Welcome to the twelfth installment of Mets Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, where we take a trip down memory lane to revisit the orange-and-blue-clad players who time—and often Mets fans—seem to have forgotten. Every week, we’ll rummage through baseball cards (or crumbling programs that smelled like hot dogs) to shine a light on the Mets who didn’t make headlines but still found a way to be part of the team’s unpredictable and unforgettable history at Shea, Citi, the Polo Grounds, and beyond.
Last week, we turned our attention to Al Weis, an unlikely postseason hero for the 1969 Miracle Mets. Known more for his glove than his bat, Weis delivered some of the biggest hits of the World Series, proving that sometimes, the unlikeliest of players can rise to the occasion when it matters most. Though he was never a star, his contributions to that championship team—and his journey through the game—deserved another look.
This week, we shift our focus to Chico Walker, a versatile utility man who wore many hats—both figuratively and literally—during his baseball career. Though his Mets tenure was short-lived, Walker’s ability to play multiple positions and provide a spark off the bench made him a valuable asset. A classic journeyman, he had the kind of career that defines Forgotten Faces of Flushing—never a superstar, but always ready when called upon.
So grab a seat, sharpen your pencils, and let’s get to work!
Chico Walker understood better than most that making it to the big leagues was only half the battle—staying there was the real challenge. A true jack-of-all-trades, he carved out an 11-season career with four different teams, thriving on his ability to play almost anywhere on the field. From the infield to the outfield, Walker did whatever was needed to keep his spot on a roster. The only positions he didn’t play were pitcher and catcher—but if a game had gone 18 innings, you can bet he’d have been ready to take the mound or strap on the gear.
A Jackson, Mississippi native, Walker moved to Chicago as a kid and wasted no time making himself at home on local ballfields. By age 12, he had already homered at Comiskey Park and played at Wrigley Field in Little League championship games. That’s like an aspiring actor getting a scene with Robert De Niro before high school. The Red Sox took a flyer on him in the 22nd round of the 1976 draft, and he grinded his way through the minors. Along the way, he even got to be part of baseball history—sort of. In 1981, playing for the Pawtucket Red Sox, Walker took part in “The Longest Game,” a 33-inning marathon against Rochester that spanned two months. He went 2-for-14, which is the kind of stat you conveniently leave off your résumé, but hey, at least he got a front-row seat to history.
Before arriving in New York, Walker had already seen action with the Red Sox, Cubs, and Angels. He was never the guy you built a team around, but he was the guy who kept it from falling apart when injuries hit. Mets fans appreciated his everyman quality—he wasn’t flashy, but he showed up, did his job, and didn’t complain.Of course, Mets fans will always remember Walker for his brief but unintentional role in franchise history. On September 17, 1986, the Cubs utility man found himself at the plate with two outs in the ninth at Shea Stadium—one swing away from either spoiling the party or becoming trivia fodder. With the Mets leading 4-2, Dwight Gooden got Walker to roll over on a grounder to second, and just like that, the Mets were NL East champs. Fans stormed the field, tearing up the turf like it was Woodstock ’69 with a better bullpen. The grounds crew spent all night patching up the damage for the next day’s game, probably wondering if they should start laying down artificial turf just to save themselves the trouble.
But baseball wasn’t the only sport in Walker’s blood. A decade after he helped christen the Shea Stadium landscaping crew’s worst nightmare, his nephew, Antoine Walker, became a first-round pick of the Boston Celtics. The power forward went on to have a 12-season NBA career, proving that versatility—and a little showmanship—definitely ran in the family.Walker wasn’t just versatile—he was baseball’s answer to duct tape. Need a third baseman? He’s got it. A second baseman? Sure. A left fielder? Why not? Center, right, DH? Just hand him a glove. He was the ultimate plug-and-play guy before that phrase became an excuse for front offices to avoid making real roster decisions. A switch-hitter with some wheels, Walker was the guy managers loved having on the roster—but maybe not penciling into the starting lineup too often.
Jeff Torborg, Walker’s manager with the Mets in 1992, summed it up with brutal honesty: “I’d rather not have to play him every day. I like him coming off the bench.” Not exactly a confidence booster, but hey, it beats “We need to talk about your future.” Hitting coach Tom McCraw had a softer take: “Chico could always hit, but hitters need time. He got labeled a part-time player, and that shortchanged him.”
By the time Walker landed in Queens in ‘92, the Mets were a team in search of an identity—and, frankly, a pulse. The roster was a mix of aging stars, expensive letdowns, and guys just trying to hold things together. Walker? He was one of the few bright spots. In 107 games, he hit .308 with a .369 on-base percentage, providing speed, versatility, and—unlike some of his teammates—actual effort. He even added 12 doubles, a triple, and 4 homers, proving that sometimes the most reliable guy isn’t the one making the headlines.
Chico Walker’s 1992 season with the Mets wasn’t exactly the stuff of legend, but for a utility guy on a struggling team, he had his moments. He appeared in 126 games, with the Mets going 46-80 when he played and 20-29 in games he started. His bat was streaky—his longest hitting streak was eight games, and he reached base in 15 straight at one point—but consistency was never really his calling card.
Still, Walker had a knack for delivering when runners were on base. In his 287 plate appearances, he racked up 38 RBIs, outperforming the average major leaguer with the same number of chances. And while power wasn’t his specialty, when he did go deep, it was usually in dramatic fashion.
His first Mets homer came on June 6, 1992, a ninth-inning shot off Dennis Lamp in Pittsburgh. The game was already a blowout—New York was up 12-1—but hey, home runs look the same in the box score. The real fireworks came on July 11, when Walker crushed a three-run bomb off Jimmy Jones in Houston, padding an early Mets lead. He added another in September, a ninth-inning solo shot off Dennis Martínez in Montreal, though it did little to prevent a 4-1 loss.
In 1993, Walker kept the power coming, launching five more homers. His biggest was a three-run shot at Wrigley Field off Greg Hibbard on September 3, but his last as a Met came in fitting fashion—one final deep drive on October 3 against the Marlins. That blast put him in rare company: Walker is one of the few MLB players to homer in both his first and last at-bats. Among the others to achieve this feat? Jeff Tackett, Gregg Olson, and Tony Phillips—a group that, much like Walker himself, rarely got the spotlight but always seemed to find a way to make their mark.
Chico Walker may not have been a household name, but he carved out a career that most players can only dream of—one built on versatility, hustle, and a few memorable moments, including making the final out in the Mets' 1986 division-clincher and homering in both his first and last big-league at-bats. And let’s not forget—his nephew, Antoine Walker, took a different path to stardom, dominating the NBA for over a decade.
Next week, we shift gears to another underrated Met who had a knack for delivering in big spots. Stay tuned as we dive into the story of yet another Met player whose impact went far beyond the box score.
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