A Bittersweet Goodbye to Lenny Randle: The Most Interesting Man in the Game

Lenny Randle was one of those rare souls who seemed like he’d just walked out of a baseball fable written by a slightly unhinged but endlessly entertaining storyteller. To most fans, he was the switch-hitting, fleet-footed infielder who once famously blew a bunt foul and brought some swagger to the late '70s Mets. But to me, he was much more—a friend, a frequent guest on my radio show, and one of the most quotable people I’ve ever had the pleasure of interviewing. I first met Lenny at Mets Fantasy Camp, where he greeted me with a grin that could light up Shea and a personality as lively as his career was unconventional. Over the years, he shared stories that could fill a library, became a chapter in two of my books (Down on the Korner and You Never Forget Your First), and left me with enough one-liners to last a lifetime. Today, we say goodbye to Lenny, but not without celebrating the man, the myth, and the never-dull legend.

If the MLB Network calls you “The Most Interesting Man in Baseball,” you’re doing something right—or at least interesting enough to keep everyone guessing. Lenny Randle wasn’t just a switch-hitting infielder-outfielder with a 12-year MLB career; he was also a polyglot (fluent in five languages), a hip-hop artist before it was cool, a stand-up comedian who worked for steak dinners, and a baseball evangelist who turned Italy into a diamond-loving nation. If baseball were a sitcom, Randle’s episodes would rival any series finale.

Born Leonard Schenoff Randle on February 12, 1949, in Long Beach, California, Lenny grew up in a household that stressed education and hard work. His father, Isaac, a World War II vet and longshoreman, named him “Schenoff” to honor a French chef who’d introduced him to fine dining during his service in Italy. Lenny was one of eight siblings, all of whom went on to earn college degrees—a testament to the values instilled by Isaac and Ethel Randle, a seamstress who worked tirelessly to help support the family.

In Compton, Lenny excelled in both baseball and football at Centennial High, captaining both squads his senior year in 1967. The Cardinals drafted him that summer, but Lenny opted to suit up for Arizona State, where legendary coach Bobby Winkles honed his baseball chops. While there, he also found time to moonlight as a punt-returning wide receiver, proving he had more versatility than a Swiss Army knife.

On the baseball diamond, Randle’s speed, smarts, and skill helped lead ASU to a College World Series championship in 1969. After a standout college career, he was selected 10th overall in the 1970 MLB draft by the Washington Senators. He jumped straight to Triple-A before making his big-league debut in 1971, squaring off against the Oakland A’s and their flamethrower Vida Blue. Facing Blue was like trying to hit a bullet with a toothpick, but Randle managed to leg out an infield single for his first MLB hit.

Over his 1,138-game career, Randle played for six teams: the Senators, Rangers, Mets, Yankees, Cubs, and Mariners. His best seasons came in 1974 with Texas (.302, sixth in the AL) and 1977 with the Mets (.304 with 33 steals). Known for his speed and defensive versatility, Lenny was as likely to turn a double play as he was to start in the outfield or even catch a few innings.

But no story about Lenny Randle is complete without the oddities. He played in two of MLB’s rare forfeited games, including the infamous Ten Cent Beer Night in Cleveland, where fans stormed the field. He was at bat during the 1977 New York blackout, swearing to this day that he hit a single in the dark. And who could forget the time he blew a ball foul—literally—with a well-timed puff of air on a dribbler down the third-base line?

Of course, there were also controversies. During a game in Arlington between the Texas Rangers and the Cleveland Indians on May 29, 1974, in the bottom of the eighth inning, Randle bunted off Cleveland pitcher Milt Wilcox, one pitch after Wilcox had thrown a pitch that flew behind Randle's back. But as Wilcox tried to scramble for the ball, Randle changed course and deliberately smashed into him. As Randle attempted to continue to first base, he was tackled by other Cleveland players and ruled out. A bench-clearing brawl ensued, with players exchanging blows in a chaotic scene. Of course, there was the more infamous altercation that came in 1977, when Randle assaulted Rangers manager Frank Lucchesi during spring training after being benched for rookie Bump Wills. The incident landed Randle a suspension, a fine, and an eventual trade to the Mets. To his credit, Randle rebounded in Queens, enjoying his best statistical season while winning over fans with his hustle and charisma.

