Mets Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing #15: The Man, The Myth, The Wristbands: Tsuyoshi Shinjo

Welcome to the fifteenth installment of Mets Sunday School: Forgotten Faces of Flushing, where we dig through the archives (and the occasional dog-eared scorecard) to revisit the players who once donned the orange and blue but have since faded into the background of Mets history. These are the names you might not find in Cooperstown—but they still left their mark at Shea, Citi, the Polo Grounds, and beyond.

Last week, we looked back at Danny Frisella—a man whose name sounds like a pasta dish but who threw a mean screwball and left Mets fans wondering what might’ve been, long before "what might've been" became the franchise motto. Frisella was a reminder of how fleeting baseball glory can be, how a wicked pitch and a good heart can still be stolen from us too soon.

This week, we’re flipping the script. If Frisella was understated and steady, this week’s subject is the human embodiment of a Times Square billboard during a fireworks show. We're talking about Tsuyoshi Shinjo—yes, that Shinjo—the first Japanese-born position player in the National League, the man who once rode a hoverbike onto a baseball field, and who legally changed his name to “BIGBOSS” because subtlety is for mortals.

If Frisella was a pitcher with poise, Shinjo is a walking fashion show with a glove. His career wasn’t defined by numbers so much as moments—like being the first Japanese-born player to appear in the World Series, or designing his team’s uniforms, or entering games like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious 27: Tokyo Infield.

So grab a seat, dust off those old scorebooks, and let’s get to work!

Let’s be honest, Tsuyoshi Shinjo was never going to quietly fade into the background. He could’ve hit .220 and booted a few fly balls, and you still would’ve noticed him. Why? Because he’s Tsuyoshi Shinjo—baseball’s answer to Liberace, if Liberace could rob a home run while wearing sunglasses and a fire-engine-red sleeve on his non-throwing arm.

Shinjo wasn’t just a player. He was a vibe. A brand. A walking GIF before GIFs were a thing.

He broke in with the Hanshin Tigers back in Japan, where he was so flashy even his batting gloves needed sunglasses. His talent? Solid. His flair? Off the charts. Eventually, he packed his bat, his hair dye, a suitcase full of wristbands, and the kind of confidence usually reserved for superhero origin stories

When he landed with the Mets in 2001, New York didn’t know what hit it. To his credit, Shinjo’s first season in Queens wasn’t just a fashion statement—it was actually kind of solid. In 2001, he played in 123 games, hit .268 with 10 home runs, 23 doubles, and drove in 56 runs. That’s not bad at all for a guy adjusting to American pitching and a strike zone the size of a postage stamp. He even swiped four bags, walked 25 times, and put up a .725 OPS—which, let’s be honest, was enough to get you a plaque in the Shea Stadium food court back then.

Defensively, he could hold his own, covering ground in center and occasionally flashing that trademark hop as he reeled in a routine fly like it was game seven of the World Series. Mets fans appreciated the energy—even if they weren’t always sure what planet he’d landed from.This was pre-Instagram, mind you, so his mere existence was confusing to half the clubhouse and utterly fascinating to the other. He smiled a lot, waved to fans mid-inning, and made every catch like he was on stage at the Tokyo Dome. He also became the first Japanese-born position player in the National League, Shinjo’s offense was...passable. Let’s leave it at that and focus on the hair.

In 2002, he joined the Giants and promptly became the first Japanese player to appear in a World Series. He went 1-for-6, which isn’t exactly Ruthian, but let’s be real—you didn’t tune in to watch Shinjo for the box score. You tuned in to see what color his hair would be that day, and whether his pants would be tighter than your junior prom tux.

After a brief return to the Mets in 2003 (where he hit .193 and was sent to AAA, a place decidedly lacking in photographers), Shinjo went back to Japan and did what all great showmen do: he turned the volume up to 11.

He joined the Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters (yes, that’s a real team name, not a meat-packing union), and helped lead them to a Japan Series title in 2006—his final season. He cried on the field, the crowd gave him a standing O, and even though the last out wasn’t his to make, the cameras never left him. Not because he asked for it. Because he was it.

And then came the Big Boss Era.

In 2021, the Fighters did what only the boldest, most entertainment-hungry franchise could do: they named Shinjo their manager. Not "manager" in the sense of clipboard-and-spit manager. No, they got "BIGBOSS" Shinjo. That’s what he legally registered his name as for the season. You could look it up on the back of his jersey—which he redesigned, naturally.

He showed up to spring training on a three-wheeled motorcycle. He entered games like a WWE villain—once on a hoverbike, once through a fog machine. He created new uniforms with a giant V across the chest for “Victory,” but which looked more like a Vancouver Canucks fever dream. And the team? They weren’t exactly world-beaters, but fans filled the stands just to see what Big Boss would do next.

Because that’s the magic of Shinjo. He was never about WAR or OPS+ or any of the other alphabet soup the analytics crowd loves to spoon up. He was about fun. About spectacle. About joy in a game that sometimes takes itself so seriously, it forgets we’re all just trying to watch people hit balls with sticks and run in a circle.

He’s a reminder that baseball doesn’t always have to be about grinding out wins or launching into think pieces about launch angle. Sometimes, it’s about hopping after a fly ball. Or turning a routine play into a Broadway bow. Or making sure your hair looks perfect under a helmet.

Tsuyoshi Shinjo may never make the Hall of Fame. But if they ever open a Hall of Fun, he’s a first-ballot inductee.

Big Boss out.