Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #39 : The Mets’ Lost Voices: Steve Albert and Lorn Brown

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we dust off the bubble-gum cards and game-used jerseys of the guys who made you squint and go, “Wait… didn’t he play for us?”

Last week, we looked at Jenrry Mejía, the Mets’ electrifying but ill-fated “closer of the future.”

This week, we’re changing things up. Instead of players, we’re turning the spotlight to the men behind the mic — the forgotten voices of Flushing. We’re talking about Steve Albert, who replaced the legendary Lindsey Nelson in 1979, and Lorn Brown, who succeeded Albert in 1982. They weren’t household names like their predecessor, but they guided fans through Mets games with their own styles, quirks, and memorable calls, becoming an overlooked part of the Mets’ history in Queens.

If you grew up listening to the Mets during their first 17 years, there was only one trio of voices you knew — Ralph Kiner, Bob Murphy, and Lindsey Nelson. They weren’t just announcers; they were the soundtrack to the team’s earliest memories, guiding fans through every high, low, and painfully long season. Then came 1979, and that familiar harmony shifted. Nelson moved on to the San Francisco Giants, leaving a hole in the booth that the Mets would have to fill — a task equal parts opportunity and nightmare for anyone trying to follow in his colorful, plaid-jacketed footsteps.

Enter Steve Albert, the youngest of the famous Albert broadcasting clan. Not only did he have to fill Nelson’s enormous shoes, but his older brother Marv Albert was already a broadcasting icon in New York, the voice of basketball for millions of Knicks fans. Talk about pressure — the Mets weren’t just giving him a microphone; they were asking him to perform in the shadow of two legends at once.

The Mets were not Albert’s first play-by-play gig as he worked on both Nets and Islanders TV broadcasts. It was his first baseball job though and it was a baptism by fire. A young man fresh out of the gate, he was tasked with narrating games for a team that was hardly the stuff of legend as Joe Torre’s squad limped to a 63–99 record, finishing dead last in the NL East, 35 games behind the eventual World Series champion Pittsburgh Pirates. Shea Stadium had more empty seats than customers at Wetsons, and most New Yorkers were too busy watching Supertrain or BJ and the Bear to notice the Mets were even playing. The biggest innovation of the season was that, for the first time, player names appeared on the backs of the uniforms. It wasn’t exactly an ideal backdrop for a rookie broadcaster trying to win over an audience still getting over the fact that Lindsey Nelson left, but Albert brought energy and professionalism to a booth that needed it.Albert had grown up obsessed with sports broadcasting. By age seven, he and his brothers had set up a makeshift broadcast table at home, turning down the sound on Yankees games so they could call the plays themselves. His first real taste of play-by-play came as a Knicks ball boy, perched at the end of the bench, narrating every pass, rebound, and shot to himself. For Albert, Mets games were the same thrill ,only now the stakes were real, and the audience extended far beyond his living room.

It wasn’t an easy task. Nelson had left a void in the booth that was impossible to measure, and Albert had to step into the limelight while his brother Marv’s voice loomed large on the New York airwaves. Yet he brought energy, enthusiasm, and versatility ,qualities that would define a career spanning decades, from basketball to hockey to boxing , while keeping Mets fans engaged and entertained. He may not have achieved Nelson’s household-name status, but Albert guided listeners through the action with professionalism, personality, and a genuine love of the game.

After three seasons behind the mic, Albert passed the baton to Lorn Brown in 1982, closing the chapter on his formative Mets years. Though his time in Queens was relatively brief, it laid the foundation for a broadcasting career that would eventually cover everything from NBA dynasties to boxing’s most infamous nights. And for Mets fans who remember those transitional years, Albert remains a crucial — if often overlooked — part of the team’s broadcast history.

After three seasons guiding Mets fans through the highs, lows, and occasional chaos of Flushing, Steve Albert passed the microphone to Lorn Brown in 1982. If Albert had been the bright-eyed young gunslinger stepping into Lindsey Nelson’s enormous shadow, Brown was something else entirely the professor in the booth. Born in East Chicago, Indiana, in 1938, Brown had decades of broadcasting experience under his belt, including stops with the Chicago White Sox, Milwaukee Brewers, and even a brief turn with the St. Louis Cardinals.

Brown brought a solid, methodical approach to the Mets’ broadcasts. His baritone voice and tweed jackets — often paired with a vest — earned him the nickname “The Professor” among fans. He loved his statistics and numbers, diving into box scores and play-by-play minutiae with almost military precision. Where Nelson had been flamboyant, where Albert had been energetic and versatile, Brown was meticulous, careful, and measured.

It was a tough assignment. Brown was succeeding a legend, just as Albert had, and he had to contend with the shadows of the past while carving out his own identity. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a perfect fit. He struggled to connect with some of his broadcast partners, most notably Bob Uecker, who could be charming on-air but notoriously cold off it. Brown’s earnestness and methodical style didn’t always mesh with the quick humor and improvisational flair that fans had come to expect.

The Mets’ tenure for Brown lasted just a single season. By the end of 1982, he was replaced by Tim McCarver, who would go on to become one of the most recognizable voices in baseball broadcasting. Despite the brevity of his stint, Brown left his mark — a reminder that the Mets’ booth, like the team on the field, was always evolving, a place where every voice contributed to the ongoing story of baseball in Queens, even if only for a fleeting moment.

In the end, Steve Albert and Lorn Brown remind us that the story of the Mets isn’t just written on the field it’s heard in the voices that guided us through every pitch, every inning, and every unforgettable moment in Queens. Albert brought energy, enthusiasm, and a young broadcaster’s fearless optimism as he stepped into the shadow of Lindsey Nelson and his own legendary brother, Marv. Brown, in his single season, offered precision, and the kind of statistical devotion that only a true “professor” could muster. Neither became a household name like Nelson, Murphy, or Kiner, yet both left their fingerprints in the team’s broadcast booth. They were the guides, the narrators, and the often-overlooked companions for every fan who turned on the radio or TV, reminding us that for every star on the diamond, there’s a voice on the air shaping how we remember the game.