Jack DiLauro, a soft-spoken southpaw who pitched his way into Mets immortality as a member of the 1969 Miracle Mets, passed away peacefully at his home on December 7, 2024, at the age of 81. Surrounded by the family and friends who meant the world to him, Jack’s final inning closed with the same quiet dignity that defined his life. For those of us who grew up cherishing baseball cards like sacred relics, Jack was more than just a player—he was a piece of a magical puzzle that somehow turned the lovable-loser Mets into champions of the baseball universe. And for those lucky enough to meet him, as I did at Citi Field during the 50th anniversary reunion in 2019, he was an even better storyteller than a pitcher—which is saying something, considering his sterling rookie season ERA of 2.40. Another hero of our youth has gone, and with him, another reason to remember that the Miracle Mets were more than a team—they were a feeling, one we’ll carry with us as long as we live.
Jack DiLauro, a lefty from Akron, Ohio, wasn’t exactly a household name for the 1969 New York Mets, but he played a sneaky-good role in their improbable march to the National League pennant. In a year when the Amazin’s defied every oddsmaker and half their fans, DiLauro was an unsung hero—kind of like the bass player in a rock band. You don’t notice him until he stops playing, but boy, does he hold things together.
Born on March 3, 1943, in Akron, Jack Edward DiLauro was the kind of multi-sport star that made every high school coach’s job easier. At Akron North High, he excelled in football, basketball, and baseball. He even snagged a football scholarship to the University of Akron, but Jack decided he’d rather throw strikes than touchdowns, so he signed a pro baseball contract instead.
In 1961, he pitched for the Tramonte Black Labels in the Greater Akron AA Baseball League, which sounds like it could also be the name of a blues band. By 1962, he was 8-1 and led the Black Labels to the league championship. This caught the attention of the Detroit Tigers, who signed him in 1963 for a $15,000 bonus—a nice chunk of change for a 19-year-old. Jack was sent to Jamestown, where he posted a solid 14-10 record with a 3.54 ERA. Over the next few years, he climbed the minor league ladder, stopping in places like Duluth, Rocky Mount, and Syracuse. It wasn’t exactly glamorous, but hey, minor league bus rides build character.
By 1967, the Tigers had moved their Triple-A team closer to home in Toledo, which gave DiLauro’s Akron fan club a shorter drive to see him pitch. Jack thrived, going 6-5 with a respectable ERA and helping the Mud Hens win the International League playoffs. In 1968, he improved to 11-6 with a 3.65 ERA, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. The Tigers were stacked, with Denny McLain winning 31 games and Mickey Lolich becoming a World Series hero. Breaking into that rotation was like trying to join a sold-out Springsteen concert.
Still, Jack had talent, and other teams noticed. Before the 1969 season, Detroit shipped him to the Mets for a minor league catcher named Hector Valle. At first, Jack wasn’t thrilled. “I looked at the Mets’ rotation—Seaver, Koosman, Ryan, Gentry—and thought, ‘Well, that’s it. I’m going back to the minors.’”
But the Mets gave him a shot. DiLauro started the season in Triple-A Tidewater, where Whitey Herzog—then the Mets’ farm director—saw something in the lefty. “Whitey believed you didn’t need to throw through a wall to win games,” Jack later said. After a few strong starts, the Mets called him up in May when Nolan Ryan went on the DL with a groin injury.
Jack made his big-league debut on May 15 against the Braves, and it went like a dream. He entered in relief, retired six straight batters, and gave the Mets a chance to rally (they didn’t, but you can’t have everything). Then came his first start on June 4 against the Dodgers. Facing Bill Singer, DiLauro was untouchable, retiring 19 straight at one point. The crowd at Shea gave him a standing ovation when he left in the ninth inning, and the Mets won in extras. Jack called it “the biggest thrill of my career.”
He wasn’t just a one-hit wonder, either. For a while, DiLauro was one of the steadiest arms in the Mets’ bullpen. By season’s end, he had a shiny 2.40 ERA in 63 2/3 innings. Not bad for a guy who thought he’d be stuck in Tidewater.
Of course, it wasn’t all roses. DiLauro never got much face time with manager Gil Hodges. “Gil didn’t talk to anyone, not even his own shadow,” Jack joked. “I hung out with the other bench guys—Rod Gaspar, Bobby Pfeil. Nolan Ryan was in that group, too. He was unhappy in New York, but man, could he throw smoke.”
Despite his contributions, Jack didn’t pitch in the postseason as the Mets used just six pitchers during their World Series run. But he stayed ready, just in case. When the dust settled and the Mets pulled off their miracle, Jack had his World Series ring—a fitting reward for a season where he quietly helped the Amazin’s do the unthinkable.
