Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #75 — The Greatest Spring Training Experiment in Mets History

Last week in Sunday School, we talked about Andrés Galarraga.

The Big Cat.

A beloved baseball survivor who arrived in Port St. Lucie carrying one last dream, one home run short of 400, hoping baseball might grant him one final miracle before the curtain closed.

For a few weeks, Mets fans bought into the possibility. Honestly, how could you not?

Spring Training is where baseball manufactures hope by the gallon. Every radar gun reading becomes a prophecy. Every batting practice home run becomes evidence. Every veteran trying to make a comeback becomes the subject of debates that sound suspiciously like late-night infomercials.

"Sure, he's 43, but look at that swing!"

"Sure, he hasn't played in years, but he looks great in shorts!"

"Sure, there are warning signs everywhere, but I've already emotionally committed."

It's part of the experience.

Every spring, somebody arrives in camp carrying a dream that feels just crazy enough to work. Most are former ballplayers trying to hold on. A few are prospects trying to break through.

And once in a very great while, the guy trying to make the team is one of the most famous athletes on the planet.

Which brings us to this week's Forgotten Face of Flushing.

Or perhaps more accurately...

Forgotten Experiment.

Because in 2016, the Mets signed a 29-year-old former Heisman Trophy winner who hadn't played organized baseball full-time since high school.

A football superstar.

A cultural phenomenon.

A walking sports-talk-radio topic.

And somehow, for nearly five years, Tim Tebow became one of the most fascinating stories in the Mets organization.

Not because he made the majors.

Because he never did.

But because for a while, a lot of people wondered if he actually could.

Before baseball came calling again, Tim Tebow had already lived a sports life most athletes would gladly trade for. He won a Heisman Trophy, captured two national championships at Florida, and became one of the biggest stars in college football history.

Then came the NFL, where his unconventional style somehow produced one of the strangest and most polarizing careers in modern football history.

Fans loved him. Critics questioned him. Television networks couldn't get enough of him.

Somewhere along the way, Tebow became less of an athlete and more of a national conversation.

Which is why his baseball announcement in 2016 felt so unbelievable.

Most former football players retire and take television jobs. Maybe coaching. Maybe motivational speaking. Maybe golf.

Tebow decided he wanted to become a professional baseball player.

Again.

The last time he'd played regularly was as a teenager in Florida, back when flip phones still existed and Mets fans were convincing themselves that Kaz Matsui was going to solve everything.

Yet scouts showed up.

Lots of them.

Nearly every major league organization sent evaluators to watch him work out. The attention was enormous.

Some people laughed.

Some people rolled their eyes.

Some thought it was a publicity stunt.

And then the Mets signed him.

Suddenly the circus came to Port St. Lucie.

Only here's the thing that often gets forgotten.

Tebow wasn't handed anything.

The headlines came easy.

The work didn't.

He started exactly where most raw prospects start:

The bottom.

In 2017, he opened the season with Columbia in the South Atlantic League. And on his very first professional at-bat...

Naturally...

He hit a home run.

Because if Hollywood had written this story, they would've called it unrealistic.

The home run generated national headlines. SportsCenter treated it like the moon landing. Social media exploded.

And for a brief moment, it looked like maybe this crazy idea wasn't completely crazy after all.

Then baseball arrived.

Real baseball.

The kind that doesn't care about television ratings, endorsement deals, or Heisman Trophies.

Baseball exposes everybody.

The game is brutally democratic that way.

A Cy Young winner can get shelled.

A Hall of Famer can strike out three times.

And a football legend suddenly finds himself trying to hit a slider thrown by a 22-year-old prospect from somewhere you've never heard of.

The learning curve was steep. The strikeouts piled up. Pitch recognition remained a challenge.

Yet Tebow kept grinding.

And something interesting happened.

He got better.

Not star-level better.

Not future All-Star better.

But legitimate professional baseball player better.

He moved from Columbia to St. Lucie. Then from St. Lucie to Binghamton. At every stop, he seemed to silence at least a few more doubters.

One of the strangest quirks of his baseball career became almost predictable. Every time he reached a new level, he seemed to homer immediately.

New team?

Home run.

New challenge?

Home run.

New opportunity?

Home run.

At some point Mets fans probably started expecting him to homer while filling out paperwork.

His best season came in 2018 with Double-A Binghamton. For stretches, he looked surprisingly comfortable against advanced pitching. He earned an Eastern League All-Star selection.

The numbers weren't overwhelming.

But they were respectable.

And for the first time, the impossible dream started to feel at least slightly plausible.

Could Tim Tebow actually reach the majors?

Not because he was famous.

Not because he sold tickets.

Because he was earning promotions.

Because he was competing.

Because baseball people inside the organization increasingly respected the effort.

Then came the injuries.

A hand injury ended his 2018 season. More setbacks followed.

And baseball, as it always does, began narrowing the window.

By 2019, Tebow reached Triple-A Syracuse.

One step away.

One phone call away.

One injury replacement away.

One hot streak away.

The dream had never been closer.

And if you attended a Syracuse game that summer, you'd swear the Beatles had reunited in center field.

Crowds followed him everywhere. Kids wanted autographs. Reporters wanted interviews. Fans wanted a glimpse.

Meanwhile, Tebow was simply trying to hit a curveball.

Which may be the most relatable thing about the entire story.

For all the attention, all the headlines, and all the debates, Tebow spent five years doing what thousands of minor leaguers do every season.

Riding buses.

Taking batting practice.

Working on mechanics.

Trying to improve.

Trying to survive.

Trying to get one step closer.

The major leagues never came.

He participated in big league camps. He even homered during a spring training game in 2020.

But the call never arrived.

In February of 2021, he officially retired from baseball.

No dramatic farewell.

No tearful press conference.

No Disney ending where he pinch-hits at Citi Field and launches one into the Pepsi Porch.

Just the conclusion of one of the most unusual player development stories the Mets have ever had.

And honestly?

Your opinion of the experiment probably depends on what you wanted it to be.

If you expected an NFL star to become an MLB star, you'll probably call it a failure.

If you expected a publicity stunt, you'll probably focus on the headlines.

But if you view it as a man chasing an almost impossible dream and refusing to be embarrassed by the odds...

It's hard not to admire it.

Because baseball history is filled with stories about players who weren't supposed to make it.

Tebow's story was simply the reverse.

He was already famous.

Already successful.

Already financially secure.

He didn't need minor league bus rides.

He didn't need strikeouts in front of skeptical crowds.

He didn't need any of it.

Yet he did it anyway.

For five years.

And for one strange chapter in Mets history, a former football superstar became a legitimate member of the farm system.

He never reached Queens.

But for a while, every spring, Mets fans looked at that lineup card and wondered:

"What if?"

And as we've learned over the years, there may be no more powerful phrase in baseball than that.