If you grew up watching baseball in New York, Ralph Kiner wasn’t just the voice of the Mets—he was our postgame poet, the maestro of awkward sponsor plugs, and the king of TV interviews where the players did as much heavy lifting as the microphones. And nowhere did his charm shine brighter than on Kiner’s Korner, the show I respected and loved so much, I co-wrote a book about it with Howie Karpin (Down On The Korner: Ralph Kiner and Kiner’s Korner) and launched this very website as a tribute to Ralph and his iconic creation.
Of all the stories we uncovered for the book, one of my absolute favorites was the unforgettable episode from Sunday, August 21, 1977. That day, Jerry Koosman and Tom Seaver graced The Korner, where Koosman dropped a bombshell, finally confessing that he’d masterminded a years-old practical joke—one that Seaver, to his everlasting frustration, had been the unwitting butt of.
The year 1977 will forever live in Mets infamy as the year they did the unthinkable: trading away The Franchise himself, Tom Terrific. On June 15, in what’s now known as the Midnight Massacre, Tom Seaver was shipped off to the Cincinnati Reds for Doug Flynn, Steve Henderson, Dan Norman, and Pat Zachry—a haul that, let’s just say, didn’t exactly scream “equal value.” After a decade in blue and orange, Seaver was now wearing Cincinnati red.
Fast forward to August 21, and baseball fans were treated to a showdown as Seaver made his 12th start for the Reds against his former teammate and longtime friend Jerry Koosman at Shea Stadium. That night, Seaver was, well, Tom Terrific, tossing a complete-game gem: 9 innings, 6 hits, 1 run, and 11 strikeouts. Koosman, for his part, battled but took the loss, going 7.1 innings, allowing 2 earned runs, and striking out 7. The producers of Kiner’s Korner clearly knew this was must-watch TV, bringing the two former teammates-turned-opponents onto the set for a postgame chat. Cue the Flag of Victory Polka—and grab your popcorn—because Koosman had a story to tell about that night that would leave even Seaver scratching his head.
So there they were two of the Mets greatest pitchers in franchise history to that point on Kiner’s Korner, the cameras rolling, the theme music fading out.Ralph was sitting behind his desk, the captain of his postgame ship, with Seaver two seats over, ever the picture of professionalism. Koosman was seated right next to Ralph, smirking like a kid who just found out he’s getting dessert before dinner. The air was thick with nostalgia and the kind of camaraderie you can only build through years in the trenches. Ralph kicked things off by saying, "You two had been teammates for about ten years. Surely there’s a story or two you could share."
Jerry Koosman jumped at the chance. “Oh, I’ve got one,” he said. And boy, did he.
Koosman leaned back in his chair, the mischievous glint in his eye making it clear this was going to be good.
“It all started with a little bugging device I ordered from the back of a sporting magazine in the clubhouse,” he began. This gadget could tune into an FM frequency, broadcasting whatever you wanted over a radio. And wouldn’t you know it, Seaver had the only FM radio in the clubhouse, perched right above his locker. I enlisted our trainer, Jack Simon, who did a spot-on Howard Cosell impression, and together we cooked up the prank of all pranks.
One day, after batting practice, with the clubhouse full of players, I snuck the bugging device into the doctor’s office, just a few steps away. I told Jack to wait there, count down from ten, and then start his best Howard Cosell routine. Meanwhile, I climbed up on Seaver’s stool, fiddled with his radio like it was no big deal, and tuned it to the right frequency.
As I walked away, Seaver was talking to Don Grant, the Mets’ chairman of the board, right by his locker. Then, like clockwork, over the clubhouse speakers boomed, “Hello, everybody. This is Howard Cosell speaking. I’d like to interrupt this program with an NBC Sports bulletin.”
The room froze. Every ear turned to the radio. “The New York Mets have just announced a major trade today, sending right-handed pitcher Tom Seaver and left-handed hitter Ed Kranepool to the Houston Astros for third baseman Doug Rader…” And it kept going, naming pitchers like Doug Konieczny—a guy we hammered every time he took the mound.
Don Grant went pale. “What station is that?!” he barked, charging out of the clubhouse to track it down. Seaver, meanwhile, stood there stunned, not saying a word. Shell-shocked doesn’t even cover it. I casually strolled over to him, extended my hand, and said, “Well, Tom, I guess this is goodbye.”
He just stared at me, blinking like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. When he finally raised his hand to shake mine, it was the limpest, most reluctant handshake you could imagine—just the tips of his fingers brushing mine. Then he stormed over to his locker, swearing up a storm and throwing whatever he could get his hands on. The whole scene was pure chaos. I couldn’t stop laughing.
But then I realized this thing might’ve gone too far. I rushed back to Jack and whispered, “Get out of here. Don’t say a word to anyone.” And we didn’t—for years.
Fast forward to that Kiner’s Korner interview. I decided it was finally time to spill the beans. As I told the story, I could see the monitor showing my close-up, and Seaver, sitting just to my right, leaning out of the shot. When I got to the part where he was throwing stuff in his locker, he leaned over and whispered, “You motherf***er.”
That was the first time he ever heard the full story—and the first time Ralph heard it too. Seaver was furious, but we all laughed so hard it didn’t matter. To this day, that prank remains the greatest one I ever pulled.
Here is the audio of Jerry telling me the story :
Years later, thinking back on that August evening in 1977, I can’t help but marvel at the magic of Kiner’s Korner. It wasn’t just a postgame show; it was a stage for stories that blended baseball with humanity, humor, and a little mischief. Ralph Kiner had a gift for letting moments breathe, for creating a space where legends could let their guard down and remind us they were human too. That night, as Koosman confessed his prank and Seaver begrudgingly endured it, we saw more than stats and scorelines—we saw friendship, rivalry, and the sheer joy of a clubhouse that lives on in memory. And honestly? I’d give anything to watch Seaver’s face in real time as Koosman told that story. That’s the kind of thing that makes you love baseball forever.