After his playing days, Randle’s passion for the game didn’t wane. He introduced baseball to new audiences in Italy, ran youth camps, and kept finding ways to entertain, whether on stage, in the recording studio, or on the field. Love him or scratch your head about him, one thing’s for sure: Lenny Randle’s story is anything but boring.

Lenny Randle isn’t your typical baseball player—then again, “typical” has never been his style. A first-round pick of the Washington Senators in the 1970 MLB Draft, Randle’s athleticism was evident early on. He captained both the baseball and football teams at Centennial High School in Los Angeles, turned down a shot with the St. Louis Cardinals in 1967 to attend Arizona State University, and played second base for the Sun Devils’ 1969 NCAA Championship baseball team. But his journey didn’t stop there; in 1983, Lenny became the first American Major League Baseball player to take his talents to Italy, where he etched his name into the record books and into the hearts of Italian baseball fans.

Randle shared these stories and more during his unforgettable appearance on my radio show in 2016. His charisma lit up the airwaves as he reflected on his career, his adventures, and his unique perspective on the game. “I think God and the Pope are the best pitching relievers in the game,” Lenny said, his trademark humor shining through. “The Pope’s out here trying to save the world, and no one even knows he’s warming up. One day, I’m going to have him throw the first pitch at Shea Stadium—or is it Citi Field now? Either way, we’re making it happen!”

Randle’s Italian adventure was the centerpiece of a MLB Network documentary, The Most Interesting Man in Baseball, a fitting title for someone who seems to collect accolades and stories like a baseball card collector chasing a rare rookie card. Watching the documentary only reinforced what everyone already knew: Lenny is in a league of his own. “Mark, it’s funny how life works,” he said. “I went from playing in the Dominican and Puerto Rico to Italy. Back then, we didn’t have Twitter, Twotter, or whatever it’s called. We wrote letters, slapped on a stamp, and waited for a response. People don’t even know what a stamp is anymore.”

When asked how he ended up in Italy, Randle traced the story back to his days at Arizona State and his friendships forged on the field. “Steve Greenberg—Hank Greenberg’s son—was my roommate. We’d always joke, ‘One day, we’re playing in Italy.’ I didn’t know if he meant it, but I sure did. Playing on Olympic teams and in international tournaments, you build relationships. It’s a global game. Baseball shrinks the world down to a neighborhood.”

And shrink it did. In Italy, Randle’s star only grew brighter. He set records for the longest home run, the most hits in a three-game series, and even won a batting title with a .477 average. “Not bad for a lifetime .257 hitter,” he quipped. But for Lenny, numbers were never the story. “I didn’t care about averages; I cared about winning. Arizona State taught me that. We didn’t care if we hit .250 or .240—we won. People focus too much on stats. It’s about being a good teammate, contributing every day, and making your peers happy. That’s what matters.”

Even as he downplays his own accomplishments, Randle’s career is peppered with connections to baseball royalty. “I’d sit in Hank Aaron’s locker room in Milwaukee and ask, ‘What makes you tick?’ I wanted to know everything. Guys like Dick Allen, Yogi Berra, and Willie Mays—they were the real stars. I just wanted to learn from them.”

Lenny’s knack for making friends and creating lasting bonds was evident in every anecdote he shared. “Baseball’s a tight-knit world. If I were a jerk, nobody would want to work with me. But I’m not Charles Manson, so I keep getting those calls,” he joked.

His larger-than-life personality extended beyond the diamond. “The title ‘Most Interesting Man in Baseball’ came from a *Rolling Stone* article,” Lenny explained. “The author, Dan Epstein, nailed it. But honestly, it’s not just about me—it’s about the stories, the connections, and the crazy, wonderful people I’ve met along the way.”I mean really how can you not call him that when he’d dress up in a top hat and tails and do a Bobby Darin impression to sell tickets to a Mariners Jacket night?

