The Wright Stuff: A Captain, a City, and a Legacy Done the Right Way

The chairs were lined up. The banners were hung. And there, sitting front and center at Citi Field just hours before his No. 5 was set to be etched into the Mets’ pantheon of greatness, was David Wright—equal parts sentimental, self-deprecating, and sincerely grateful.

If baseball careers were books, Wright’s story read like a well-loved classic—dog-eared from repeated readings and full of passages that Mets fans can recite by heart. But before the speeches and the standing ovations, before the tears and the tip of the cap, the Captain met with the media to take us on one more trip around the diamond,this time with laughter, nostalgia, and that signature humility that always seemed too grounded for the limelight.

Sitting in front of former teammates, adoring family, and reporters who had watched his journey from baby-faced Norfolk kid to franchise icon, Wright admitted the moment was… a bit much. “Just the support walking around the city and seeing number five on the backs of so many people, it’s been humbling,” he said, visibly moved. “The Mets fan base is a blue-collar, bring-your-lunch-pail-to-work type of fan base, and that’s how I tried to approach the game.”

Wright spoke of feeling like he had come home—a kind of emotional jet lag where 2018 felt like both a minute and a million years ago. He reminisced about his final game, his relationship with Jose Reyes, and the simple joy of bantering with Brandon Nimmo or ribbing Max Kranick about clubhouse violations. “It’s like elementary school humor,” he joked. “And I miss that.”

I asked David if he could reflect on what it meant to now have his number enshrined beside Mike Piazza’s, especially after remembering his first visit to New York, when he sent his brothers scrambling around the field for Mike’s autograph. I also brought up two players who loomed large in his early development: Cal Ripken and Howard Johnson. What, I wondered, stood out to him about those two?

Wright’s eyes lit up with the kind of gratitude that seems to define everything about him. “I was so lucky,” he began. “Seeing the faces that made an impression on my career as a baseball player and a person the last few days, I’ve become even more appreciative of how lucky I was.” He rattled off names like Joe McEwing, Cliff Floyd, Al Leiter, Johnny Franco, and Mike Cameron—teammates who took a clueless 21-year-old kid and helped mold him into a professional. “Looking back, I certainly wasn’t dressing like a professional,” he quipped, “but they showed me how to act like one.”

When he spoke of HoJo, the admiration was profound. “How good do you have it as a 17-, 18-, 19-year-old third baseman in the Mets organization having Howard Johnson mentor you?” Wright said. “I didn’t really steal bases until I met HoJo. He saw the ability and the want that I had and he helped me find a way to get there.” He told the story of hitting his 30th home run to join the 30–30 club and being greeted in the dugout by HoJo, who looked as proud as if he’d hit it himself. “That’s the true baseline of not only a good mentor, but a friend.”

He may no longer share the field with the next generation of Mets, but he still reaches out like texting Kranick or welcoming rookies. His voice, even from afar, still echoes in the hallways of Citi Field. It’s no accident that so many young Mets especially the homegrown ones feel connected to him. He is the lineage. From HoJo and Teufel to Pete and Francisco, Wright has been the thread that ties the eras.

When asked what he looked forward to most about the day’s festivities, he deflected. Of course he did. It’s David Wright. “I’d like to kind of share it with everybody that had an impact,” he said. Even his kids, too young to fully grasp the gravity of what’s going on, were promised future viewings of the ceremony—right between bedtime and “Dad, you’re not cool” years. (Though, to be fair, cotton candy still ranked higher on their list of priorities than dad's jersey retirement.)

Wright touched on everything from Shannon Forde’s lasting inspiration, to the sting of 2007’s collapse, and the power of the 2015 World Series run. He even gave credit to Michael Cuddyer, proof that leadership doesn’t always wear a letter, sometimes it just quietly leads by example. When the Mets won the National League in 2015, Wright led his teammates back onto the field to thank the fans. It was a full-circle moment from a man who always understood what it meant to wear that uniform in this town.

He got emotional when speaking about being named captain, calling it “the biggest honor that’s ever been bestowed upon me.” And then, in true Wright fashion, shrugged off the “Captain America” nickname. “Coolest nickname you could have,” he said. “But I’m not a huge nickname guy.”

As for that famous No. 5? It was randomly hanging in his locker in Triple-A. No symbolism, no story until Charlie Samuels told him later that it was worn by Brooks Robinson and George Brett. “Pretty good company,” Wright deadpanned, as if there weren’t now a third Hall-of-Fame-worthy third baseman permanently joining that list.

When asked what the game had given him, Wright paused, his voice tinged with awe. “I think the game has given me more than I could ever imagine,” he said. “This would be the ultimate prank if someone came out later and yelled, ‘Psych!’”

But this wasn’t a prank. This was real. This was earned.

No Met has ever had his number retired without playing for another team,until now. Wright is the rare player who never put on another uniform. He grew up a Mets fan. He became a Mets legend. And now, he’ll be part of Mets history—forever.

Some players are great. Others are beloved. David Wright was both.

And from this day forward, nobody in orange and blue will ever wear No. 5 again except in memories, highlight reels, and hearts.