Las Vegas 51s Backman: old school manager and jokester

About two weeks ago, Logan Verrett was sitting in the Las Vegas 51s’ bullpen, palling around with some teammates during a game, when his manager, Wally Backman, motioned for him. Backman had a stern look on his face, and Verrett had a feeling he was in trouble.

“I don’t like my starters sitting down in the bullpen,” Backman told Verrett, and Verrett started rambling that the pitching coach had given him permission.

Once Backman had watched Verrett squirm enough, he told him he would not be able to sit in the bullpen anymore — because the New York Mets had promoted him to the big leagues.

The Mets have been so ravaged with injuries this season that they have had to call up numerous players from the Triple-A 51s, some of whom look ready and some of whom look as if they could use more time in the minors. When Steven Matz, one of their prized prospects, made his pitching debut Sunday, he became the 14th rookie to play for the Mets this year.

“People joke about it being the New York 51s,” said Kevin Plawecki, the Mets’ rookie catcher.

For the Mets, playing so many rookies has been challenging and, at times, frustrating. But for the players, being promoted to the majors, no matter the circumstances, is a life-changing experience.

And Backman, as the deliverer of the good news, has used the moment to play practical jokes on some of the players, to “have some fun,” as he put it in a telephone interview, and to make all of it more memorable.

Those who have recently played for him describe Backman — an Oregon native and longtime Prineville resident and a member of the 1986 World Series champion Mets — as a players’ manager who also has an old-school mentality.

He smokes cigarettes in the dugout, uses expletives as adjectives, preaches playing the game the right way and takes losses personally — which makes him just about the last person they expect to pull pranks.

The comedic timing is practically built in for him. The 51s are based in Las Vegas, three time zones from New York, which is a somewhat unusual arrangement for a major league team and its top farm team. As a result, Backman can receive word about a player’s being promoted at unexpected moments, sometimes during Las Vegas games, and the news must be delivered immediately, without any formal meeting, because the player must rush to collect his belongings and hop the next flight to wherever the Mets might be.

Darrell Ceciliani was out to dinner with his family after a 51s game in Tacoma, Washington, when Backman called, asking to speak with the young outfielder’s father about a hunting trip. This was not an unusual request, because Backman lives about 30 minutes from the Cecilianis in Central Oregon (they live in Madras) and has gotten to know various family members. Backman told Ceciliani’s father, also named Darrell, that the Mets were calling up his son, then asked the elder Ceciliani to return the phone to his son without giving away the surprise.

Once Backman told Ceciliani, he took his appetizers to go, rushed back to the clubhouse to collect his gear, swung by the team hotel, drove to nearby Sea-Tac International airport, and got his first major league hit the next day.

Not every call-up takes a player by surprise. Many 51s players pay close attention to news reports about the Mets, and when an injury occurs, they have an inkling that someone may be promoted. They all know that when Backman calls a player who is doing well into his office, he is usually heading to the big leagues.

When the Mets’ Dillon Gee was injured in May, Backman called Noah Syndergaard into the office one day in El Paso. Syndergaard does not remember exactly what Backman said. He heard the key words, that he was going to the major leagues for the first time. Then, Syndergaard said, “everything went blank after that.”

But as far as Backman was concerned, that did not mean Syndergaard’s minor league duties were over. As the previous day’s starting pitcher for Las Vegas, Syndergaard was required to shag balls during batting practice, a chore called “the buckets.” So once Syndergaard had made a few calls, he went to roam the outfield, still dazed.

“That’s the best part of being a big leaguer,” Syndergaard said. “You don’t have to do the buckets.”

In 2014, Backman was drinking a beer at a hotel bar in Salt Lake City when he got word from the Mets at about midnight that Eric Campbell, who had spent half a dozen years in the minors, was finally being called up.

Backman sent a player to fetch Campbell, who was getting ready for bed. Campbell assumed Backman was just giving him a hard time for no particular reason and told him off. Backman found his reaction amusing.

Several Mets newcomers have told the same story about Backman. In early April, Danny Muno hit a fly ball to right field and did not run particularly hard to first base. As Muno went back to the dugout, Backman immediately ripped into him, ordered him to hustle harder the next time and pulled him from the game.

“Muno got all mad,” Ceciliani said, “and told him to go fly a kite.”

But as Muno stalked away, Backman finally broke character and told him why: He was headed to the Mets.

“Trust me, he’s as old school as they get,” said Frank Viola, the 51s’ pitching coach, who is often present when Backman promotes a player. “But he does have a soft side. It just takes a while to find it.”