As he spoke on my show that day, it was impossible not to get swept up in Lenny’s infectious energy. “Baseball isn’t just a sport—it’s a passport to the world. And I’ve made the most of every stamp,” he said.

After his playing days, Randle’s passion for the game didn’t wane. He introduced baseball to new audiences in Italy, ran youth camps, and kept finding ways to entertain, whether on stage, in the recording studio, or on the field. Love him or scratch your head about him, one thing’s for sure: Lenny Randle’s story is anything but boring.

At Mets Fantasy Camp, Lenny Randle didn’t just show up—he held court. Picture a group of starstruck, middle-aged campers, each hanging on his every word, equal parts awe and laughter filling the space. It was vintage Lenny: part showman, part sage, part stand-up comedian. He kicked things off with his unmistakable energy, the kind that feels like a human espresso shot, quipping, "Oh, you're so nice. Yo, speak freakin' Yiddish. Are you Bar Mitzvah'd here?!"

The man was a whirlwind of anecdotes and wisdom wrapped in humor. Asked what kept him so energetic, he leaned into the microphone and said, “Cappuccino, espresso, ginseng—about 15,000 milligrams daily—and if the Pope doesn’t bless me in the morning, I’ve got a problem.” The group erupted. But beneath the humor was the heart of a man who genuinely loves life. “I’m happy to wake up every day—that’s my vitamin.”

Lenny painted a vivid picture of his first steps into baseball, growing up in Compton, California. “Lasorda and Jackie Robinson showed up at my Little League field,” he said. “I was six years old, had no idea who they were. Then Don Drysdale brushed me back. I charged the mound. Six years old. Lasorda turns to Jackie and says, ‘I like this kid. He’s got balls.’”

For Lenny, those formative years were a crucible. He learned from local legends—Reggie Smith, Al Cowens, and others—who shaped the way he approached not just the game, but life. “We didn’t know we’d make it to the big leagues. We were just kids, playing ball, learning from each other.”

His stories of playing under Ted Williams were pure gold. “First time I met Ted, I was in college, and he looks at me and says, ‘Who’s the little smart-ass?’ He taught me everything—how to fish, how to hit, how to be patient at the plate.” He laughed, recalling Ted’s unorthodox hitting drills. “He said, ‘It’s all in the wrists. Fishing will teach you to hit line drives.’ I didn’t even fish! But Ted? He made it seem like gospel.”

Lenny’s philosophy on hitting stuck with everyone listening. “Never respect pitchers,” he declared. “They’re just outfielders with good arms. You’re not facing the pitcher—you’re facing yourself. Confidence wins.”

The session ended with Lenny poking fun at himself and the campers. “This isn’t a reality show,” he joked, “but if it was, I’d win. And don’t forget—I also do taxes!”

The campers left buzzing, not just from the caffeine-like effect of Lenny’s presence, but from the realization that they’d spent an afternoon with a man who lived every moment with passion and purpose—and made sure you did too.

Lenny Randle’s time on Kiner’s Korner was as unforgettable as his unique baseball career. When interviewing several Mets for my Down On the Korner Book , I found that few have stories as entertaining—or as insightful—as Randle. His mix of humor, candor, and respect for the game’s history makes him the perfect subject for a trip down Mets memory lane. And if you think he didn’t notice every detail on and off the field, you’re underestimating Lenny Randle.

Take July 25, 1978, for instance. The Mets clobbered the Reds 9-2 at Shea, with Craig Swan spinning a complete-game gem, but it was Randle who keyed a five-run fourth inning with a two-run single. His performance earned him a spot on Kiner’s Korner, where he got to sit across from the legendary Ralph Kiner himself—a moment he cherished. Of course, as Randle shared with me, not every Met approached the experience with the same reverence.

