David Wright was the captain Mets fans deserved
David Wright gives his speech during his number retirement ceremony before a game between the New York Mets and the Cincinnati Reds at Citi Field on Saturday, July 19, 2025. Credit: Jim McIsaac
It was in the early minutes of Nov. 2, 2015, and the home clubhouse at Citi Field had just opened to the media, snapping the protective bubble that had encased these players who had lost the World Series to the Royals less than an hour earlier.
It was a raw scene: shellshock and the sort of spirit-crushing sadness that comes from stoking the flame of hope and then seeing it snuffed out.
And then there was David Wright.
Of course Wright was upset. This would end up being the only World Series appearance of his career, and during his number retirement ceremony speech Saturday afternoon, he all but apologized for never bringing a championship to this franchise.
But you don’t stop being The Captain because you’re sad, or because this might be your only shot at a ring, or because everyone around you is miserable and misery loves company.
No, captains are made for choppy waters.
And so Wright stuffed down whatever inner turmoil he might’ve felt, went around the clubhouse and thanked his teammates — so many of them slumped in their chairs, still in uniform.
And then he issued the edict: It’s time to go outside.
Among those of us who were there then, there was a moment of confusion. “What’s going on? Should we follow?” But that’s the thing about Wright: When he spoke, people did follow.
It was nearly 1 a.m. by then, but it turned out the stands weren’t empty, and Wright, who understood the heartbeat of this fan base in a way that few other players did, knew they wouldn’t be. Because, to him, this “is a blue-collar, bring-your-lunch-pail-to-work-type fan base,” he said Saturday. And that means that sure, you show up when things are going well, but what really matters is that you stay, even when all is lost.
So the Mets and Wright, with dirt still on his uniform, turned to the remaining fans and saluted them, thanked them. The modest crowd gave as good as they got, chanting “Thank you, Mets!” despite feeling no shortage of disappointment of their own. The players stayed there for about 15 minutes, some grimacing, some teary-eyed, but all waving.
It was just a moment, but it encapsulates what Wright means to this franchise.
On Saturday, his No. 5 was the 10th number to be retired by the team; he also was officially inducted into the Mets’ Hall of Fame. The stands were filled with fans in faded Wright shirseys — relics too precious to be thrown out regardless of age or condition.
But it was more than that, because, again, where Wright goes, people still follow. Jose Reyes was there and Cliff Floyd, Joe McEwing, Daniel Murphy, Willie Randolph and so many others. When Wright ran out onto the field during the ceremony, he dusted off a gold-covered third base with his foot and stood there, waving and thanking the fans, not unlike how he did it a decade ago.
And then he issued that apology.
“Whether I earned this love, this respect, can probably be debated,” he said to the adoring horde. “I never accomplished my goal of bringing a World Series back to Queens, but I promise you, I gave it everything I had and wanted it just as badly as you did.”
Of that, there was never any doubt.
Wright’s final game was unforgettable in a sort of searing way — an imperfect ending that, at the time, felt so far removed from closure. Battling the spinal stenosis that ended what likely would have been a Hall of Fame career, he worked tirelessly for one more shot.
He worked for three straight years.
In the baseball sense, it was a tragedy. Wright, the homegrown Met, often looked fragile, belying the old image of the grinning, playful third baseman who would make barehanded picks with acrobatic ease and stick out his tongue as he whipped the ball to first.
It would take him hours to prepare for games, and on Sept. 29, 2018, he got his final chance. He walked in his first at-bat, and when he came up for his second — the last one of his career — the air at Citi Field shifted.
Surely, the legendary Met who homered the first time he returned from spinal stenosis in 2015 had just a little bit more magic left in him, right?
Certainly, a career in which he became the franchise leader in hits, doubles, RBIs, walks, extra-base hits and multi-hit games couldn’t end with a whimper.
But Flushing is no fantasy land, and when Wright popped out in foul territory, everyone in attendance had to confront a stark reality that transcends the game.
Things don’t always work out. Life isn’t the movies. Sure, you can be romantic about baseball, but do so at your own risk.
By his own admission, Wright struggled with that. Not anymore.
“It just, it was done and it took a while for my brain and my heart to match up with that,” he said Saturday. “I think that very few athletes get the ending that they want, that storybook ending. I certainly wouldn’t call mine a storybook ending.”
But . . .
“But it’s better than 99% of what other athletes get, and I’ll forever be grateful for getting that opportunity.”
It is, again, like that night in November, or the speech he gave after his last game. David Wright, The Captain who questions whether he deserves the love he gets, the one who gets bashful around being called “Captain America,” never did get the ending everyone wanted for him.
But still, he says thank you.
“If you give to the game, the game will give back to you,” he said. “I went out there and tried to play the game the right way and give to the game, and I’ll certainly say the game has given me more than I can imagine.”
Including one more chance. Because on Saturday, nothing could take away Wright’s moment — not his balky back, not the 2007 collapse that he still regrets, not a lost World Series.
And throughout it all, another theme emerged.
Wright called his relationship with the fans “special” because he, like them, embraced the blue-collar mentality. What he didn’t say is that he, like them, understands what it means to fight the odds, lose, get up and try again until you can’t.
“Walking around the city the last few days seeing the No. 5 on the backs of so many people in New York has been humbling,” he said.
In the tribute video played before the ceremony, narrator Tim Robbins reads: “In this town, legends aren’t born, they’re built.” Of Wright, he adds: “His foundation became resilience and, in that process, he became one of us.”
“One of us” — it’s a powerful statement, especially in a town like this, but it’s one supported by the sea of Wright jerseys spotted around the city this weekend.
It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? In a way, everyone there on Saturday was No. 5. And from here on out, no one else will ever be.
And that, finally, is the storybook ending Wright deserves.
Laura Albanese is a reporter, feature writer and columnist covering local professional sports teams; she began at Newsday in 2007 as an intern.
