Have you ever noticed that names in baseball hold a certain magic? I don’t necessarily mean the players the names belong to, but rather the names themselves, which manage to capture my imagination in ways nothing else can. That’s not to say the players aren’t important or that their accomplishments on the field don’t contribute to that magic. Actually, just the opposite is true; the player and the name pair in the minds of fans to create a sort of language, one all baseball fans speak.

For instance, take Willie Mays and Hank Aaron. Without the player behind the names, they carry a completely different “connotation.” Willie and Hank by themselves are nicknames, facilitating an easy sense of familiarity. But once you add the “Mays” or “Aaron,” the name transforms into something majestic, something that sounds almost kingly, which makes sense; both men are baseball royalty. Their towering feats on the diamond give new life to the mere whisper of their names.

Sometimes, the names become synonymous with mediocrity. Doug Flynn. I think David Newhan might be headed down the same route. Other times the names overpower the memory of the player, like the name just belongs in the sport. The name almost lends credence to the sport’s legitimate existence—some names you just can’t make up. These are by far my favorite types.

In my younger days, I used to love giving my father an excuse to pull out his copy of MacMillan’s The Baseball Encyclopedia, an immense relic affectionately known to many as the “Big Mac.” The book is easily the single largest volume on my father’s bookshelf. Baseball-Reference.com and other computerized encyclopedias are superior to the tome in nearly every single way, but I do miss browsing Big Mac’s tissue-thin pages. It’s more difficult to find things you’re not looking for on a computer. Best of all were the names, accompanied only by their stats.

I’m hardly the first person to find the names of baseball enchanting—almost every word of Dave Frishberg’s 1969 song “Van Lingle Mungo,” is the name of a baseball player, written after he purchased a copy of the original Big Mac and stumbled upon Mungo’s name.

I thought I’d peruse the Mets’ all-time roster, and let their names draw me where they will. I might make this an occasional feature here at MetsGeek, to pass a dull moment from time-to-time, so I hope you enjoy.

D.J. Dozier

In truth, Sky’s mention of Dozier in yesterday’s column inspired this whole exercise. Dozier’s actually one of my favorite Mets, an almost irrational love. There’s something musical about his name, and the nine-year-old version of myself loved the sound of it. D.J. Dozier. Perhaps the most interesting thing about it? His given name is William Henry. Maybe the D.J. stands for Dozier Junior, which would make his full nickname a palindrome—Dozier Junior Dozier. The legend grows.

Dozier was a two-sport athlete in high school and was drafted by the Tigers in the 18th round of the 1983 draft. However, he turned them down to attend Penn State, where he starred on the football team as a running back. He was drafted by the Vikings in the first round of the NFL draft, but never established himself as a quality back, finding himself stuck behind Herschel Walker. The Vikings eventually heard his pleas for a trade and sent him to back up Barry Sanders in Detroit, which is sort of like being sent to back up Cal Ripken—good luck finding an opportunity.

Seeing the writing on the wall, Dozier decided to become a two-sport professional athlete, in the mold of Bo Jackson. A Norfolk, Virginia native, the Mets were the logical choice, and scouts were extremely impressed with his speed and raw tools. When he got off to a blistering start to his baseball career in 1990—he hit .324/.395/.569 for Double-A Jackson after a very strong showing in St. Lucie—he shot up prospect lists. Baseball America named him the number 44 prospect in America, placing him fourth on the organization list. He was on the old side (24), however, and was likely feasting on less mature players. His power vanished the next season when he was bumped up to Tidewater, and he hit even worse the season after.

The Mets did call him up in May of 1992 before quickly realizing he wasn’t ready. He got a September call-up, also, but nothing else in his pro career. The Mets shipped him to San Diego along with three others for Tony Fernandez, in what might have been the most damaging trade in team history. Why? Not just because Fernandez moped his way to a .225 average, but because it robbed the team of a chance to have a battery of Wally Whitehurst and Raul Casanova with Dozier in left field. You don’t trade names like those.

Dozier retired after 1993, despite getting calls to become a replacement player during the strike. The following appeared in The Virginian-Pilot in January, 1995:

“The Lord just . . . told me to put down the cleats,” said Dozier, who at 29 is in his first year as athletic director at Rock Church’s Rock Academy. “He told me it was time to train for the ministry. It kind of hit me after the 1993 baseball season, when I was trying to work out to play winter ball.”

Dozier traveled as a missionary for a while before eventually becoming a financial planner and joining up with another former flameout, Tyler Green. The pair provide sound financial advice for professional athletes looking to rejoin the real world. See folks? It is possible to live in harmony with the Phillies.

Dozier Junior Dozier: football player, baseball player, missionary, financial planner, peacemaker.

Skip Lockwood

What a name. It sounds like he could be part of the supporting cast on an old Western, perhaps joining Jesse James Hudson, Chip Ambres, and Brian Buchanan. If my name was Claude, I’d prefer to go by Skip, too.

Is Skip Lockwood the most overlooked player in team history? He’s certainly the most overlooked reliever. As much as Met fans have disliked their closers over the years, they’ve really been incredibly fortunate in this regard. They’ve almost always had someone solid in the position, which is more than most teams can say. There’s rarely been a season where the position just imploded. Along with catcher, it’s really been the team’s most stable spot despite the nature of the job has changed significantly over the years. The team’s just always had a capable anchor in the pen.

Lockwood was the bridge between Tug McGraw and Jesse Orosco. Actually that’s not quite true. He was actually the bridge between McGraw and Neil Allen, a young flamethrower, who was pretty successful his first couple years in the role before faltering in 1983 and being included in the deal for Keith Hernandez.

At least Allen will be remembered for that. John Franco will be remembered for butting in where he wasn’t wanted, Armando Benitez for blowing big game after big game, and Orosco for 1986. McGraw for the power of belief. Billy Wagner is one of the best relievers of the past decade. And guys like Jeff Reardon, Rick Aguilera, and Randy Myers will be remembered in other uniforms. Even Roger McDowell will be fondly recalled by many for his antics.

But who will remember quiet Skip Lockwood, the man with the name that belonged in the Wild West but who looked like he belonged in a chemistry lab?

Lockwood was more consistent than McGraw, and his 1976 is one of the best relief seasons in team history. His 2.80 ERA as a Met ranks third among all pitchers with 350 or more innings. On his list of the greatest Mets ever, Eric Simon has Lockwood at number 42—I don’t know about you, but that shocked me. Unfortunately, Lockwood’s tenure as a Met was just too short, and it occurred during some dark years for the franchise.

At least he still has the name.