Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #59 : The Time Jesse Owens Wore a Mets Uniform — As a Coach

Welcome back to Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, our weekly rummage through the Mets’ attic, where we brush the dust off the bubble gum cards, flip through curling yearbooks, and rediscover the names that once made you stop mid knish and say, “Hold on… he was a Met, right?”

Last week we stood, removed our caps, and revisited the voices that opened Mets games long before the first pitch and the first second guessing of the bullpen. From Pearl Bailey setting the tone for a miracle, to boy bands, Motown legends, violin strings, and Queens royalty, we explored the national anthem as the ritual that told us baseball and hope had officially returned.

That lesson reminded us of something important about Mets history. It is not always the obvious things that stick. Sometimes it is the ceremonies, the side notes, the moments just outside the foul lines. And sometimes it is the people you would swear you already knew everything about, only to discover there was a chapter hiding in plain sight.

We have covered players, managers, broadcasters, mascots, beer icons, and the occasional four legged contributor. This week we step into another corner of the dugout.

Because today’s Forgotten Face is not forgotten in the larger world of sports. His name echoes through Olympic history. His accomplishments helped define American athletics.

What many Mets fans do not realize is that for a brief moment in the early years of the franchise, Jesse Owens wore a Mets uniform not as a player, but as a coach.

Yes, that Jesse Owens.

And class is officially in session.

By 1965 the Mets were still trying to outrun their reputation, which at the time was clocked somewhere between punchline and public service announcement. So Casey Stengel did something wonderfully Metsian. He brought in the fastest man on Earth. Jesse Owens.

Nearly three decades removed from leaving Berlin in 1936 with four gold medals and a permanent place in sports mythology, Owens arrived in St. Petersburg as a special spring training instructor. He was 51 years old, carried himself like a head of state, and for roughly two or three weeks in late February he turned Mets camp into something resembling a track meet.

This was not ceremonial. Owens wasn’t there to wave at photographers and eat clubhouse cold cuts. His assignment was simple: teach the Mets how to run like professional athletes instead of men trying to catch the last subway. He drilled them daily in sprints, stretching, balance work, posture, arm motion, and getting out of the box with urgency. His emphasis was mechanics, because in his mind inches mattered. A higher knee lift, proper arm drive, cleaner stride could mean the difference between a single and a long walk back to the dugout.

He explained it in plain language at the time. Raise the knee, move the arms forward with purpose, and suddenly you might beat the throw. It was track science applied to baseball spikes.

Owens worked alongside Stengel and player coach Yogi Berra, who that season was juggling instruction duties with a brief, four game farewell tour as an active player before hanging up the spikes just shy of 40. It was an odd but oddly perfect trio: the Olympic icon, the philosopher catcher, and Casey being Casey. If nothing else, it made Mets camp sound like the setup to a joke that ends with someone pulling a hamstring.

The results? Let’s not oversell it. The 1965 Mets still finished last, losing 112 games and ending the season 47 games out of first place, which is less a standings gap and more a different zip code. But players did report smoother mechanics and better awareness on the bases, and Owens’ presence signaled something important. The organization was at least trying to modernize conditioning and preparation instead of relying entirely on chewing gum and optimism.

Where Owens may have left his biggest mark wasn’t on stopwatch times but between the ears. Before leaving camp he spoke to the team about pride, reminding them that wearing a major league uniform meant they had already achieved something most kids only dream about. He urged them to carry themselves with confidence, ignore the jokes, and remember younger fans were watching and copying everything they did. In other words: stand tall, even when the standings say otherwise.

He praised the coaching staff, praised Stengel, and left them with something close to a pep talk disguised as life advice. Casey’s response was classic Casey, essentially agreeing that Owens had the right idea and hinting the Mets might surprise somebody yet. Mets optimism has always had a charming relationship with reality.

Owens wrapped up his work after about ten days of conditioning sessions, briefly headed back to New York for personal obligations, and later returned to continue instruction, spending additional time working with minor leaguers in Dunedin. The idea was simple and forward thinking: teach the next wave how to gain that extra half step before they even reached Queens.

You can see it for yourself in the photos above. Jesse Owens guiding players through calisthenics in an Ohio State sweatshirt, smiling at the suggestion it might be the same one from his college years. Not quite. He replaced them over time when he returned for clinics. The legend endured, even if the cotton didn’t.

So yes, Jesse Owens coached the Mets. Not for long. Not in a way that shows up in record books. But long enough to leave behind a reminder that even the most unlikely corners of Mets history occasionally intersect with the giants of sports.

And long enough to make you imagine Casey Stengel trying to diagram sprint mechanics.

Which is worth the price of admission all by itself.