The stories and memories he shared at the 50th reunion were like hearing an old hit song on the radio—you knew the words, but his delivery gave them new life. He started with a reflection that carried a sense of humility and wonder: “It didn’t really hit me, the fact that I won my first major league game on the night we landed on the moon. So that’s kind of cool. But what, just what you were witnessing at the time.”
What followed was a walk down memory lane that captured both the extraordinary and the ordinary. “At that time, that was unheard of, obviously,” he said, referencing the parallel narratives of the Apollo moon landing and the Mets’ improbable rise. “There was obviously nervousness on my part, just for their health, their welfare. You’re really going to touch down, or you’re going to blow up. But it was, you know, "one giant step", which was terrific.”
He couldn’t help but connect the significance of those historic moments. “I think it’s a first—a first for the club, first for the world, the United States, the world, for the landing. It created something in this country. I think the Mets, because of the way we won it. The Apollo landing, the way it was, and all the press that went through it.”
Of course, he couldn’t resist a light jab at how media has evolved. “The media of that time was a little different than you guys now, obviously. The coverage was precise, close-knit.” And then, with a tone that suggested both pride and amazement, he added, “I think baseball that year kept a lot of good attitudes throughout the country. Not just New York City, but I think throughout the whole country.”
He reflected on the whirlwind of that season: “Of course, the Cubs had their run, and then we went by them and did that. We turned a lot of fans throughout the country in our favor. Not just New York, but New York, New Jersey, this whole New England area. It was just amazing.”
When I asked him about the influence of mentors, his face lit up. “Yogi Berra was right there,” he said. “I think that statement I made then, I’ll make it again today. Growing up, Yogi wasn’t that much older than me, but being a kid playing in the neighborhood, I’d come to bat, and I was Yogi Berra. My brother, the catcher, he was Yogi Berra.” He chuckled at the memory, adding, “And then to meet him, to be interviewed by Ralph Kiner? That was just terrific.”
But there were heavier moments too, grounded in the reality of 1969, a year when the Vietnam War was raging and dividing the nation. He reflected on the unease many players felt, caught between their baseball dreams and the turmoil overseas. “The big question came up with me especially—I had never talked to the other players about it—but we all wondered, should we be here or over there?”
It was a candid admission about the weight of the times, when nightly news broadcasts were filled with images of conflict and protests back home. “Because we were a tight-knit group, we got through it. The older guys, I’ll call them the old men, kept the younger guys steady. And we just prayed we could bring as many home as possible.”
In those few sentences, he captured the bittersweet juxtaposition of playing America’s pastime while the country grappled with its darkest realities—a reminder that even in the glow of a championship season, the shadows of the world weren’t far away.
He reminisced about the role of leadership on that team, name-dropping veterans who shaped the club’s ethos. “You put Cardwell in there. You’ve got guys who’ve been through the dirt, so to speak, and then you’ve got a bunch of young guys who all they knew was how to do was win. I never liked losing. I played against Seaver in ’65, and watching that kid throw, I thought, ‘Holy shit.’” He laughed, recalling how they teased Seaver as the “multibillion-dollar rookie,” but quickly admitted, “He knew what he was doing.”
And then, with a twinkle in his eye, he couldn’t resist recounting the infamous Ed Sullivan moment. “Oh God, I did. Seaver and Koosman had a hold of my coat, trying to drag me out there. They let go, and next thing you know, I’m doing my impression of Ed Sullivan—live on the show! I had a big glass of scotch in me because I thought it was being videoed, not live. I nearly freaked out when I realized I was on stage live, but it was fun. I had a great time. I’m famous back in my hometown for that, you know!”
Of course, being the intrepid journalist (and Ed Sullivan fan) that I am, I couldn’t resist asking, “Would you do a little of it for me now?” At first, he politely declined with a firm, “No. It’s been years.” But then, like magic, before my very eyes, he morphed into Ed himself. With a perfectly timed wave of his hand, he declared in a spot-on Sullivan voice:
“Right here, right here, right now, on our stage. Thank you.”
It was pure gold—like I’d stepped into a time machine and landed smack in the middle of the Ed Sullivan Show. My only regret? Not having a big glass of scotch myself to toast the moment.
Jack DiLauro may not have been the face on the poster every kid hung in their room, and his baseball card might have been voted most likely to be closed-pinned to your bike spokes, but he was as much a part of the 1969 Miracle Mets as anyone.Every great story needs its unsung heroes, and for the Mets, Jack DiLauro was one of them. He may not have had the spotlight, but he was the kind of player who quietly made things happen when it mattered most. With his passing, we lose not just a member of that historic team, but a piece of our baseball youth. Here’s to Jack, who pitched with heart, told stories with humor, and lived with dignity. The roster up in the sky just got a little more Amazin’.
Great story.