the submarine delivery and a name that sounded more like a middle reliever in a John Grisham novel than an actual pitcher.

The very next day, the Mets signed him back. Call it fate. Call it karma. Call it a bullpen in need of innings.

By the time Leach re-emerged in Queens in 1985, the Mets were built to win. They had flamethrowers and phenoms—Gooden, Darling, Fernandez, and eventually Cone. Leach didn’t fit the prototype. He didn’t light up radar guns, he didn’t pose for magazine covers, and he certainly didn’t lead SportsCenter.

But he got outs. And in a game that only remembers the stars, he quietly became essential.

And in 1987, he did it better than almost anyone in the National League.

Leach went 11–1 that season, mostly in relief, with a sparkling 3.22 ERA over 90 innings. He became the bullpen’s Swiss Army knife—long man, spot starter, extra-innings savior. He didn’t care when or how he pitched. He just wanted the ball, and once he got it, he usually didn’t give up much.

His motion was hypnotic. That sidearm delivery dipped so low it practically scraped the Shea infield. Hitters flailed at it like they were trying to swat a wasp with a soup spoon.

And yet, even at the height of his success, Leach was always a Mets afterthought. While Gooden graced Wheaties boxes and Strawberry swung for Shea’s fences, Leach quietly went about his business, chewing through innings like a bulldog in stirrups.

Terry Leach didn’t throw a single pitch in the Mets’ 1986 postseason. He wasn’t in the spotlight. He wasn’t even on the roster most of the year. In fact, he made just six appearances that season, spending the bulk of his time back in the minors with Tidewater. He was, by all definitions, a forgotten man during one of the most unforgettable years in Mets history.

And yet—nine years later, in 1995—Leach finally received his World Series ring. A late but well-earned gesture for a pitcher who had done the unglamorous work of staying ready, even when the game seemed to have moved on without him.

Cut at the end of spring training in 1987 despite not allowing a single run, Leach once again found himself on the outside looking in. But baseball, like life, rarely sticks to the script. Dwight Gooden’s trip to rehab, combined with Bob Ojeda’s season-ending surgery, cracked the door open—and Leach barged through it. He posted a remarkable 11–1 record, winning ten straight decisions and proving that persistence beats potential when given a chance.

In 1988, back in the bullpen, he went 7–2 with a 2.54 ERA and three saves—and finally got his moment under the postseason lights. In the NLCS against the Dodgers, he appeared in 3 games, threw five scoreless innings. No headlines. No hero speeches. Just zeroes.

Terry Leach didn’t need the spotlight. He just needed the ball.

He stayed with the Mets through 1989, then went on to pitch for the Royals and Twins, and in 1991, with Minnesota , Leach got another ring—the hard way. He pitched in two World Series games, held the mighty Braves in check, and picked up the win in Game 2 of what would become one of the greatest Fall Classics ever played.

His final line with the Mets? 18–12, 3.11 ERA, 212 games, and about a thousand unrecorded instances of confused batters walking back to the dugout wondering, What the hell was that?

He wasn’t a star. He wasn’t a story. He was just steady.

In a decade filled with drama and dysfunction, maybe that’s what made him most unforgettable of all.