“Guys were just in it for the watch,” Randle chuckled, referring to the prize given to players who appeared on the show. “Ed Kranepool? That guy must have had ten of them—or maybe he was flipping them after games. But me? I wasn’t there for the watch. I knew who Ralph Kiner was. Pittsburgh Pirates legend. One of the greats. To me, he wasn’t just a guy with a microphone; he was a Hall of Famer who deserved respect.”

Randle came prepared for his first Korner appearance, breaking the ice with a simple, “Hank Greenberg says hi,” a nod to his Arizona State connection with Greenberg’s son, Steve. Kiner’s surprise turned into delight, and a conversation blossomed. “It helped me relax,” Randle admitted, “because I was nervous. I didn’t know if I’d ever get back on Kiner’s Korner. That watch was nice, but talking to Ralph? That was the real reward.”

For Randle, Kiner wasn’t just an interviewer; he was an educator, a guy who asked sharp questions and appreciated players who thought deeply about the game. “Ralph would always ask me, ‘Why are you hitting .488 against the Pirates?’” Randle recalled. “I’d laugh and say, ‘I don’t know, Ralph, maybe I just like playing against Madlock and Blyleven.’ Truth is, I studied the game. I knew where fielders positioned themselves, and I’d adjust my approach. Drop a bunt here, slap one there—whatever it took to get on base.”

Kiner loved that kind of baseball IQ, the kind that seemed rare even back then. “Ralph was blown away when I explained how I could read the defense and know what pitch was coming. It’s funny—years later, guys still don’t do it. You’ve got a shift on, third baseman playing in Queens, and guys still won’t bunt. Come on, Big Papi, Cano—just bunt! Ralph appreciated that kind of hustle, and that’s what made those moments on his show so special.”

Still, Randle wasn’t immune to the allure of Kiner’s Korner swag. “The Getty gas cards? Yeah, those were cool,” he joked. “But gas was like 99 cents back then. You’d fill up, drive around, and it was gone. The watch? That was forever. A New York watch, from Kiner’s Korner. If you had that, you were part of something special.”

For Lenny Randle, that special something wasn’t just a watch or a postgame interview. It was a chance to sit across from a legend, to learn, laugh, and share in the game’s history. And in true Randle fashion, he made sure the experience was just as memorable as the man who made it possible.

As Lenny Randle wrapped up his reflections for Down on the Korner, his stories painted a vivid picture of his unique journey in baseball. But our conversations didn’t end there. When I later interviewed him for You Never Forget Your First: A Collection of New York Mets Firsts, Randle shared even more colorful anecdotes about his time with the Mets—stories filled with humor, candid insights, and unforgettable first impressions.

On April 26, 1977, Lenny Randle was traded from the Texas Rangers to the New York Mets for a player to be named later (Rick Auerbach). Reflecting on his arrival, Randle shared his vivid memories of joining the team: “[Tom] Seaver and Jerry Grote were the first ones to greet me. Grote said, ‘Leave the son of a bitch alone. You guys are driving him nuts, you writers. Henry Hecht [of the New York Post], get the hell out of the way, move.’ And I went, ‘Dang, this guy’s security? No, he’s a catcher.’ So he pushed everybody out of the way. He said, ‘Let me show you where your locker is. Here’s my cup. This is for you because I’m going to be throwing changeups, and you’re going to need a big cojoney catcher, ’cause you’re going to get involved, and I hope you got kids.’ I still have that cup.

“So I felt very welcome. Then, [Ed] Kranepool goes, ‘If there’s anything you need, you see me. I’m like the mayor.’ He opened his coat, and he had 16 watches on one side, a couple of keys to cars, whatever you need. Hats, jackets, he had everything—jewelry. I said, ‘Whoa, it’s Ed frickin’ Kranepool, Mr. Met, wow!’ The fourth guy was Willie Mays. (Mays was a Mets’ coach in 1977.) [Mimics Mays’s high-pitched voice] ‘You just shut your mouth up and keep your eyes on the prize. You stay focused. If you don’t, I’m going to cut your dick off. God damn, we’re gonna look for some car, show you what you need to live, and you leave that field every day dirty. Dirty field, dirty attitude, dirty ballplaying, you win some games. You ain’t got no dirt on your uniform, you’re gonna see me in your locker, after the game, before the game, and for the rest of your life.’ Dusty Baker had warned me that he’s a no-nonsense guy. Leave it on the field.”

Randle’s first Mets manager was Joe Frazier, who managed for 45 games before being replaced by Joe Torre, who served as a player-manager for the rest of the season. Randle noted the stark contrast between the two: “It was night and day. The first Joe Frazier was like, phone in the lineup, he had a caddy, and he put it up on the board. Sometimes we didn’t know if he was taking a nap or writing out the lineup, we don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on with the guy. He said, ‘Son, [I’m] gonna play you a little. I’m gonna put you in center field, left field, third base, shortstop.’ I go, ‘OK,’ and I joked to see if he had a sense of humor. I said, ‘In one game?’ He said, ‘Per week. During the week, you’re gonna sub for [Dave] Kingman. You’re gonna sub for Roy [Staiger] at third and Felix [Millan] at second and Buddy [Harrelson] at short.’ I went, ‘OK,’ and then it was like he drifted off to Hawaii. He didn’t say a whole lot to anybody. It looked like he was preparing to leave.”

On July 13, 1977, during a game against the Chicago Cubs at Shea Stadium, Randle was at the plate in the bottom of the sixth inning when the city-wide blackout hit. The chaos left an indelible memory: “I was batting when the lights went out, so Ray Burris, who I knew, throws the pitch, boom. I swung and took off, thinking it’s a hit. Game on. I’m from Compton—no lights? OK. God, are you telling me something? Is this the last day on earth? I left the game with a single, but they’re stopping me from going to second. I could see the ball. I played with car lights and candles. I could see what was going on—that was normal to me.

“Everybody is freaking out like, ‘Well, dude, you can’t,’ so they tackled me—[Manny] Trillo and [Ivan] de Jesus. ‘No, bro, you gotta stop.’ [in Spanish] ‘No aqui, aqui.’ I said, ‘No, I’m going to third,’ ’cause there’s no ball. Nobody knows where the freakin’ ball is. So I’m going home. ‘No, aqui.’ They held on to me for the whole 30 minutes.”

It’s fitting—and a touch ironic—that Lenny Randle, with his unique flair and boundless energy, was at the plate when the lights went out that night. Even in the surreal chaos of a game plunged into darkness, Lenny's charisma was on full display, turning a bizarre moment into another unforgettable chapter in his career. Though his passing at the age of 75 was untimely, Lenny's star will always burn brightly in the hearts of those who witnessed his incredible journey—both on and off the field.

To me, Lenny Randle was more than the highlights, the quirks, and the captivating stories—he was a friend. We spoke often, and every conversation left me grinning, thinking, or both. He was a man who brought joy to every room he entered, who saw baseball as not just a game but a canvas for self-expression and connection. Saying goodbye to Lenny is like closing a book you never wanted to end. But as I think back on all the memories, I’m reminded of something he once said to me: “Every day’s a blessing, so play like it’s your last.” Lenny lived those words, and we’re all better for it. Rest easy, my friend—you’ve left us all with stories we’ll tell forever.

As we close out this conversation, let’s take a moment to honor the impact Lenny Randall had on all of us. His passion for the game, his wisdom, and his unwavering respect for those who paved the way before him will forever resonate in the hearts of anyone who had the privilege to hear him speak. From the lessons he shared about Hank Aaron’s dignity to the stories he told about Monte Irvin’s grace, Lenny embodied what it meant to truly understand and appreciate the history of baseball. A true ambassador for the game and a mentor to many, his legacy will live on through every player he coached and every life he touched. Please, leave your memories and stories of Lenny in the comments below—because his spirit deserves to be remembered by all of us.